Under There Somewhere

Week 8

This has been an odd week. I have had a couple of mini-breakdowns that were prevented from becoming major by my wonderful diligent friends. My emotions have been on a rollercoaster that I have been unable to stop. Sleep has become nearly impossible and when I do manage to get there, I am tormented with non-stop dreams. I can’t remember the last time I felt at peace. The restlessness and anxieties of a life completely out of control are beginning to taking a toll on me. Normally, I am capable of having complete control of dozens of things at once. Lately, I come up empty at every turn.

On Friday I think I started to get a grip on things. I made time for ME. I stole a bit of time. I went to the beach and took photographs of the sky, the sea, the beauty of a cloud-filled sky that negated sunset. I stopped several times on the path back to my mother’s house to photograph trees. As I did, I realized that I had found that elusive peace I am so desperately in need of. I’m sure you know the kind of peace I’m talking about. It’s when you are all alone and quiet, and suddenly you realize you can breathe. The stress is pushed away and your heart is free! I focused on staying focused and for a while I was able to keep all my demons at bay.

In the last two and a half years, I have been with and cared for my mother-in-law, my grandmother, and my father-in-law while they died. I felt comfortable in the knowledge that it was their “time”. I lost a sister-in-law who incidentally was one of my best friends. I was shocked at the suddenness of her death. I know how hard her life had been with mental illness and an endless cycle of addiction. An early death should have been perhaps expected.

Mama being diagnosed with terminal Cancer was completely unexpected. It came at me out of the blue. I can’t stand her disease. I can’t stand the pain it causes her. I can’t stand that I feel like my entire life is being ripped apart. I keep telling myself how lucky we are because it has given us time to really get to know one another. There was a time when we barely knew each other at all. Most importantly, we have discovered we genuinely like each other. I am so sorry it has taken imminent death to break down the barriers of a lifetime between us. I don’t dwell on that aspect of things. I simply try to stay focused on where we are now in our relationship. Where we are is a really good place.

I think the hardest part of it all right now is the utter feeling of helplessness in all aspects of my life. Somewhere along the way, I became a sort of Superwoman; capable of doing everything for everybody, being everything to everybody, handling every crisis for everybody. The more I took on, the greater the weight of the load.

I woke up one day and realized I was using all my energy on others and had none left for me. Do I sound like I’m whining? If so, it’s okay, I have every right to occasionally because it turns out I’m only human. I am allowed to bend in the onslaught of the storm. But I will never break. I can survive anything because of who I am and how I was raised. If I am a bit overwhelmed by the crap that life dishes out, I will look for the lessons hidden under the pile of poo. There are always lessons under there somewhere. And I will never lose sight of the fact that I am me and I am under there somewhere, too.

There Are Nudges and There Are NUDGES

Week 7

I am in the process of going through and packing up everything in my parent-in-law’s home. It is no surprise that I am finding many misplaced, lost, and forgotten treasures. Nor is it a surprise that I am feeling more connected to them as I sort through the remnants of their lives. But I can’t help feeling like there is something more afoot.

Lately, I have been receiving a huge number of what I like to call, “nudges”. Nudges are when something happens to strongly remind you of someone who has passed away. They can be actual things that you misplaced or tucked away, perhaps a gift from someone who is no longer. They can be a series of things that point you in a direction you hadn’t thought of going or they can help you come to a decision that you are having trouble making. Sometimes, they are simply things that make you stop and think of your loved one for a moment, reminders and remembrances.

A few weeks ago, I found a tiny box my sister-in-law, Susan, had given me (nudge). Susan passed away on October 10, 2010. It was tucked away in the back of a dresser drawer. The precious contents were still intact exactly as they were the day I received it. A couple of days later, (nudge) I discovered yet another tiny box, this one I clearly remember arriving in the mail not long after her mother died on April 24, 2010. Again, the contents were intact. Within a matter of days, I encountered yet another small tin box she had given me (nudge). This one contained Violet scented lip balm. I had never used it before. When I opened it, my eyes filled with tears as a scent so lovely, so fragrant, so Susan washed over me, filling my senses.

Shortly after these incidences, I had an encounter that I am hesitant to talk about. It caused me to question my sanity momentarily. I frequently go to the beach at sunset to take photographs. I generally like to get photos from many angles, not just the sunset itself. On this occasion, I turned my back to the beach to catch the darkening clouds to the north. There is a bench on the beachside of the dunes and a gazebo on the other side. Other than that, it is very isolated. As is my habit, I turned and snapped, capturing a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I was lining up my next photo as I turned my head toward the bench. Sitting there, looking toward me with her head tilted to the side in a posture I have seen a thousand times, wearing a dress and hat I recognized, was a woman. I turned my head to finish taking the photo. Just that quick, the blink of an eye really, I turned back and she was gone.

I raced across the deserted sand, hitting the boardwalk hard. I cleared the dunes and saw that the gazebo was empty. I heard a voice softly say on the wind, “It’s gonna be alright, Sister”. I knew that voice! I turned in circles in that wide open space and absolutely nowhere did I see anyone at all. I began to shake as I hurried toward my car. My eyes constantly scanning every direction while my mind knew there just wasn’t anywhere anyone could hide. Had I imagined it? No, I know without a doubt that she was there. This was something much bigger than a nudge!

I do not see things that aren’t there. I do not hear voices in my head. I had no explanation for what I had just been through. Completely freaked out, I called my husband, my mother, and my best friend to tell them what had happened. They reassured me that I am not crazy. They all made it sound like it was perfectly natural given how close she and I were. Two out of three suggested that she is trying to tell me something and told me keep my eyes and ears open and to pay attention. Trust me, I am paying attention.

Along this same time period, I made a discovery that renews hope in my heart. Richard’s mom had a broach that a friend had made for her. On it there was an antique porcelain “King Cake” baby. It was one of her prized possessions. I can’t count how many times over the years she showed it to me, taking it lovingly from her jewelry box. Several years ago, she called me in tears because she had gone to get it out to show it to someone and the baby was missing from it. She had searched her jewelry box thoroughly and she was certain it was gone. She was convinced someone had stolen it. I assured her I would help her look for it the next time I visited. Needless to say we searched high and low without ever finding it. While packing the china cabinet a couple of weeks ago, I pulled down a teacup that rattled. (NUDGE) Looking into it, I was delighted to see a half-finished piece of jewelry with the tiny missing baby tucked inside. Mom’s baby had been right here the whole time. The mystery has finally been solved!

I wasted no time in gluing the pieces in the places she had set them. I know it’s a treasure that will always be dear to my heart (see photo at bottom of the page). I thought of the many times we talked about making jewelry out of tiny odd things such as clock faces, gears, screws, spoons, buttons, beads, babies, etc. I thought of the many, many supplies such as these that she had left behind. I decided to start a box to hold them all so that I might pursue dabbling with making things once we finally get moved and settled.

Today, a friend sent me a photo of something called Steampunk Jewelry (NUDGE). I fell instantly in-love with the design, the concept, and the name. Before I could respond, she sent me a link with tutorials on how to do it. I replied with a picture of the pin I so recently had discovered and finished. It turns out it is the very definition of Steampunk and I have a lot of cool stuff with which I can attempt to make my own.

I am paying attention to the nudges now. I am curious to see where they will lead me from here. If I see or hear something else, maybe I will let you know. Then again, maybe I won’t. But if you should happen to get a nudge in your own life, I hope you will recognize it for what it is and make something good of it. I hope you will think of the person who nudges you and smile as your heart fills with love.

On Vacation

Week 6

I am so excited! Richard and I are in New Orleans this Sunday. We are celebrating Mardi Gras with our friends and family. Tomorrow is Lundi Gras. I will have the honor of officiating the wedding of one of my dearest friends, Faith Buchanon Collins will become Faith Buchanon Blaylock. Because of this, I will be adding to this post at a later time. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Well, Mardi Gras was not at all what I expected. To be honest, it was probably better. We had a great time. The only downer to it all was my mother being hospitalized the whole time. Mardi Gras is one of her favorite holiday seasons.

The wedding was beautiful, as were the bride and groom. I am so honored to be a part of something so special. I absolutely adore officiating in a way I never would have dreamed imaginable. I have to admit that it was a real kick to say, “By the power vested in me by the great state of Louisiana, I now pronounce you husband and wife!” This is the second state I have officiated in and my first elopement. I can’t put into words how touched I am, to be a part of such an important event in such an important way.

I hope I will spend the rest of my life marrying, burying and baptizing. My own ministry, my own way.

More Than Words

Week 5


The winds of change are blowing with gale force in my life. I feel as if I’m outdoors in the middle of a Category 5 hurricane trying to stay on my feet, with no lifeline in sight. Today I shouted three words I try to never string together, “FML”! I didn’t use the acronym, but the actual words. I threw my hands in the air as I began to cry. I let my tears fall freely in an effort to wash away the overwhelming hurt I felt.

Ever optimistic, ever hopeful, I am doomed to forever be reminded that you can’t wear rose-colored glasses and survive in today’s world. I wish sometimes I were someone, anyone, other than who I am. If I were someone else maybe I wouldn’t love so deeply. Maybe, I wouldn’t hurt quite so much for others. Nor would I be able to be hurt so deeply by the words and actions of others. But, I am who I am and I don’t know how to be anyone else.

We all have different types of people in our lives. For instance, there are people in my life I can always count on to say and do negative, sometimes, painful things. There are a few people who manage to bring drama with them at every turn. There are the people who are a positive, loving influence. And people who give encouragement and strength just because they are who they are. When the lines between the two become blurred, it can be quite painful.

I am saddened to discover that words can inflict the kind of damage that was left in the wake of a conversation I had today. The words were common, ordinary words that cut a path of destruction straight through my heart. To be more accurate, it wasn’t the words themselves but the way in which they were used.

Having someone I love, and admire, question my morals and principles on a subject that has nothing to do with either of those things was disconcerting to say the least. Their barely-concealed, sugarcoated outrage and indignation is a bitter pill indeed. Never in a million years could I have predicted that this particular person would feel the way they obviously do. I tried to make them understand that discussing the subject at hand would get us nowhere. I have no answers to many of the questions that were asked repeatedly because the situation itself is, as yet, unresolved. I am certain that we both left the discussion feeling many of the same things though for vastly different reasons. Frustration, pain, disappointment, and disillusionment are not just words but very real feelings.

The things I’ve always felt we shared such as love, concern, compassion, and understanding were tossed carelessly aside as I was told exactly what was expected from me. I was left with the impression that if I didn’t comply, the consequences would be dire in regard to our future relationship. It’s been a long time since I've felt as if my back was against a wall the way I did today. I freely admit it hurt more than I could have dreamed possible.

One of the words that came up repeatedly was "entitled". The definition of entitlement is “the guarantee of access to benefits because of rights” and a “belief that one is deserving of some particular reward or benefit.” If a person has a “sense of entitlement,” they believe they deserve certain things, if, for no other reason, than they exist. The only thing I believe I am "entitled" to is an entry to Heaven upon my death. Clearly, we see differently on this matter.

I can’t give answers when there are none to be given. I can’t allow words to have the power to inflict the kind of pain I felt earlier. I can’t look backward or forward because I am too dang busy dealing with today. The one thing I can do is to continue to have faith that all will work out as it’s supposed to in the grand scheme of things and that the answers to all the questions will be revealed in due time.

The 20 Year Manuscript

Week 4

More than 20 years ago, I began something I have never finished. Something I thought I had finished a couple of times. Back then, I suffered from an anxiety disorder called Agoraphobia. I only felt fully safe when I was at home. To venture far meant to risk an anxiety attack so severe I cannot begin to describe it. As my world became more isolated, the germ of an idea stirred in my head. It turned into a story that had the characters dancing constantly in my head. Finally, I knew the story needed a vehicle to take on a life of its own. I drug out my grandfather’s old portable typewriter and spent months sitting on the bathroom floor pounding away at the keys as if my life depended on it. At the time, I think it actually might have.

When I was finally satisfied that it was finished, I allowed my husband and my best friend to read it before locking it away. Lost in an anxiety riddled world, I didn’t want to do anything with it. I was satisfied just knowing that I had written it.
Little did I know that it would be 10 years before I would see it again! Going through boxes that we had moved multiple times, I found my manuscript. With an odd sense of detachment, I began to read it, not from the standpoint of an author, but from that of a reader. I didn’t make it more than a few pages before I went scrambling for a pen. I corrected, changed, embellished, fine-tuned and re-wrote until I was finally satisfied. Then I tucked it into a dresser drawer.

Less than a year later life threw another us another curveball. Our house caught fire and we lost almost everything we owned. While it was a simple matter of luck that our bedroom didn’t catch fire, most of what was in there was damaged or destroyed by smoke and water. Paper and water just do not mix well. I rescued what I could of it but there were large chunks of the story missing in the end. In frustration, I tossed it in a box with other things we salvaged.

Fast forward another year. I got my first computer! I was excited and frightened to pieces. I had never used a computer, outside of work, and I didn’t know how to do anything but turn it on the day I got it. It would be weeks before I discovered the word program and how to use it. It took several more weeks to hunt down that old mangled manuscript of mine.

For several months, I rewrote the story, filling in the gaps and changing many of the details. I remember my elation when I finally decided it was finished to my satisfaction. Ceremoniously, I tossed out the written copy as I surveyed my handiwork on the computer screen. Deciding it was worth having someone look at it, I began the arduous task of researching exactly how to go about submitting it to various publishing houses.

Yet again, tragedy struck only this time it was two-fold. I injured my right wrist at work which resulted in years of intense occupational therapy and multiple surgeries. And I did not back-up my computer, a term I had heard and didn’t understand at the time. You have probably guessed by now where this is going. Eventually the computer crashed and not knowing that what was on the hard drive could have been saved, my husband scooped the whole thing into the trash while I was at work one day. I can’t describe the utter frustration I felt when I discovered it was gone.

A couple of years, a new computer, and a couple of moves later, I happened to find pages from my original first draft in a box of keepsakes. I eyed it warily before shoving it in a drawer. For several weeks it sat there, almost taunting me, daring me to give it another try. The story bubbled around in my head so incessantly it even began to take over my dreams. Awake or asleep, I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t silence it. I felt as if the characters were demanding that I give them life before I could reclaim my own. With a sigh of capitulation, I pulled it out of its dark refuge and began to read. I was shocked at how rough the draft was. Poorly written, it wasn’t much more than an outline but I managed to make my way through it. When I finished reading it, I began at the beginning and started to write.

This time, was much slower than the previous times. I allowed the characters to breathe on their own. I allowed them to grow, just as I had so obviously grown since I first began my journey with them. I allowed the story to write itself, to shift and change and flow, in a way it hadn’t previously done. As time wore on, I came to really know the characters. I came to love them as I took them down new and different paths than the ones we had traveled together in the past. When I finally finished it, I was a bit saddened to find myself at the end of the story. Sadly I once again packed it away. I was emotionally drained. I was physically tired and I had just learned that we would be moving again.

Now, four years and a lifetime later, I dug out that old manuscript. Much to my chagrin, there are many pages missing. I have decided I am going to add it to my perseverance list for this year. I am going to start at the beginning and read what I have. I am going to MAKE the time to finish it one last time. When it’s finished this time, I’m going to be ready to submit it… somewhere… anywhere. I am NOT going to lock it away or lose it again. I am going to face my fear of rejection and believe in myself, and my writing, enough to at least try to get it published. To do otherwise is to kill the characters I have come to love so dearly.

Old Habits Die Hard

Week 3

For seven months leading up to April 24, 2010, I was my mother-in-law’s primary caregiver. My father-in-law’s as well but my journey with him was significantly longer. Mom battled many chronic illnesses most of which were lung and heart related. Having suffered from chronic asthma since early childhood, she never smoked. She spent the last week of her life on a ventilator, a result of end stage Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). I was with her through the day and a half after they removed the machinery except for monitoring vitals. I watched the horror of a long, hard death. When she was gone, I couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital so I left the paperwork to my husband as I quickly went outside.

As a heavy smoker for more than 30 years, I can tell you the need for nicotine was overwhelming. I craved it the way an alcoholic craves alcohol, the way a sex addict craves sex, the way a drug addict craves drugs. Never for a single second did I relate what I had just witnessed to the cigarette in my hand. Never for a second did I hesitate to light that cigarette and inhale deeply, standing not 20 feet from a prominent “No Smoking on Hospital Property” sign. With tears pouring down my face as I began to call the family and notify them, I sucked on that cigarette as if my life depended on it.

At the beginning of March 2012 I was blessed, though many would disagree, to be with my grandmother as her life ended. She, too, was a victim of COPD and had never smoked a day in her life. COPD deaths are excruciating to watch. I wish I could say that somehow losing them both this way was the catalyst I needed to help me quit smoking. It would be more accurate to say that my grandmother’s death planted a seed.

On April 24, 2012 I ran out of cigarettes early in the afternoon. This is something that hadn’t happened in quite some time as I bought them by the carton (an effort to save money). When I got to the convenience store, it looked as if half the construction workers in town had stopped to grab lunch. There were a ridiculous number of people in line ahead of me. While I waited my turn, I looked around, my eyes caught by the electronic cigarette display. The date jumped into my thoughts. The display became more intriguing as I moved closer to the counter.

When the cashier asked to help me, I was shocked to hear myself say, “I want a regular light electronic cigarette starter kit and a pack of refills, please.” I walked out the door and that was it. I went from being a smoker to not just that quick. I made the switch to the ecigarette quite easily. I loved that it looked like a cigarette but it wasn’t. No smoke, no fire, no ash, no offensive odor. Typically, the liquid consists of vegetable glycerin or propylene glycol, or a combination of both substances. It also includes food-grade flavorings and nicotine extract. In other words, you are smoking vapor.

After a couple of months, I wanted to find a way to step down the amount of nicotine I was getting. I heard about a new shop that carried anything I could need. I was fascinated by the variety of shapes, styles and colors of electronic cigarettes they carried. My mind was boggled at the variety of flavors. I decided to invest in top of the line equipment, choosing the one LEAST resembling a cigarette. I sampled a couple of flavors before purchasing a 12 mg (meaning 12 mg of nicotine) Razzleberry. It's fruity flavor nothing like a cigarette.

A couple of months and countless flavors later, I stepped down to 6 mg. This week I will hit my 9 month anniversary of giving up tobacco. I alternate between vaping 3 mg and 6 mg. I have cut my monthly expenses in half. I no longer wheeze at night. I can go up and down stairs without being short of breath. My senses of taste and smell are much sharper than they were six months ago. I have only had two colds since I made the switch and the cough I had was less severe than I am used to. The duration of the cold much shorter.

I hope to be able to eventually say that I have effectively weaned myself off nicotine. I am proud of how far I've come so far. I can honestly say I don't miss cigarettes at all and there isn't the slightest bit of temptation. I've heard it said that old habits die hard. I'm doing my damndest to kill mine, one old habit at a time.

News Feeds, Hypocrisy & Shame

Week 2

This morning in my news feed on Facebook I noticed something that really made me stop and think. Over the course of the posts since midnight last night, I counted 9 friends who'd posted different things regarding "Don't Drink and Drive". I saw 7 friends who'd posted things related to "Don't Text and Drive". There were 28 posts about my friends drinking on Saturday night accompanied by over 50 new pictures of people drinking, partying, and having a good time. In addition to over a dozen photos of alcoholic drinks posted to show the libations that some were enjoying.

Of the 9 friends who said "Don't Drink and Drive" I have been in the car with 5 of them when they did just that. For the record, 6 out of those same 9 people posted photos related to drinking last night and I know for a fact that at least 2 have already gotten DUI’s.

As for the 7 "Anti-Text Drivers", I have been in the car with 3 of them when they were texting and driving. I have even held the steering wheel for a couple of them so they could reply to something they insisted was "Important" or "Life or Death".

As I read these posts, I bowed my head. Tears of shame filled my eyes. I have gotten behind the wheel impaired by alcohol. I have texted while driving. The only difference between me and these friends is I try not to post things to social networks that I believe to be hypocritical. I wonder if some of them are trying to assuage their guilt at their own actions.

My actions are inexcusable because of the danger and harm I could have created by the poor decisions I chose to make. Just because I have never been caught or hurt anyone else, it doesn’t forgive the potential for disaster in what could have happened. While I am pointing out the hypocrisy of others, please understand, I am also pointing a finger of blame toward myself for my own actions. I am calling myself out on using poor or impaired judgment in the past (something I have been working to improve for a while now). I am admitting that I have devalued the lives of others, as well as my own life.

The next time you text me and I don’t reply quickly, it’s not because I am ignoring you. I just might be driving. I promise I will get back to you when my wheels are no longer in motion. It could be a matter of “Life or Death”.