E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 45
April 13, 2020
Sincerity and Wax
Sincerity is something often lost....
A few years ago, I sat next to my stunning coworker. Everyone noticed Sara's beauty, and various men would visit her quite often throughout the days. Sara and I talked for a moment about life and process improvement. Throughout the conversation her shallow responses continued to surprise me until, June walked into the room. Now, June wasn't someone people called “attractive,” even if God did her her an extra dose of kindness. Sara, ascertaining the "plainness," immediately looked at the woman and said, “That shirt looks fabulous on you!”
June glowed and thanked Sara. I was proud of Sara's kindness, but after June left, Sara snidely turned to me and said, “Didn’t she look terrible. I hate that shirt!”
Sincerity, derived from the Latin, breaks into: sine (meaning without) and cera (meaning wax). It comes from a tradition of broken statues being repaired with wax, so perfections could be hidden and painted. To be without wax is to be real, to be original. People see what they get.
While having lunch with my family this Sunday, we talked about the Latin root of sincerity. My husband immediately said, “It’s not as beautiful as the statue analogy, but it makes me think of apples in the store. I once bought the reddest apple I could find, but when I bit into it, the inside had completely bruised. The only thing that made it look so wonderful, was the wax.”
My son also piped in. “Don’t they fix imperfections with gold in Japan? Broken bowls end up having gold streaks?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said because I’ve heard stories about such practices.
“Wax could be when we try to fix ourselves, but gold is when God does.”
One of my oldest daughters smiled. “The statues that are worth the very most now aren’t the kind fixed with wax. They’re the kind with broken arms and missing pieces. People want to see what’s real, and what time did.”
I thought about the whole thing and called my writing mentor later that night. “I’ve heard this so much, but imperfections do make some things perfect. I’d much rather be sincere, than like that woman–full of flattery and fake compliments.”
She told stories of how some of the most influential people in her life have been the most sincere. “It’s because you can trust them,” she said.
I’ve thought about how I’ve written memoirs about my life, memoirs that have been like ripping open my chest, just to see what makes me tick. Some of the compliments and criticisms have either empowered me to continue sharing so I can heal along with others. The criticism has both helped and hurt. But each bit of feedback is something I can use as wax to fill holes I have from the things I’ve been through.
Not only has the study of sincerity–and the honesty of those around me–taught me about motives, it’s also encouraged me to set the wax and paint aside.
I might be more battered than people realize, but I’m still standing and that makes me worth far more than a cheap fix or something any amount of “repairs” can do.
Having interviewed many people for stories over the years, I just wanted to encourage others to set the wax aside. We’re amazing for our battle scars and all.
I’m proud of who I am. Because when people see my flaws maybe they’ll realize their scars make them more precious, too.
A few years ago, I sat next to my stunning coworker. Everyone noticed Sara's beauty, and various men would visit her quite often throughout the days. Sara and I talked for a moment about life and process improvement. Throughout the conversation her shallow responses continued to surprise me until, June walked into the room. Now, June wasn't someone people called “attractive,” even if God did her her an extra dose of kindness. Sara, ascertaining the "plainness," immediately looked at the woman and said, “That shirt looks fabulous on you!”
June glowed and thanked Sara. I was proud of Sara's kindness, but after June left, Sara snidely turned to me and said, “Didn’t she look terrible. I hate that shirt!”
Sincerity, derived from the Latin, breaks into: sine (meaning without) and cera (meaning wax). It comes from a tradition of broken statues being repaired with wax, so perfections could be hidden and painted. To be without wax is to be real, to be original. People see what they get.
While having lunch with my family this Sunday, we talked about the Latin root of sincerity. My husband immediately said, “It’s not as beautiful as the statue analogy, but it makes me think of apples in the store. I once bought the reddest apple I could find, but when I bit into it, the inside had completely bruised. The only thing that made it look so wonderful, was the wax.”
My son also piped in. “Don’t they fix imperfections with gold in Japan? Broken bowls end up having gold streaks?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said because I’ve heard stories about such practices.
“Wax could be when we try to fix ourselves, but gold is when God does.”
One of my oldest daughters smiled. “The statues that are worth the very most now aren’t the kind fixed with wax. They’re the kind with broken arms and missing pieces. People want to see what’s real, and what time did.”
I thought about the whole thing and called my writing mentor later that night. “I’ve heard this so much, but imperfections do make some things perfect. I’d much rather be sincere, than like that woman–full of flattery and fake compliments.”
She told stories of how some of the most influential people in her life have been the most sincere. “It’s because you can trust them,” she said.
I’ve thought about how I’ve written memoirs about my life, memoirs that have been like ripping open my chest, just to see what makes me tick. Some of the compliments and criticisms have either empowered me to continue sharing so I can heal along with others. The criticism has both helped and hurt. But each bit of feedback is something I can use as wax to fill holes I have from the things I’ve been through.
Not only has the study of sincerity–and the honesty of those around me–taught me about motives, it’s also encouraged me to set the wax and paint aside.
I might be more battered than people realize, but I’m still standing and that makes me worth far more than a cheap fix or something any amount of “repairs” can do.
Having interviewed many people for stories over the years, I just wanted to encourage others to set the wax aside. We’re amazing for our battle scars and all.
I’m proud of who I am. Because when people see my flaws maybe they’ll realize their scars make them more precious, too.
April 1, 2020
My get up and go, got up and left
I heard a story once about hundreds of rats trapped in a room. At first they bustled about—even tried to work together—until growing frantic...and hungry. It didn’t take long until the creatures started eating each other, pawing through flesh until they reached bone. All the rats lay decaying and bleeding in a sort of stench that could make even the dead retch. Finally, one rat remained. And after he looked around, he gingerly lifted up his own leg...and started eating.
This is how the economy feels right now. We can’t bury our heads in the sand; the economy is struggling. And as such, bigger companies—thinking they can benefit—swoop in and try to overtake markets. They might look like “hometown” places, disguised as the people who work for them. But they aren’t ‘those’ people. In some cases those poor workers are just a disposable front. Local companies are fighting to not be eaten. Greed, the deadly sin I’ve never understood, is a driving force with the power to destroy.
Right now, I’m worried, thinking about the local businesses I love. I fear, this could be the end of some of them if people don’t show the support they need. Companies everywhere have cut employee hours and services. It appears workers continue striving under significantly reduced pay and hours, yet those in essential roles have absorbed more work than ever before.
We, as a society, have worked so hard to succeed…but, like a game of chess, the economy is losing her pawns, worried it might become one itself. Slowly people are giving time, hearts, and souls to the American dream; yet, the economy still feels like a vacuum.
As I tucked my son into bed the other day, he asked, “Do you think people will talk about this in the future; when the coronavirus brought the world together?” He went on to talk about a common enemy uniting people “like in the movies.”
“This will be in the history books for sure, kid.” His eyes lit up. “When you’re a very old man, I bet people will ask you what it was like to live through this.”
“Really? And I can tell them about the grocery stores being empty, businesses closing, people going nuts over toilet paper…and how we couldn’t find Top Ramen?!”
“You’ll have to tell them all of that,” I said. “Hey,” I said before walking from his room, “is that a roll of toilet paper hidden under your bed?”
“Yeah, you never know when you might need it.”
As I shut his door, a realization hit me. My grandparents used to hide things like that (toilet paper, medicine, shampoo…canned food). My grandma said it started after they lived through the Great Depression. They were brilliant people, business-minded and savvy. If they could live through all that and be all right, I figure we’ll be okay too.
Rats and a struggling economy aside, there are lessons to be garnered that will buoy future generations forward and make them better for it.
Some “old-timers” have worried about technology and a pervading laziness that has come to rest over generations. Maybe all of that is about to change as we strive to help ourselves and each other so the places we love can make it through these hard times.
What we have right now is hope... Hope is “an expectation.” So for now, I’m going to “expect” to find something positive in all this. After all, we get what we look for
This is how the economy feels right now. We can’t bury our heads in the sand; the economy is struggling. And as such, bigger companies—thinking they can benefit—swoop in and try to overtake markets. They might look like “hometown” places, disguised as the people who work for them. But they aren’t ‘those’ people. In some cases those poor workers are just a disposable front. Local companies are fighting to not be eaten. Greed, the deadly sin I’ve never understood, is a driving force with the power to destroy.
Right now, I’m worried, thinking about the local businesses I love. I fear, this could be the end of some of them if people don’t show the support they need. Companies everywhere have cut employee hours and services. It appears workers continue striving under significantly reduced pay and hours, yet those in essential roles have absorbed more work than ever before.
We, as a society, have worked so hard to succeed…but, like a game of chess, the economy is losing her pawns, worried it might become one itself. Slowly people are giving time, hearts, and souls to the American dream; yet, the economy still feels like a vacuum.
As I tucked my son into bed the other day, he asked, “Do you think people will talk about this in the future; when the coronavirus brought the world together?” He went on to talk about a common enemy uniting people “like in the movies.”
“This will be in the history books for sure, kid.” His eyes lit up. “When you’re a very old man, I bet people will ask you what it was like to live through this.”
“Really? And I can tell them about the grocery stores being empty, businesses closing, people going nuts over toilet paper…and how we couldn’t find Top Ramen?!”
“You’ll have to tell them all of that,” I said. “Hey,” I said before walking from his room, “is that a roll of toilet paper hidden under your bed?”
“Yeah, you never know when you might need it.”
As I shut his door, a realization hit me. My grandparents used to hide things like that (toilet paper, medicine, shampoo…canned food). My grandma said it started after they lived through the Great Depression. They were brilliant people, business-minded and savvy. If they could live through all that and be all right, I figure we’ll be okay too.
Rats and a struggling economy aside, there are lessons to be garnered that will buoy future generations forward and make them better for it.
Some “old-timers” have worried about technology and a pervading laziness that has come to rest over generations. Maybe all of that is about to change as we strive to help ourselves and each other so the places we love can make it through these hard times.
What we have right now is hope... Hope is “an expectation.” So for now, I’m going to “expect” to find something positive in all this. After all, we get what we look for
November 18, 2018
Do you believe in miracles or coincidence?
Years after my son died, a neighbor gave me a statue, saying she felt compelled to. I always had it displayed--because the statue looked ironically like Zeke, my angel baby. I anchored myself by pretending his presence lingered in the statue even though his body had died. And I went a lot of years, imagining he was there, experiencing our joys, triumphs, even our tragedies. But he wasn't there, and when the statue broke several years later, I felt my own fortitude crumble as well.
In 2015, I remarried and the kids and I moved to Idaho with my husband. After a few months had passed, I still didn't feel like I belonged in a place so different from my hometown. So much had changed, and Zeke's statue was no longer there to weather the journey of life with me.
In February, 2016, I walked toward my house and prayed that God would give me a sign that we should be there--in down-to-earth Idaho. My house rested almost a mile up a hill, and the cold air stiffened my lungs. But I didn't think about the cold; I feared what change would bring--and remembered how hard it is losing memorabilia that keeps us strong.
A couple of minutes later, as I ascended the last road's bend before my house, I glanced to the left and spotted a tiny stone statue, shaded by a pine tree. I froze, completely stunned by an exact replica of Zeke and a statue I'd had for so many years before.
I can't tell you how much peace this coincidence has given me--for nearly three years. Today, on Zeke's sixteenth birthday, I sat down and told my family again about the statue. "It's like he's still here, watching over us."
My little boy frowned with concern, obviously not wanting to tell me something. "Mama," he finally whispered, "I look at that statue every day when we go by it. You know, it's been gone since Monday."
"Seriously?" I said. And for some damn reason tears filled my eyes. "But it felt like he was watching over us. It really did. We have to go look! Will you go with me?"
As we got in the car, I wiped my face and continued babbling. "I can't believe it's gone--the same week as his birthday."
So, we drove slowly out of our driveway, and my husband kept concernedly glancing at me.
It only took a second to drive to the neighbor's house. "Oh my gosh," my daughter said. "The statue is gone, but look!"
I covered my mouth and gasped. "They replaced it...with a statue of a man? He looks young!"
After a moment, I turned to Mike, seriously not knowing what to say.
"I have to admit," he said, "it is awfully strange that happened the week of his sixteenth birthday."
Each of my kids' eyes widened.
In 2015, I remarried and the kids and I moved to Idaho with my husband. After a few months had passed, I still didn't feel like I belonged in a place so different from my hometown. So much had changed, and Zeke's statue was no longer there to weather the journey of life with me.
In February, 2016, I walked toward my house and prayed that God would give me a sign that we should be there--in down-to-earth Idaho. My house rested almost a mile up a hill, and the cold air stiffened my lungs. But I didn't think about the cold; I feared what change would bring--and remembered how hard it is losing memorabilia that keeps us strong.
A couple of minutes later, as I ascended the last road's bend before my house, I glanced to the left and spotted a tiny stone statue, shaded by a pine tree. I froze, completely stunned by an exact replica of Zeke and a statue I'd had for so many years before.
I can't tell you how much peace this coincidence has given me--for nearly three years. Today, on Zeke's sixteenth birthday, I sat down and told my family again about the statue. "It's like he's still here, watching over us."
My little boy frowned with concern, obviously not wanting to tell me something. "Mama," he finally whispered, "I look at that statue every day when we go by it. You know, it's been gone since Monday."
"Seriously?" I said. And for some damn reason tears filled my eyes. "But it felt like he was watching over us. It really did. We have to go look! Will you go with me?"
As we got in the car, I wiped my face and continued babbling. "I can't believe it's gone--the same week as his birthday."
So, we drove slowly out of our driveway, and my husband kept concernedly glancing at me.
It only took a second to drive to the neighbor's house. "Oh my gosh," my daughter said. "The statue is gone, but look!"
I covered my mouth and gasped. "They replaced it...with a statue of a man? He looks young!"
After a moment, I turned to Mike, seriously not knowing what to say.
"I have to admit," he said, "it is awfully strange that happened the week of his sixteenth birthday."
Each of my kids' eyes widened.
November 10, 2018
Interview About Being Homeless in Hawaii
I was just interviewed on #ExcelsiorJourneys . We talked about my #NaNoWriMo experience, the various causes I’ve donated to (through my writing), my time spent homeless in Hawaii, and more.
To hear the interview, please click here:
Episode 7 - EC Stilson
To hear the interview, please click here:
Episode 7 - EC Stilson
October 29, 2018
I Cried--On the News....
This was such a neat experience!
September 10, 2018
Playing the Fiddle for a Dying Soul
I stepped into a bedroom with a four-poster bed and a poofy white comforter. A little head stuck from the top of the comforter. She was smoking, completely horizontally, and with her head barely visible! A bottle of whiskey sat on her end-table, but it looked pretty full. I blinked hard, then stared--this must be the cantankerous DYING woman. What was she, recovering from a frat party?
"So you're the fiddle lady? You're not what I expected at all. You're much older."
I studied her, then before stopping myself, responded with, "You're not what I expected either. You don't even look like you're dying."
Her daughter, who had led me into the room, turned very pale. Then, so did I--the queen of saying the wrong crap, always.
I thought I'd get the smack-down from "Old Smokey," who still puffed away at that Camel Gold, but as she looked at my apologetic face, she suddenly burst out laughing...and coughing, and laughing again.
"Awe, kid. You're too damn honest. But so am I."
I bit my lip and smiled at her. "Mrs. Beck, I like you."
"Ya, that happens from time to time. I'm usually an acquired taste, but the people who like me right off, I figure those are the good ones." She grinned so wide, showing several missing teeth and even a big silver one that Lil Wayne woulda gone crazy for! "So what do you got, kid?" she asked, and I bent over to begin taking my violin from the case.
"I'm gonna play some oldies. That's what I heard you like." I snapped my shoulder rest into place, tightened my bow, and was ready in 20 seconds flat! "Mrs. Beck," I said, because I'm super direct, "you keep calling me kid, but you said I'm older than you expected."
"That? Anyone under fifty is a kid to me! And they keep bringing pre-teens over to see me--like they're doing a good deed or something. Why are you here anyway, Elisa? Why did you come?"
I thought for a minute. "I guess, I just want to make you forget whatever it is that you're going through--even if it's just for a minute. Focus on something else, and enjoy." I set my violin on my shoulder. "So, I have a favor to ask you. Set down your cigarette, and close your eyes."
She kinda snort-laughed, set her ciggy down, then snuggled into that huge white pillow and closed her eyes.
"Now, as I play, I want you to picture a story."
And I started. First I played the beginning of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel. The music started out quiet--a trickle of spring rain. "When you're weary, feeling small." The words swam around my head as I played. "When tears are near your eyes, I will dry them all... I'm on your side when times get rough, and friends just can't be found. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down."
Little tears seeped from the sides of Mrs. Beck's eyes. She looked so utterly beautiful, like an elderly Snow White or somethin' with her sheered, dyed-black hair, and leathery face. But instead of lying there, waiting for the kiss of her prince, she was dying, waiting for the kiss of God.
Tears suddenly came to my eyes too, and I told myself to quit being such a freakin' pansy. I shut my lids and instead of letting my emotion escape through the weakness in my eyes, I pushed that pain into my arms, my hands...my fingertips. And I played that violin, like a flippin' lover--it cried in my arms, wailing over the melodies and having so much power it couldn't help reacting to the sheer feeling flooding my body. I knew Mrs. Beck and her daughter could feel the very sorrow that was deep in my soul--for them. Because that violin was a magnifying glass, exemplifying exactly why I was there, who I was, and that I wanted to offer at least some semblance of peace.
"Sail on by. Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way...."
Then my bow grew with deep friction and strength, and I transitioned into notes and melodies that just came to me. My fingers and violin took over. That's the funny thing about me and my fiddle; I think I have control, then that damn thing takes over like an addiction. I have the roadmap, but my fiddle has the details that always take me there--a good friend, leading me home.
The song swelled, over and over. At one point, I realized the window at the foot of Mrs. Beck's bed was open, because a gust of wind rode in on a high note. It was right after that, when my fingers and bow slowed to a stop. The notes descended to my D string, and the weight of the music left my body. The song...was over.
I held my violin at my side, that freakin' extension of self. I faced the window and closed my eyes. I didn't want Mrs. Beck or her daughter to see that I was crying. I even prayed the wind would come again, and God would dry my tears. The Becks were sad enough. They didn't need to see some kid--over thirty--crying because she "felt bad."
"Elisa," Mrs. Beck rasped. She beckoned me to the side of her bed. I wiped my eyes, then obeyed. She reached out her wrinkled hand, with that soft, paper-thin skin, and grabbed my fingers. "That...Elisa, that was beautiful."
"What did you see," I asked, "when you closed your eyes?"
"Something from when I was a kid. Something I thought I forgot. Me and my mom and dad were walking in a field." She took a very deep breath. "I miss them. They were good parents."
I had to twitch my nose just to keep from crying. After all, she'd probably be reuniting with a lot of people soon. I put my violin away, then hugged both Mrs. Beck and her daughter.
"It was nice meeting you both," I said. Then, I left the house, and I never saw either one of them again.
Life...it's a gift, but sometimes it sure is a strange thing.
Sincerely,
A 35-year-old kid
"So you're the fiddle lady? You're not what I expected at all. You're much older."
I studied her, then before stopping myself, responded with, "You're not what I expected either. You don't even look like you're dying."
Her daughter, who had led me into the room, turned very pale. Then, so did I--the queen of saying the wrong crap, always.
I thought I'd get the smack-down from "Old Smokey," who still puffed away at that Camel Gold, but as she looked at my apologetic face, she suddenly burst out laughing...and coughing, and laughing again.
"Awe, kid. You're too damn honest. But so am I."
I bit my lip and smiled at her. "Mrs. Beck, I like you."
"Ya, that happens from time to time. I'm usually an acquired taste, but the people who like me right off, I figure those are the good ones." She grinned so wide, showing several missing teeth and even a big silver one that Lil Wayne woulda gone crazy for! "So what do you got, kid?" she asked, and I bent over to begin taking my violin from the case.
"I'm gonna play some oldies. That's what I heard you like." I snapped my shoulder rest into place, tightened my bow, and was ready in 20 seconds flat! "Mrs. Beck," I said, because I'm super direct, "you keep calling me kid, but you said I'm older than you expected."
"That? Anyone under fifty is a kid to me! And they keep bringing pre-teens over to see me--like they're doing a good deed or something. Why are you here anyway, Elisa? Why did you come?"
I thought for a minute. "I guess, I just want to make you forget whatever it is that you're going through--even if it's just for a minute. Focus on something else, and enjoy." I set my violin on my shoulder. "So, I have a favor to ask you. Set down your cigarette, and close your eyes."
She kinda snort-laughed, set her ciggy down, then snuggled into that huge white pillow and closed her eyes.
"Now, as I play, I want you to picture a story."
And I started. First I played the beginning of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel. The music started out quiet--a trickle of spring rain. "When you're weary, feeling small." The words swam around my head as I played. "When tears are near your eyes, I will dry them all... I'm on your side when times get rough, and friends just can't be found. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down."
Little tears seeped from the sides of Mrs. Beck's eyes. She looked so utterly beautiful, like an elderly Snow White or somethin' with her sheered, dyed-black hair, and leathery face. But instead of lying there, waiting for the kiss of her prince, she was dying, waiting for the kiss of God.
Tears suddenly came to my eyes too, and I told myself to quit being such a freakin' pansy. I shut my lids and instead of letting my emotion escape through the weakness in my eyes, I pushed that pain into my arms, my hands...my fingertips. And I played that violin, like a flippin' lover--it cried in my arms, wailing over the melodies and having so much power it couldn't help reacting to the sheer feeling flooding my body. I knew Mrs. Beck and her daughter could feel the very sorrow that was deep in my soul--for them. Because that violin was a magnifying glass, exemplifying exactly why I was there, who I was, and that I wanted to offer at least some semblance of peace.
"Sail on by. Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way...."
Then my bow grew with deep friction and strength, and I transitioned into notes and melodies that just came to me. My fingers and violin took over. That's the funny thing about me and my fiddle; I think I have control, then that damn thing takes over like an addiction. I have the roadmap, but my fiddle has the details that always take me there--a good friend, leading me home.
The song swelled, over and over. At one point, I realized the window at the foot of Mrs. Beck's bed was open, because a gust of wind rode in on a high note. It was right after that, when my fingers and bow slowed to a stop. The notes descended to my D string, and the weight of the music left my body. The song...was over.
I held my violin at my side, that freakin' extension of self. I faced the window and closed my eyes. I didn't want Mrs. Beck or her daughter to see that I was crying. I even prayed the wind would come again, and God would dry my tears. The Becks were sad enough. They didn't need to see some kid--over thirty--crying because she "felt bad."
"Elisa," Mrs. Beck rasped. She beckoned me to the side of her bed. I wiped my eyes, then obeyed. She reached out her wrinkled hand, with that soft, paper-thin skin, and grabbed my fingers. "That...Elisa, that was beautiful."
"What did you see," I asked, "when you closed your eyes?"
"Something from when I was a kid. Something I thought I forgot. Me and my mom and dad were walking in a field." She took a very deep breath. "I miss them. They were good parents."
I had to twitch my nose just to keep from crying. After all, she'd probably be reuniting with a lot of people soon. I put my violin away, then hugged both Mrs. Beck and her daughter.
"It was nice meeting you both," I said. Then, I left the house, and I never saw either one of them again.
Life...it's a gift, but sometimes it sure is a strange thing.
Sincerely,
A 35-year-old kid
September 3, 2018
All That Remains Is Love
Just remembering...
On January 30th, a few years ago, I drove through treacherously snow-filled mountains. Flakes shot down, forming an unwanted curtain around the truck. My eyes darted to the right of the canyon, but I could barely see, let alone remember any turnouts in that area. The lights from a huge semi bounced off the road behind us, shining increasingly closer. That driver loved tail-gating people--for a living. Who gave that idiot a CDL? But I didn't say the words aloud; instead, I white-knuckled the steering wheel in terror and realized from the icy breath of my family around me, they were terrified too.
And maybe they should have been. This was an unlucky day for us--the same day my son died 13 years before.... Normally each year I'd visit his grave, read my journal--the book I wrote about him. (More about that HERE .)
But this January, I didn't do any of that. After all it's his Death Day. I don't want to go back to that damn memory--of a hospital that reeks of iodine and rubbing alcohol. Those stupid machines whirring and beeping to keep OTHER parents' kids alive. But. Not. Mine. Because the damn doctors said he would never live. THEY said he'd die despite all their fancy gadgets and his will to live. His fight...was for naught. So he died that day, amidst the stench of medicine, after my ex-husband and I removed him from life support, and he suffocated in our arms....
As I drove through the snow-infested mountains, with the wind nearly ripping our truck from the road, I couldn't help thinking about Zeke. I shook my head telling myself not to. This drive was dangerous enough, without me trying to see through tears as well.
But what happened next, surprised me.
This year, I didn't recall all of the sad circumstances of his death. Instead, I simply remembered a specific day nearly a month before he died.
Zeke's nurse had said I could hold him in a rocking chair. Right before she was about to pass him to me, he started crying really hard. Another nurse came by and said I shouldn't hold him, that they needed to up his vent settings. But I pleaded, BEGGING them to let me hold my baby. So they handed him to me.
I rocked so slowly, careful since he had so much tubing in him. And instead of crying harder like they'd thought he might, he melted into my arms, as if he was always meant to be there. I put my pinkie near his hand and he wrapped his little fingers around it, holding on so damn tight. Tears filled my eyes as I rocked him forever. And in that moment, it didn't matter how sick he was or how hard this was. We loved each other. Nothing could take that away, not time, not sickness, not death. And that moment, admist the stench of medicine and all those whirring machines...that was a perfect moment.
I could hardly believe it had been 13 years this January. I blinked, focusing on the road ahead. The weather began clearing a little, and it wasn't quite so terrifying.
After we were safely home and all of the kids were in bed, I told my husband about the memory. "I can't remember the complete details of the bad parts of Zeke's life anymore, but I do remember every detail of when I held him in the rocking chair for the first time."
Mike squeezed my hand.
"It's crazy, Mike, but I feel so much peace right now. When time has passed and everything else is gone, all that remains--all that really matters--is love."
And so now when I think of Zeke, the memory of his love is in the forefront of my mind. I hope that's what he remembers about me as well....
Happy birthday.
On January 30th, a few years ago, I drove through treacherously snow-filled mountains. Flakes shot down, forming an unwanted curtain around the truck. My eyes darted to the right of the canyon, but I could barely see, let alone remember any turnouts in that area. The lights from a huge semi bounced off the road behind us, shining increasingly closer. That driver loved tail-gating people--for a living. Who gave that idiot a CDL? But I didn't say the words aloud; instead, I white-knuckled the steering wheel in terror and realized from the icy breath of my family around me, they were terrified too.
And maybe they should have been. This was an unlucky day for us--the same day my son died 13 years before.... Normally each year I'd visit his grave, read my journal--the book I wrote about him. (More about that HERE .)
But this January, I didn't do any of that. After all it's his Death Day. I don't want to go back to that damn memory--of a hospital that reeks of iodine and rubbing alcohol. Those stupid machines whirring and beeping to keep OTHER parents' kids alive. But. Not. Mine. Because the damn doctors said he would never live. THEY said he'd die despite all their fancy gadgets and his will to live. His fight...was for naught. So he died that day, amidst the stench of medicine, after my ex-husband and I removed him from life support, and he suffocated in our arms....
As I drove through the snow-infested mountains, with the wind nearly ripping our truck from the road, I couldn't help thinking about Zeke. I shook my head telling myself not to. This drive was dangerous enough, without me trying to see through tears as well.
But what happened next, surprised me.
This year, I didn't recall all of the sad circumstances of his death. Instead, I simply remembered a specific day nearly a month before he died.
Zeke's nurse had said I could hold him in a rocking chair. Right before she was about to pass him to me, he started crying really hard. Another nurse came by and said I shouldn't hold him, that they needed to up his vent settings. But I pleaded, BEGGING them to let me hold my baby. So they handed him to me.
I rocked so slowly, careful since he had so much tubing in him. And instead of crying harder like they'd thought he might, he melted into my arms, as if he was always meant to be there. I put my pinkie near his hand and he wrapped his little fingers around it, holding on so damn tight. Tears filled my eyes as I rocked him forever. And in that moment, it didn't matter how sick he was or how hard this was. We loved each other. Nothing could take that away, not time, not sickness, not death. And that moment, admist the stench of medicine and all those whirring machines...that was a perfect moment.
I could hardly believe it had been 13 years this January. I blinked, focusing on the road ahead. The weather began clearing a little, and it wasn't quite so terrifying.
After we were safely home and all of the kids were in bed, I told my husband about the memory. "I can't remember the complete details of the bad parts of Zeke's life anymore, but I do remember every detail of when I held him in the rocking chair for the first time."
Mike squeezed my hand.
"It's crazy, Mike, but I feel so much peace right now. When time has passed and everything else is gone, all that remains--all that really matters--is love."
And so now when I think of Zeke, the memory of his love is in the forefront of my mind. I hope that's what he remembers about me as well....
Happy birthday.
August 8, 2018
A Lesson--Cherish the Time You Have
We’re sitting at an old Chinese restaurant. It’s so dilapidated, the chime no longer works at the front door. I look at you, your bright eyes smiling back at me because you’ve been waiting weeks for this date out with Mama. Your chubby hands grip the water glass in front of you, and your darling sandaled shoes kick rhythmically under the table.
“We don’t have much money,” I say, “so we’re gonna share a cup of soup.”
Your eyes light with excitement because you don’t worry about money; you’re a seven-year-old who’s ready for adventure.
“We’d like a cup of egg-drop soup,” I tell the young waitress. “That’s all.”
“We’re going to share it!” you squeal, eager to spill our secret.
The waitress studies us, doesn’t write anything in her notebook, and walks away.
As we wait for our soup, we talk about the beautiful stringy lights, the slippery red seats, and the soft music playing around us. I’m totally in the moment then, so part of that place even the smallest details are committed to memory.
“Mama, you’re the best,” you say.
“No--you are.”
You giggle.
The waitress arrives then, holding an enormous bowl of soup and two little cups to go with it. She sets it down with such kindness. “One small cup of soup.”
I know it’s not their “small” size, and I’m taken aback. You on the other hand think it’s amazing. You don’t even notice the waitress has walked away because your eyes are glued to the huge bowl of egg-drop soup—your favorite. “She’s so nice, Mama! Look what she did—she made it big this time.” You can hardly stop talking, even to drink your water or eat your soup. You tell me about friends, math, books, life…. After a moment you stare at your water flabbergasted, “You know, this is the best water ever! This is the best day ever.”
I realize the waitress sits in the corner; she's listening to ever word as she’s rolling silverware.
We pay the check, before the waitress pulls me aside. “You are both so grateful—you’ve taught me something today. Even the simplest things, can be the best ever if it’s with someone you love.”
I walk out, a bit changed. I’m not quite sure why it was so magical, but it was. Sometimes simple truths are that way.
“That was the best date ever,” you say.
I nod. “Yes, it was. And it hardly cost anything.” I realize then, as I gaze down at your sparkling blue eyes, all you’d really wanted…was time.
I keep remembering the waitress at the Chinese restaurant. “Even the simplest things, can be the best ever if it’s with someone you love.” Please cherish those who matter most to you. Why not take a moment today to do something nice for them; I bet it would make their day, the best ever. Sometimes all people want is time….
“We don’t have much money,” I say, “so we’re gonna share a cup of soup.”
Your eyes light with excitement because you don’t worry about money; you’re a seven-year-old who’s ready for adventure.
“We’d like a cup of egg-drop soup,” I tell the young waitress. “That’s all.”
“We’re going to share it!” you squeal, eager to spill our secret.
The waitress studies us, doesn’t write anything in her notebook, and walks away.
As we wait for our soup, we talk about the beautiful stringy lights, the slippery red seats, and the soft music playing around us. I’m totally in the moment then, so part of that place even the smallest details are committed to memory.
“Mama, you’re the best,” you say.
“No--you are.”
You giggle.
The waitress arrives then, holding an enormous bowl of soup and two little cups to go with it. She sets it down with such kindness. “One small cup of soup.”
I know it’s not their “small” size, and I’m taken aback. You on the other hand think it’s amazing. You don’t even notice the waitress has walked away because your eyes are glued to the huge bowl of egg-drop soup—your favorite. “She’s so nice, Mama! Look what she did—she made it big this time.” You can hardly stop talking, even to drink your water or eat your soup. You tell me about friends, math, books, life…. After a moment you stare at your water flabbergasted, “You know, this is the best water ever! This is the best day ever.”
I realize the waitress sits in the corner; she's listening to ever word as she’s rolling silverware.
We pay the check, before the waitress pulls me aside. “You are both so grateful—you’ve taught me something today. Even the simplest things, can be the best ever if it’s with someone you love.”
I walk out, a bit changed. I’m not quite sure why it was so magical, but it was. Sometimes simple truths are that way.
“That was the best date ever,” you say.
I nod. “Yes, it was. And it hardly cost anything.” I realize then, as I gaze down at your sparkling blue eyes, all you’d really wanted…was time.
I keep remembering the waitress at the Chinese restaurant. “Even the simplest things, can be the best ever if it’s with someone you love.” Please cherish those who matter most to you. Why not take a moment today to do something nice for them; I bet it would make their day, the best ever. Sometimes all people want is time….
May 27, 2018
I'm Depressed...What Should I Do?
First off, I have to say that I am not a mental health professional; that aside, I can speak from my own experiences and explain what has helped me.
This is scary sharing so much of myself like this, but I hope my words (video below) will help someone.
If there's anything else you'd like for me to talk about in this series, please leave your questions/ideas below.
For the first video in this series, please go here: HOW POSITIVTY CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE
This is scary sharing so much of myself like this, but I hope my words (video below) will help someone.
If there's anything else you'd like for me to talk about in this series, please leave your questions/ideas below.
For the first video in this series, please go here: HOW POSITIVTY CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE
May 20, 2018
How Positivity Can Change Your Life
My word for 2018 is AWARENESS. In an attempt to help others--and let people know YOU aren't alone--brutal honesty...here goes: Don't mistaken positivity for stupidity.Some of the happiest people simply choose to see the "bright side" of even the darkest situations. Shining a light on your circumstance is the fastest way to ride yourself of darkness. -Author EC Stilson #courage#Perspective I'll be posting on this weekly, please let me know if there's a topic you'd like for me to discuss. #vulnerable 
