Trying so hard, failing so miserably

It has been a while, how many times have I said that, too many. It has been 4 years since the autumn of hell, and I vowed to reclaim it this year. Vowed and failed already. The darkness of the days creeps into my soul, and holds me captive. I have been trying to move on from the sadness, but each corner I turn, it haunts me in a new way. It has been in the form of job losses, marriage problems, frustration with children and my own disappointment with life.

 I want to reclaim the fall. I want it so badly, it used to be my favorite season, the season of pumpkin and spice, colors and warmth.  I want to experience it all again. I want the joy, but cannot find it, I want everything to line up and to have life just be for a while, rather than moving from one crisis to another. I want to laugh, daily, and not have to run from one thing to the next just to get by, or to have to push others to do anything.

I want to be still, to savor the company of others and to breathe in peace and calm.

A letter to my 13 year old son.

Dear Thomas,
I love the person you have become. I picked you up from Boy Scout Camp today, and you are clearly not the same boy you were last year. Last year, you grunted at me when I asked you questions, you could not tell me the name of your tent mates, and you were pouty in general. But, you were still tiny, and your bright blue eyes still warmed my heart. It wasn't until 3 week later when I saw pictures that I had any idea what you did at camp.

Today, you are the same height as I am, you rested your fuzzy head on my shoulder and told me all about camp. You told me you kayaked the Apple River, you learned how to camp outdoors, there were bats in the education building, Sam was your tent mate and he is nice. You told me you showered everyday, which makes any mom happy. You told me your disappointment in not being able to play paintball due to rank and how you and Eric were setting a goal of getting that rank before the next camp out. You talked and talked and talked, and didn't even complain when I told you that you have to serve 2 masses today. You laughed at the nonsense your siblings put me through this week, and we shared a nice lunch.

I love this. I love that you are growing up. I love that you are becoming a man of honor and respect. I love that you are still happy to cuddle up next to me, though. I love that your blue eyes still sparkle at me when you smile. You are still my baby, though. You are that special child God gave me when I needed a kids like you. I know your brother and sister kid me that you are the favorite, which is not true, but, you are special and so different from them. I need that now as much as I did 13 years ago.

Eagerly Waiting Easter Morn

Sure, we all are, right? It is not just because our family give up meat, and we all really want meat, like really want meat right now. Nope, that is not it. But, that is a part of it.

When Lent started, it was winter in Chicago. There was in insane amount of snow on the ground, and it was cold, really cold. The skies were grey and people were miserable. It all seemed appropriate for Lent. But, now, it is warm, it is green, is is lovely. But, our hearts and souls are still in winter, we are cold and frozen. That is how Lent feels, like a long cold winter. We still say the Angelus all through Lent, which harkens back to winter, to the Nativity.

I crave the warmth of Easter. I ling for the Regina Coeli. I caught myself singing it for prayer the other day, and it literally hurt to stop. "O, Queen Of Heaven, Be Joyful". Be Joyful. Yes, Lent is a time of reserved joy, but it is also a time of self-examination, and that, at least for me, is not joyful. I do not like what I find, I find a perpetually witntery heart. I find coldness, and darkness. But, I rid it through penance, did I mention I really want a steak? I rid it through sacrifice and confession. But, the season asks me to wait, to hold back, to savor the last moments of self-reflection and to find those last things that I need to remove, before I can truly feel the joy of Easter.

I see hints of flowers outside, but the sky is still grey, just as there is a hint of brightness in my soul, but still there is more room for light.

Not the brightest bulb sometimes

Bless Me Father, for I am ultra slow to learn and quite dense in huge head. Thank goodness that is not an actual sin, because I have enough to worry about. That being said, some people understand things the first time they hear it, and others need blinky flashy lights and a kick in the pants to pay attention. I am the latter far too often. 

Take for example a litttle instance I had the past two days. For work, I went to a training on avoiding compassion fatigue, it goes with my nature of work. Whilest at said training with my fellow home visitnig doulas, we discussed how to be happier and how to take care of one self. The presenter is a seminarian in Native American religous studies. Yep, I go to hippie training. Regularly. With hippies, seriously, long skirts, dreads, barefooted, vegan, birth godesses. I take most of these trainings with a grain of salt, and a glass of wine when I get home. This time, was different. I am just weeks away from serious burn-out, so I tried to listen. And, blinky lights were going off all around me.

Why? What did hippie birthy speaker do? She told us to be thankful, to examine our day each evening, heck, she even said use the examen, to live a plan of life, to offer our day, to confide in one person who can hold you accountable, to be still and listen to the higher power, and to praise him (she might have said her, hippie, remember). It all sounded so familiar to my Catholic ears, and to my Catholic soul. It should, I've been hearing it for years at days of recollection, in books, from priests in the confessional and from good holy women. And I lived it, well, for many years. Not of late though. 

I thought that I could simplify, I could do the bare minimum, that it was too strict for my hippie doula self. And, like many things, I was wrong. But, I did not realize I was wrong until this workshop. I realized how much I need my plan of life, my examen, my director, etc. Heck, I need it more now that I am in a compassion based field. But, it never crossed my mind I needed it to be happy. I needed hippie barefoot lady to remind me of the treaure I hold in these things. 

So, I am not the brightest bulb sometimes, but, the one thing she did not address was the need for forgiveness when we fail, and the ability to begin again. So, the confessional and I have a date, as does my delibrate efforts to order my life and prayer. And then, the happiness and peace will return.

Beauty and Dance

As I write this, I am sitting in a Corner Bakery in downtown Chicago, 2 blocks from the Joffery Ballet. On a weeknight. During spring break. In a week I am working downtown several days. Why? Because I love my 15 year old and I support her dreams. It is hard to say, I support her dreams. Her dreams that she might dance, her unrealistic, less than 1% chance that she will succeed, and no one makes money in the arts anyhow but she really loves dance dreams. 

Clare started dancing at 3, like a lot of little girls. She was good, but at 3, who cares. Then at 9 she was still good. At 12 she was working really hard, but was not as good as other girls. At 15, she holds her own, but a lot of girls are better, in honesty, but she loves it. She is passionate, and she is driven. More driven than I ever have been about anything in my life, I'm kinda lazy. That is why, when her classmates are vacationing, my daughter is seeking out drop in classes all over the city. Sometimes she is so bold as to take the train and hoof it to the classes herself, but, not in the dark as it will be when class ends tonight. 

She works harder than I do for anything. Yet, I have to work harder for her to work that hard, it requires multiple jobs, lots of sacrifice and often frustration. But, she loves it. And, it makes her even more beautiful. Ballet has taught her grace in tha face of extreme disappoinment. It has taught her grace in the face of great joy, the kind of joy that wants to brag, but cannot. It has taught her how to work, and how to encourage, it has taught her that her body is a temple. It teaches her every day that that temple will betray you, and that you have to love that temple. It has taught her that no matter what others may say about her body, it is strong and powerful, it is good to her when she is good to it. Ballet has taught her how to laugh, how to smile and how to cry without ever making a sound, but through every limb and gesture. 

We are too poor for her to succeed in the same ways her peers do, private lessons, summer intensives and scholarship competitions are not in her future, but, she assures me that a good story goes a long way, and parents that sacrifice is the best story any director can hear. A mother who can sew has helped, too. Everything she has learned in ballet she is starting to pass onto another generation, through the 5 classes a week she teaches, because, she has also learned, teachers are not always those who danced the best, but are often those who are the kindest, most patient and the best learners. And, bring the beauty of joy to eager hearts.

Through the Storm, Through the Night.

As previously mentioned, there have been trials of late, and by of late I mean the last 3 years. There is nothing that we have not made it through, but emotionally and psychologically, the damage lingers. My sense of hope has ben diminished. I used to be far more optimistic than I am, not, reality surrounds me, and I do not get my hopes up much for anything.

Take for example job interviews. My husband has been out of work almost 3 years, 3 long hard years, unemployment ran out a long, long time ago. When this situation was new, I got excited with every interview, hopeful that this would be the one that would change our situation, to allow us to plan to the future again, rather than just get through the week. But, interview after interview I was let down. Even the few that have lead to job offers are horrifically disappointing. No one hires for full time, they job is irregular, the pay is insulting, or the work is degrading. I have no hope that we will ever not be poor. But, Deb, you say, you have a roof over your head, and food on your table and your daughter still dances. This is true, I can't figure out how we do, but it is true. On paper, none of these seem possible, yet they happen. And I am thankful for these. But, one cannot rely on miracles to pay the bills. 

God has provided, true, and all my hope is in Him, but even that is a mental struggle. He has given honest work for me, but it is hard work, with strange hours and unpredictability. Please do not think I am asking for easy street. All I desire is a return to hope, to peace, and to stability. I desire hope above all things. 

My daughter is dancing to "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" so it is played very often in our home. It has always been a favorite song, but the story behind it was something I learned just a few years ago as I sang a Mass for the loss of a baby. Read it here .The song gives me hope, it reminds me even in my weary days, to persevere on this long journey. Here is the version the daughter is dancing to, my personal favorite.

Reflection

As times changed, I fell away from writing, from reflection. But, my circumstances have greatly changed and I feel that it is time to return to what has always given me comfort, writing. Several friends have requested that I return, but mostly for the Xavier chronicles. While Xavier does provide many laughs, but there is much more to my thought process. This reboot may not be as cheery or as light, as I said, life has changed, but I will try to intersperse the introspection with Xavier's thoughts. I have no idea if there are or will be any readers here ever again, but I ned to do this for myself, to have an outlet.  Let us journey together is that is what is meant to be.

The Simple Joy of Freedom

Sarah is a friend of mine. Her sister, is someone I pray for daily. We are so blessed. Even though my car died this week, even though my paycheck is 6 weeks late, even though I am coughing non-top, I am so blessed and so much better off than most of the world. Thank you Lord for the reminders. Please help this family.

Feast Days and Birthdays

Today is the feast day of St. Maria Goretti, today is also the birthday of a friend of mine that took her precious life almost 2 years ago.I see an irony today, "B" was sexually abused as a child. That abuse, in combination with later abuse, ultimately lead to her death.

I have so much anger still from her death. I saw her 10 days before she died, she came to town to say good-bye. If I had only know, could I have said the words to save her. I knew her when we were teens and in college. Could I have guided her to a place for healing? Some would say I did, she converted to Catholicism as a freshman in college, but that lead her to more abuse. Could I have prevented her from joining that "religious movement" that opened old wounds? That I did try, but she not listen. Could I have been her doula, and prevent the birth trauma that again made wounds open, maybe, but, the past haunted her so much. If only I had come to visit her all the times she begged me to fly far from my family.

The truth is that I could not do anything, even if I tried harder than I had. She was deeply wounded, and wounds were open again and again. She could not make peace, even with the best religious counsel and the best therapy. She her wounds could not be healed, no matter how may efforts her truly loving, and gentle husband made. She was so deeply wounded.

Why anyone ever would hurt a child in such a horrific manor is beyond my comprehension. We see the stories in the papers, on TV and, in the lives of the saints. Today, I beg for the prayers of St. Maria Goretti for my friend, that God is merciful. I beg her prayers for my children, for their protection and purity. I beg her prayers for those who are put into situations that they cannot control and are forever wounded.

The Simple Joys of a Movie

After years of waiting, my sons and I finally saw Monsters University. A movie usually is not a big deal, we see them sometimes. But for my eldest son and I, Monsters, Inc. is a moment in time, it is something we have shared, it has much deeper meaning.

When my son was 18 months old, we were shopping, I was wearing high heels, and carrying him and fell off a curb. I dropped my baby. It was the worst day of my life. He suffered severe head trauma. We knew it was bad, but when we got to the ER and they transferred us to the nearest trauma center, we knew how bad it was. My little guy has always been special to me. He was my first and only 100% natural birth, he bonded with me in a different way, he made me feel alive, until I was hit with postpartum depression. Then, he was the only thing that kept me going, my love for him, my desire to provide life giving milk for him, and his cute fat little face. It passed, but at the end, he was there, smiling, not knowing how he saved me.Now, he was lying helpless in a trauma unit crib and there was nothing I could do to help him.

After many hours of tests, crying and worry, he was to be observed for 48 hours. I was in shock, my baby was not allowed to be held, to be nursed, to be mine. Worst of all, I was reported to DCFS for inflicting a head wound on my child. As if I would EVER hurt this precious baby I adored, but that is exactly what I was accused of. Thankfully, that was resolved, but, it haunts me to this day, for my work I frequently have to have DCFS background checks, and it is on my record. I have to explain to future employers the circumstances of that day. It hurts every time, I usually tear up explaining.

 My baby went home 72 hours after the start of our horror, with the restriction that he needed to sit in the dark and not move. Did mention he was an 18 month old boy?? And a super active on at that. We needed to keep him as unstimulated as possible.I sent my daughter off to family for a week, and bought the only movie we had not seen yet, Monsters, Inc. We spent the week watching it over and over and over. I loved it, it made me cry, like all Pixar films. Even better, it kept the toddler happy and quiet and nestled on my lap.

Now, unlike most movies that we watch ad nauseum, Monsters, Inc.endured. And as that son grew, into a snuggly boy, he would always suggest that movie as his first pick when asked what we should watch. It almost became a joke how often he would suggest it. For some reason, I always let him watch it, and we always snuggled on the sofa. His siblings hate that he always wins that movie, but, for us, it is special, and we still love it. His laugh is so light, so full of life and joy, I secretly let him watch it to hear that melodious sound.

That boy is now a terribly awkward 12 year old. He is lanky, really lanky, he is smart, he is OCD, he is sweet, tender and still likes to cuddle. He still has the best laugh. We have been talking about the sequel since we heard about it. We planned a date, he and I , and we let his brother join us to keep the peace at home.Finally, the day arrives, and I did not have hopes for it being good, but, without giving away anything, it is what he needed right now and frankly, a wonderful movie. It is about a guy who has hopes, but they are unrealistic, it is about making real friends, it is about the underdog coming out on top through hard work. That is my boy. He is so amazingly smart, but he has to work, he gets picked on my his peers, he is never picked first for things, but he has the sweetest heart and an unrealistic hope. It is a beautiful thing. I can't quite explain why Sully and Mike have stuck with us, but like the wounds of that day, they have. I am so thankful..