Bloggers Annex

I don’t handle it well. Never have really. I’ve always been the sort to crumple up at the first sign of it. Wincing and cringing like an animal who’s seen one too many petting zoos. I have a long, vivid memory, and pain is the sharp side of that double-edged sword.

I’ve never had to endure much. No broken bones. No serious health problems beyond some “growing pains” (read calcium deficiency) that plagued me into my twenties, a few episodes of moderate menstrual cramps. You wouldn’t know it to look at me during those few times though. Neil once came home to find me curled up on the floor moaning in pain. “Have you been taking your calcium pills lately?” he asked. I shook my head no.

I’m an idiot and it shows.

I whacked my knee a good one about a year and a half ago and it was tender for about a year. The slightest touch and I’d cry out. With two exuberant young girls in my charge I often had to endure more than the slightest touch. Now, at age four, after a year of watching me cringe, Emma is beginning to grasp it. I watch her move to climb up onto my lap and then pause, uncertain. “This your owie knee?” she asks. I hate that she has to ask that. Soft tissue damage the doctor said. The pain will come and go. My knee will tell me when I have done too much. Likely always will.

I live in fear of my kneecap.

The three hour hike we went on a couple weeks ago. So much pain. But so much strength. I pushed on through the pain, keeping the whining to the barest of minimums (for me). The effects of that hike still linger and my weakness is mortifying to me. Once, it was comforting. I enjoyed being able to beg off, claiming my weakness as an excuse. Now, it is a millstone around my neck. I want more. I want to strive. I want to live. And I do not want the fear of pain to be a factor.

I tore something during the hike I think. It sends stabbing waves of pain shooting out and down from my left thigh when I have done too much. And I wince, and I hobble. I don’t down three ibuprofen like I would have once upon a time. I need to feel the pain. Need my leg to be my traffic signal. Now I can go. Now I must stop.

I teach myself about pain. The comparitiveness of it. I recite a littany in my head, focused on the pain of others. Neil’s step mum with slipped and bulging disks. Having to take serious pain meds just to cope. Enduring traction. Her daughter comes to wash her hair for her because the pain is too much. Even in childbirth I have not known the kind of pain she faces. Daily.

My pain and my fear are nothing compared to the cancer sufferer, the starving child, the injured soldier, the fleeing refugee. Nothing.

And I find that I can, indeed, teach myself this. And I can smile through the pain and shrug, and say it is not so bad. I do not crave the attention so much anymore. Don’t feel the need to gasp, perhaps a little louder or more often than I would if alone. Don’t wish to curl up on the couch till the pain slowly fades away.

I want more than that now. And that fact alone gives me so much hope for myself it’s a wonder I’m not weeping as I write this. I guess I’ve learned that there are larger things than myself to weep over.

Kymburlee writes at Temporary? Insanity

Kissing my father’s cheek reminds me of kissing my grandmother’s cheek when I was a little girl: soft, slack skin, smoother now in old age.

He and my mother have come for lunch to celebrate October birthdays at my house. At sixty eight, he walks slowly and has to have an oxygen tank, but his eyes twinkle like a little boy’s as he takes off his baseball cap.

“Look,” he says, pointing at the words on the cap. It reads, “If I had known grandchildren would be so fun, I’d have had them first.”

It’s really cute, and I know I’m supposed to laugh, but for some reason, it just makes me pause. Already, the wheels are churning in my mind. What is he saying about having ME?

Telling myself I am being ridiculous, I laugh at the joke. Dad moves past me to get kisses from my three children. He sits to listen to my oldest daughter play the piano. He compliments my son. He asks my youngest about school.

Sometimes, when I look at him, all mellow after these years, I think, “Who is this man?”

***
There was the dad from when I was a young girl. The one who let me stay up past midnight after a snack of rice with soy sauce and calamansi juice. The one who introduced me to old movies like “Beau Geste” which I liked even though the plot went way over my head. The one who wrote me pages upon pages of letters when I first came to America, which I keep in a box of treasured objects to this day.

And then there’s the dad whose temper meant that early on in my marriage, I would say something off the cuff, disagreeing with him, and he would storm out of our house. Then it would take months, an entire year, even, for him to talk to me again.

When I was helping my mom clean out some papers recently, I came across a card I had sent him for Father’s Day several forgotten years ago, telling him how I missed him and how I hoped he would talk to me again. And the pain from that time came back to me like it was just yesterday. I tossed it in the “to-save” pile, because to me it’s proof of how far we’ve come.

***
Today, he is all cheer, no traces of any rancor.

I credit that some to my kids. In the past, they’d usually been my secret weapon, the olive branch I’ve held out to my parents so my mom could prevail upon my dad to finally attend a child’s Important Occasion and break months-long silence.

I credit the change too, to the fact that in the last year, he’s been battling cancer.

***
About this time last year, he had to have surgery for a thymoma, or cancer of the thymus gland, a mass in his chest so advanced, its tendrils having already spread into his vital organs, that the doctor said it was one of the worst cases he had ever seen.

I remember distinctly that it was October, because I wondered if I should continue with my plan to participate in NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month in November despite having to visit him a lot at the hospital. I participated, and though I was pressed for time, writing my novel gave me an escape from my worries.

I’m not glad that he got cancer, but I’m glad for what it did to our relationship.

It’s a little bit of a cycle, I’m sure. As I’ve spent more time with him over the last year, my heart has softened and let go of any past hurts. I am more patient and more respectful of him. In turn, he has been a kinder and gentler person, not as quick to anger and more appreciative of people, like his grandchildren…and yes, even me.

It’s still not perfect. There are some days when I have to grit my teeth when he tells me, no, orders me to do something because, darn it, he’s dying!

But it’s infinitely better.

Pink Ink writes at PINK INK

Most people don’t know this about me: I wear glasses. Really, I should say “I have glasses”. Because I don’t actually wear mine, except to drive. And sometimes to watch movies. I am near-sighted. But not enough so to impair my daily functioning. (Actually, “functioning” is debatable and highly subjective. But the bottom line is, I CAN see.)

I can say that with full confidence in contrast to my husband, who is also near-sighted but CANNOT SEE without his glasses. I remember feeling rather shy and sheepish when we went swimming together on one of our first dates, hoping he wouldn’t notice all my figure flaws. Then I realized he had to take his glasses off to swim. Yippee! He had no idea how my thighs were really shaped. I was safe! 

I’ll admit sometimes I can’t see quite enough.
I squint like crazy at restaurants where I have to order from a menu on the wall. I don’t recognize friends from a distance. (I almost didn’t recognize my own MOTHER-IN-LAW from across a large gallery in a museum a couple of weeks ago!) 

But usually I can see just enough.
I can’t see the dirt in my house, unless I get down on all fours. I can’t see the flyaway ends in my hair unless I pull one right into my face. I can’t see the blemishes in my skin unless I practically kiss the mirror. And I kind of like it that way. The good news? is that I can’t see YOUR flaws either…don’t notice the dirt and the dust, the blemishes or the frizz. Everyone is pretty much beautiful to my artist’s eye.

I choose to live in a world that I can see, but not too sharply. It’s all just a little soft around the edges. Like an impressionist painting. And I like to think that translates into a softness of attitude too. Choosing to overlook certain details around the edges and looking harder for the ESSENCE of those around me. Catching fleeting impressions. Seeing more by seeing less. 

It’s the way I paint. And it’s the way I live.

On Saturday evening, after a long day of house things and friend things, I took two of my boys and went up to Salt Lake in order to hear the Utah Baroque Ensemble perform in the lovely Cathedral of the Madeline. Every time we have been in that building it has been in silence as we walk around and look in all of the corners and up to the amazing vaulted ceilings.

This time every square inch of the cathedral was filled with Latin, German, and even a southern U.S. dialect as we were treated to ancient music as well as gospel pieces. During the first cycle of centuries-old Latin church music, my almost-eighteen year-old looked up from his sketch book and said, “Mom, did you feel how that music echoed and moved around the space?” I did feel it, but I was especially glad he did. That was important to me to have him experience that. From my ten year-old I got a few, “Cool”s, which were just as terrific.

I got pretty teary-eyed as the second song finished and the spirit flew overhead through the rafters. Before it soared too high it brushed right past me and squoze between me and my boys on our creaky wooden pew. I said a silent “thank you” and continued listening to the breath-taking music, but I kept finding myself looking in all of those dark corners and well-lit painted walls and ceilings to see if I could see it. To see if I could just catch one more glimpse.

I know I don’t always pay attention when that same good spirit squeezes around me and my family at home. I know that real-life temporal concerns deaden parts of me. I want to be more sensitive to those times when the spirit is there.

I want to be a cathedral.

The talented person behind Blogger’s Annex wrote a post sometime back about living the dream as he/she pursues his/her goal of writing a novel.  As a result, he/she asked for volunteers to help keep Blogger’s Annex going and to give him/her a bit of a life (I suspect) away from his/her computer once in a while.  I am one of the volunteers chosen to help out (there are three others) and am honored to be here (see my bio below).  I am so excited to have the opportunity to read all of the entries that are submitted to Blogger’s Annex.  Our members are among the best writer’s in the Blogosphere!  BTW, we haven’t had too many fresh submissions in a while so please submit one of your favorite recent posts or write something new just for the Annex.  We would love to see it!

Heidi Ashworth

Finally I get the chance to fix the “bio boo-boo” on my website and Amazon.com!  Yes, I have been writing “books” since I was ten (or eleven) but I didn’t publish one until this year.  It is a Jane Austen-era romantic comedy called Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind, out via Avalon Books this month.  However, I did have a short story published in the kid’s page of my local newspaper when I was 14.  I also had a small article published in the Ensign Magazine in February of 2000.  I have been writing a daily blog since April of this year and have had several of my blog posts published here on Blogger’s Annex.  I hope this makes me qualified to make sound judgments with regards to your submissions.  I will be here, reading and posting, all week so submit away!

There are places inside of yourself you don’t want other people to see, the places where you hold your fears and insecurities, a place you hide the things that feel like they could break you. I have to face those places every day.  It’s funny how they tell you the heart can only take so much.  I wonder at what point mine will have reached its max.  I’m tired.  I am 24 years old and I am so tired I am starting to ache.  My insides are finally oozing to my outsides and my exhaustion is taking over with pain and frailty. I hurt in the morning, physically hurt, and as I try to wade through my day the pain just turns into debilitating fatigue. I don’t know how to function anymore, I don’t know how to breath. I just want to sit and stare at the trees.  I have to settle for trees because the ocean is too far away, and the muddy river is just a reminder of all the murk and sludge.  The ocean is alive, it breathes, you feel it inhale and exhale with the waves, the moist breath wetting your face… it reminds me to breath. In and out with the waves… just breathe… one two one two… in out, in out… I can make it if I count the waves. But there are no waves, just trees, and a muddy murky river that always looks the same.

~Mimi writes at Down South~

Shrouded in darkness, I go about my business. I speak in hushed tones and whispers as I perform the sacred rituals. I belong to the most powerful secret society in the universe:

Motherhood.

As I snuggle this tiny person against my chest and sway back and forth in our special chair, I think about this vast sisterhood that I belong to. All across this darkened portion of the planet, thousands and thousands of mothers are doing exactly what I’m doing: wiping tears, calming fears, tending to the sick and the helpless. There are no cameras, no award ceremonies, no worldly glory for our labors. We are never thanked and rarely acknowledged. We work a 24-hour shift every day.

In the glaring light of day, I look frazzled. I’m overworked and overweight. There are lunches to be packed, laundry to be washed, groceries to be bought. It’s a whirlwind of activity, noise, and chaos. The world may forget us. They may even snicker at us. They will laugh at the black circles under our eyes–the circles we earned through love. They will wonder how we can stand to be “just a mom.” We may even allow them make us feel inconsequential.

But in those sacred hours of the night, while “important” people are sleeping, my little baby and I share powerful moments full of love, peace, and serenity—things that society doesn’t give him but that perhaps one day he’ll give to society. As I rock him, I tell him who he is, I tell him who he can become, I tell him who loves him.

These are the moments that will change the world.

~Brillig writes at ‘Twas Brillig~

… to raise the baby that is BloggersAnnex.  It boggles the brain when I contemplate what my beautiful little BloggersAnnex baby has turned into from that day that I eagerly, but hastily, bought the URL just a few months ago.

You guys are the best.  You’ve made this site so great.

I’ve had a handful of people submit their info to join BloggersAnnex over the last couple of weeks, and I’m so sorry that I haven’t gotten around to them.  Every piece of information is entered by hand, doncha know.  And my hands haven’t been entering anything lately.

I’ve also been, um, totally unreliable at publishing a post every day. And since publishing a post every day is what we do at BloggersAnnex, that’s a big ol’ oopsidaisy.

I’ve gone to great lengths to always say “we” when I’m referring to the people behind this site.  But the truth is, as far as the admin stuff goes, “we” is just… me.  One lonesome little person trying to manage the 80 members and their submissions.  And oh how I’ve loved it.  So, so much.

But I think it’s time to make “me” into a “we.”

See, I’m writing a book.  It’s long overdue.  I’ve been saying for years, even decades, perhaps, that I was going to write a book.  But now I’m really doing it.  I’m living my dream.

But BloggersAnnex is my baby and I hate the thought of it perishing along the way.  Obviously, though, I need help to keep it alive.

Just so we’re all clear here, there is absolutely no reason why anyone should want to do this. There is zero monetary incentive. I’m not making a penny off of this baby, and therefore I can’t pay you for your efforts. Don’t let those ads in my sidebar fool you– they don’t pay jack-crappidy-crip-crap. So you would only apply if you are truly, one hundred percent interested in reading through the awesome submissions and choosing which ones should be published.

cforms contact form by delicious:days

As for the rest of you—the sane ones who DON’T apply—we (and now I really do mean “we”) are going to be improving the site for you, so stay tuned.

I love being with you.

You are beautiful, just as you are.

You are light and grace and warmth,
all wrapped up in skin and bone.

You are forgiving and unconditional.
You are examples to me of how to live.

Because you are everything I may have forgotten.
Things all covered up by the hardness of living.
freedom, joy, peace, dreams…you are.

You smell like it. You live it. You exude it.

But I’m starting to realize I won’t.
No, not the days.
I admit they’re too hard and I’m tired.
I won’t want the days.

But these tiny versions of you?
Yes, I will certainly miss those at times.
And I may even want you back this way.

But I’m looking forward to new versions of you,
to learning more of who you are.

More than all of that,
the looking back and the looking ahead.
I want to be here with you today.
With who you are, right now.

~Heather of the EO writes at The Extraordinary Ordinary~

Winter has arrived in Michigan.  It does every year, but somehow it catches us by surprise.   With a slight dusting of snow, cars spin out to wreak havoc on the morning commute.  The salt trucks arrive late.  People forget winter driving skills.  We slip and slide on driveways and parking lots, re-learning how to carefully tread on icy ground.  Still, we do develop the skills to get through the winter.  And eventually, spring comes again.  Every year, without fail.

Our state is extra vulnerable to the cold winds right now.   As markets tumble, we brace ourselves, with thousands of jobs hanging in the balance.  Even those more insulated feel the chill.   Powerful CEOs of giant corporations find themselves begging for enough to survive the winter.  Still, I believe the American auto industry will survive this storm in some form or fashion.  It may be a long winter, and there certainly will be casualties.  I don’t know quite how it will look, but I have faith that spring will come.

At home, flurries fly, with a teenager, tween, and drama queen testing and sparring and finding their places.  We work to keep our home cozy and insulated.  But last night I made a mistake.   Just between adults, I cracked open the door on a sensitive topic.  And then, unnecessarily, I flung it open wide, letting the cold winds of fear, resentment, and tears blow in.  I brought a chill into our home, and it took time to thaw and warm up again.  Still, this morning, a hint of spring.  Love and grace prevail with tender hugs and kind words.

So what shall we do when winter comes? How do we cope when it comes rushing in upon us, or even when we bring it on ourselves?  It helps me to take the long view.  Sooner or later, I have faith that spring will come in some shape or form.  God has shown me this time and time again.  We have our part to play–our responsibility to listen, plan ahead, love, confess and forgive.  We stay in relationship to support one another through the storm.  And we remember what gifts we have to see us through.

Today, I add these to my list of gifts:

• a faith that spring will come
• stable finances
• a well insulated house
• plenty of warm clothing
• a husband who always forgives me in the morning
• the beautiful post at Holy Experience that inspired me today

May we appreciate and utilize our gifts to help us through life’s winter storms.

How do you find hope when winter comes?

photo credit: ronsho ©

~Beyond Just Mom writes at Beyond Just Mom~