When it looks really dark, and you sit on the couch inside because it is too dark to go outside, you should get up anyway. Go out into the dew-chilled grass at the edge of the cliff, and the sound of the Pacific waves will wake up the part of your brain that you thought had gone to sleep 2 hours ago along with everyone else in the house.
It is dark. But it is not too dark to see the white edges where the water becomes foam and the salt becomes bubbles and together they make the roar that drowns out the part of your day where real people saw imaginary nemeses. The anger of the waves will soothe the peace in your soul and vice versa. You will hear it and you will see it, even when you thought it was too late.
But more than sight or sound is smell. You will inhale and it will be a deliverance and knowing and assurance all at the same time. Take it in, all the way down to your alveoli, and then use it for something good before the oxygen in the salt air is used up and you must exhale the day.
7/22/16
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Friday, May 13, 2016
fiction
cheek down on sun-warmed cement
lying on her belly, she felt nine years old
(remember getting out of the pool and warming up on the edge?
one ear down, chlorine-flavored droplets
drying as soon as they hit?)
head still, silent tears coursed down
pooling between her freckled, weathered, notnineanymore cheek
and the scraped/stained concrete
trying to answer back normally
as unbelievable comments about mostly-eaten peanut butter sandwiches
and more believable comments about hummingbirds landing on heads
lit like bumblebees and took off again
she forced two deep breaths
like aspen leaves holding on
in, out, in--
but she wouldn't let it back out
or else the notyetsummer breeze would carry away
all the years before today
--t. scarlet
lying on her belly, she felt nine years old
(remember getting out of the pool and warming up on the edge?
one ear down, chlorine-flavored droplets
drying as soon as they hit?)
head still, silent tears coursed down
pooling between her freckled, weathered, notnineanymore cheek
and the scraped/stained concrete
trying to answer back normally
as unbelievable comments about mostly-eaten peanut butter sandwiches
and more believable comments about hummingbirds landing on heads
lit like bumblebees and took off again
she forced two deep breaths
like aspen leaves holding on
in, out, in--
but she wouldn't let it back out
or else the notyetsummer breeze would carry away
all the years before today
--t. scarlet
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Dead Weight
I get out of the bath, hoisting myself up with hands on the sides, to sit on the edge. Once I'm steady there, I grab hold of the dead weight of my right leg and slowly lift it up and over, setting my foot on the floor. Then I pivot, hold the weight of my body up with my arms again as my left leg follows, careful not to put any weight on my right leg.
I look down at my thighs, both weak and withered. As pain increased over the summer, my ability to use my legs steadily decreased--for months now no squats, no hiking, not even walking more than absolutely necessary. That was all before surgery, but since then (even just in 3 weeks), the atrophy in my right leg is stunning. My quad had to be detached and re-attached, and I haven't yet regained feeling in it. When I stand up (weight on my left leg, of course) and let my right leg straighten, fire rages from my iliac crest to my knee.
Looking down at my scrawny excuse for a leg suddenly revives the fear that has been lurking but unacknowledged--that I'll never walk again. I can't face it head-on right now, so I push fear to the side and get angry. I'm mad at society that prizes lanky legs and holds emaciation as the desired runway look. It has become so normal to diet and deprive and spin and run and zumba, all with the focus on reducing and shrinking and losing. I know that there are those who would sign up voluntarily to accept doses of this pain if it would just make them thin.
Some would exclaim over how good I'm looking these days. I must be doing well if I'm skinny, right? That can only mean that I have my life in balance, right? I can't believe how many stupid, shallow assumptions we make of each other based on these outward things, but we all do it all the time. I don't think that most people guess by looking at me how pain steals appetite and replaces it with a stinging smolder. My significant loss of muscle and weight is not an achievement to a smaller size--it is loss of strength and independence and competency.
I know I am envied for my thin legs, but I would trade them in a second for limbs of any diameter if they were strong, capable, and without this torment. It is March and gray and muddy and rainy, and what I wish for is legs that could take me up a slippery, pebbly trail through dripping branches. They would carry me up to see the spring thunder-melt coming down out of the mountains in the form of Snow Creek Falls or Copper Falls or Kootenai Falls.
So please do not envy my physique for a second. Go run up and down a flight of stairs a few times--not because it will burn 30 calories, but because you are strong and competent and you are able. I beg you to not believe lies about your body that make you feel worthless--don't you see how powerful your body is? Don't devalue it because some idiot somewhere chooses bony limbs to represent beauty.
I'm working on being thankful (I have so much, still!), and trying to have hope that maybe by the end of the summer my legs will be back to doing their job.
I look down at my thighs, both weak and withered. As pain increased over the summer, my ability to use my legs steadily decreased--for months now no squats, no hiking, not even walking more than absolutely necessary. That was all before surgery, but since then (even just in 3 weeks), the atrophy in my right leg is stunning. My quad had to be detached and re-attached, and I haven't yet regained feeling in it. When I stand up (weight on my left leg, of course) and let my right leg straighten, fire rages from my iliac crest to my knee.
Looking down at my scrawny excuse for a leg suddenly revives the fear that has been lurking but unacknowledged--that I'll never walk again. I can't face it head-on right now, so I push fear to the side and get angry. I'm mad at society that prizes lanky legs and holds emaciation as the desired runway look. It has become so normal to diet and deprive and spin and run and zumba, all with the focus on reducing and shrinking and losing. I know that there are those who would sign up voluntarily to accept doses of this pain if it would just make them thin.
Some would exclaim over how good I'm looking these days. I must be doing well if I'm skinny, right? That can only mean that I have my life in balance, right? I can't believe how many stupid, shallow assumptions we make of each other based on these outward things, but we all do it all the time. I don't think that most people guess by looking at me how pain steals appetite and replaces it with a stinging smolder. My significant loss of muscle and weight is not an achievement to a smaller size--it is loss of strength and independence and competency.
I know I am envied for my thin legs, but I would trade them in a second for limbs of any diameter if they were strong, capable, and without this torment. It is March and gray and muddy and rainy, and what I wish for is legs that could take me up a slippery, pebbly trail through dripping branches. They would carry me up to see the spring thunder-melt coming down out of the mountains in the form of Snow Creek Falls or Copper Falls or Kootenai Falls.
So please do not envy my physique for a second. Go run up and down a flight of stairs a few times--not because it will burn 30 calories, but because you are strong and competent and you are able. I beg you to not believe lies about your body that make you feel worthless--don't you see how powerful your body is? Don't devalue it because some idiot somewhere chooses bony limbs to represent beauty.
I'm working on being thankful (I have so much, still!), and trying to have hope that maybe by the end of the summer my legs will be back to doing their job.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Periacetabular Osteotomy (i.e. giving up in order to move on)
It's overwhelming to start at the beginning and explain how in the world I got to the point of agreeing to have my pelvis sawed apart. My diagnosis was congenital hip dysplasia (oh! there is an explanation for 15 years of hip pain!), which means the socket was too shallow. The femoral head (ball) was only halfway covered by the acetabulum (socket). So no matter how much strengthening, stretching, prayer, exercise, rest, turmeric, meditation, yoga, hot tubbing, or margaritas I tried, I could not change the physical structure of my hip. The amount of daily pain I was in was becoming increasingly restrictive, to the point that walking into the grocery store to pick up a gallon of milk was near impossible.
My diagnosis and referral to a hip dysplasia specialist came from a non-surgical rehab specialist (a person whose entire job it basically is to help people avoid surgery through physical therapy)! This surgery (periacetabular osteotomy) was the only thing that could correct my problem. I pursued opinions from multiple other sources--both within the typical medical field and alternative medicine. After repeatedly getting the same answer from varying specialties, I was beginning to come to terms with the idea of this solution.
Up until the day before surgery, I fought repeatedly to have peace about this. I would wrestle with all the reasons why this was crazy, there was NO WAY I was going to have this done. Then I'd go through all the alternative options (really, there was only one: continue to lose function and then almost definitely need a complete hip replacement in another few years, which only lasts about 15 years, and has a myriad of other problems for someone of my age, activity level, congenital structural problems, etc). Really, for the past 2 or 3 months, this was a daily process of wrestling with being in denial that I couldn't fix myself. There was literally nothing I could do--no exercise or training regimen that would whip this slacker body of mine into shape.
"Okay. I have to do this. There is no other option."
"That's crazy! There is no way I can go through that."
"But it would be worth it to be able to walk again, right?"
"There has GOT to be some essential oil or pyramid sales nutritional drink that would fix this."
"Stop complaining. Buck up. Get on with it."
"Nuh-uh. I'm gonna yoga the heck outta this."
"Face the facts. You've tried EVERYTHING else. It's gonna be a year of recovery, and then you'll be back to fully functional. Quit whining."
I had dozens (hundreds?) of people praying for me as I went into surgery. The day before, I met with the anesthetist to discuss sedation. I was thrilled to find out that I didn't have to go under general anesthesia--so much of the miserable first 24 hours after my back surgery last year had to do with coming out of GA. He said this surgeon preferred his patients to have a spinal block, which meant I'd just be paralyzed from the waist down. Then he said that I could choose my level of sedation. Wait--what?! Like choose whether I want to be knocked out or not? What lunatic would want to remember any of that surgery?
Okay well I guess there were too many people praying for peace, because sometime between my pre-op appointment on Monday and starting the IV on Tuesday, I came to a place of utter surrender. I had strength to quit my kicking and screaming, stopped my internal fight of feeling like I was being dragged by my heels, and accepted it. "Let's do this! If I really truly can't just exercise more or rest more or stretch more, whatever, then FIX ME ALREADY!!!"
So I went in to the operating room mostly awake, listening to the nurses confirm my vitals and answering "yes" when the surgeon asked if I was ready for this. The anesthetist had told me that the surgeon didn't want me asking questions, and that he would sedate me more if I was talking. I was anticipating a bone saw, but I wasn't prepared for the mallet. The ischium and pubis were broken with a mallet and chisel, and the ilium was sawed through. I guess I asked about that, or maybe that was just my mental limit, because I don't remember the rest. I was out when they repositioned the joint, and I was out when they put the screws in (just in the ilium, by the way! they just leave the breaks in the other 2 bones to heal without stabilization--what!?!).
It's not like I'm a fearless unflappable daredevil. Reading back over what I just wrote makes me absolutely sick to my stomach. Reflecting on it very long makes me want to hurl. But for some reason, I guess it was important for me to not just mentally give consent for this, but to be physically present and awake for the act of giving up the fight. I cannot fix myself.
The resignation continues. I'm in bed, waiting for my bones to heal. I cannot speed the process in any way. This goes against every particle in my being--there is always something to BE DONE! But now all I can do is just be still and trust in the unhurried work being done by a meticulous Surgeon through the body's wondrous production of osteoblasts--stitching and mending and sculpting and reassembling.
My diagnosis and referral to a hip dysplasia specialist came from a non-surgical rehab specialist (a person whose entire job it basically is to help people avoid surgery through physical therapy)! This surgery (periacetabular osteotomy) was the only thing that could correct my problem. I pursued opinions from multiple other sources--both within the typical medical field and alternative medicine. After repeatedly getting the same answer from varying specialties, I was beginning to come to terms with the idea of this solution.
Up until the day before surgery, I fought repeatedly to have peace about this. I would wrestle with all the reasons why this was crazy, there was NO WAY I was going to have this done. Then I'd go through all the alternative options (really, there was only one: continue to lose function and then almost definitely need a complete hip replacement in another few years, which only lasts about 15 years, and has a myriad of other problems for someone of my age, activity level, congenital structural problems, etc). Really, for the past 2 or 3 months, this was a daily process of wrestling with being in denial that I couldn't fix myself. There was literally nothing I could do--no exercise or training regimen that would whip this slacker body of mine into shape.
"Okay. I have to do this. There is no other option."
"That's crazy! There is no way I can go through that."
"But it would be worth it to be able to walk again, right?"
"There has GOT to be some essential oil or pyramid sales nutritional drink that would fix this."
"Stop complaining. Buck up. Get on with it."
"Nuh-uh. I'm gonna yoga the heck outta this."
"Face the facts. You've tried EVERYTHING else. It's gonna be a year of recovery, and then you'll be back to fully functional. Quit whining."
I had dozens (hundreds?) of people praying for me as I went into surgery. The day before, I met with the anesthetist to discuss sedation. I was thrilled to find out that I didn't have to go under general anesthesia--so much of the miserable first 24 hours after my back surgery last year had to do with coming out of GA. He said this surgeon preferred his patients to have a spinal block, which meant I'd just be paralyzed from the waist down. Then he said that I could choose my level of sedation. Wait--what?! Like choose whether I want to be knocked out or not? What lunatic would want to remember any of that surgery?
Okay well I guess there were too many people praying for peace, because sometime between my pre-op appointment on Monday and starting the IV on Tuesday, I came to a place of utter surrender. I had strength to quit my kicking and screaming, stopped my internal fight of feeling like I was being dragged by my heels, and accepted it. "Let's do this! If I really truly can't just exercise more or rest more or stretch more, whatever, then FIX ME ALREADY!!!"
So I went in to the operating room mostly awake, listening to the nurses confirm my vitals and answering "yes" when the surgeon asked if I was ready for this. The anesthetist had told me that the surgeon didn't want me asking questions, and that he would sedate me more if I was talking. I was anticipating a bone saw, but I wasn't prepared for the mallet. The ischium and pubis were broken with a mallet and chisel, and the ilium was sawed through. I guess I asked about that, or maybe that was just my mental limit, because I don't remember the rest. I was out when they repositioned the joint, and I was out when they put the screws in (just in the ilium, by the way! they just leave the breaks in the other 2 bones to heal without stabilization--what!?!).
It's not like I'm a fearless unflappable daredevil. Reading back over what I just wrote makes me absolutely sick to my stomach. Reflecting on it very long makes me want to hurl. But for some reason, I guess it was important for me to not just mentally give consent for this, but to be physically present and awake for the act of giving up the fight. I cannot fix myself.
The resignation continues. I'm in bed, waiting for my bones to heal. I cannot speed the process in any way. This goes against every particle in my being--there is always something to BE DONE! But now all I can do is just be still and trust in the unhurried work being done by a meticulous Surgeon through the body's wondrous production of osteoblasts--stitching and mending and sculpting and reassembling.
Monday, December 28, 2015
excuse us while we sing to the sky
Along the way, I have to stop and look back.
I had my third back surgery in March. I healed, I rested, I began to get strong again.
The past 9 months have been the most prolonged, unrelenting, and disquieting crucible I have yet come through in my handful of years in this skin. Except that I'm not through it yet. I have another year ahead of me of almost a repeat of the last--waiting for surgery, the hell of the assault on the internal rearranging, the months of recovery. This time it will be my hip, not my back. It's a problem I have had for years that has now culminated in an utter inability to carry on. I cannot walk for 2 minutes without shutdown. But more on that later.
In the midst of the fire, there have been all variety of encouragements and sightings of beauty and truth that have sustained me. God has made his concern for me evident through the constant tangible outpouring of his love through human hearts and hands. Different themes have surfaced and repeated themselves until I have to stop and reflect for fear that I might forget the foundational promise. Just like the Jewish idea of zakhor--"remember!"--and the Israelite tradition of marking triumph with Ebenezer stones, or the "Selah" pausing and reflecting throughout the Psalms, I repeat the stories to myself of how God has brought me this far. It is in the looking back that we have strength to look forward--it is because of the proof of his faithfulness, over and over, that I can even face another day of the bane that is my body.
One of the pillars that has been most substantial this past year is the combination of music and friends who participate in the making and enjoying of it. There is one lyric that sums it up for me and is both a looking-back reminder and a looking-forward exhortation: excuse us while we sing to the sky. In the context of the whole song, it carries weight and significance, but it also stands alone as a little mini-sermon to me.
excuse--We are commanded to rest, to set aside time from the work and demands of the daily grind so that we might focus on prayer and meditation. It is a built-in human need to break away regularly and to have our minds renewed in the Word through the Spirit.
us--I am not alone in either my darkness, my pursuit of Christ, or my purpose in being transformed. One of the roses that has sprung up out of cracks in the concrete is the gift of camaraderie in unexpected forms. I have a lot of friends--when I think of how many people I could truly call friend, it is humbling and astounding. But somehow because of my additional level of brokenness and need this past year, I have formed friendships with a whole new strata of allies. That combined with the steady, committed, rock-solid support from Hank and the kids has undoubtedly been Aaron's and Hur's diligence to the arms of Moses.
while we sing--A sizeable chunk of my singing these days (both literal and metaphorical) is a dire cry for help from a dark and desperate place. "I'm broken!! I feel forgotten!" (Have you read Psalms lately? There is a heck of a lot of despair going on!) The reminder and challenge to myself here is that I keep on singing, but not alone. If left alone too long in my tune, I digress into hopeless dirges about my current physical state and the repercussions thereof. Lyrics of everything from fourth-century hymns to thrashing metal anthems have pulled me out of my self and directed my focus upward. Which brings me to the point of it all:
to the sky--If I sit here and look at myself, my problems, my hopelessness, I will never leave this place of discouragement. I don't keep my eyes on the ground. The beauty of these songs though is that they are NOT to ourselves, they are not just cries that float out unnoticed, but rather we sing to the Maker. He knows my frame. He knows the dust. He does not sit idly by, weak and unable to rescue. He is not shocked or surprised by my angry screams at being unable to simply go for a walk. He is not distant and indifferent to my pleas for release.
I love the Lord, for he heard my voice;
Listen to The Song here.
I had my third back surgery in March. I healed, I rested, I began to get strong again.
The past 9 months have been the most prolonged, unrelenting, and disquieting crucible I have yet come through in my handful of years in this skin. Except that I'm not through it yet. I have another year ahead of me of almost a repeat of the last--waiting for surgery, the hell of the assault on the internal rearranging, the months of recovery. This time it will be my hip, not my back. It's a problem I have had for years that has now culminated in an utter inability to carry on. I cannot walk for 2 minutes without shutdown. But more on that later.
In the midst of the fire, there have been all variety of encouragements and sightings of beauty and truth that have sustained me. God has made his concern for me evident through the constant tangible outpouring of his love through human hearts and hands. Different themes have surfaced and repeated themselves until I have to stop and reflect for fear that I might forget the foundational promise. Just like the Jewish idea of zakhor--"remember!"--and the Israelite tradition of marking triumph with Ebenezer stones, or the "Selah" pausing and reflecting throughout the Psalms, I repeat the stories to myself of how God has brought me this far. It is in the looking back that we have strength to look forward--it is because of the proof of his faithfulness, over and over, that I can even face another day of the bane that is my body.
One of the pillars that has been most substantial this past year is the combination of music and friends who participate in the making and enjoying of it. There is one lyric that sums it up for me and is both a looking-back reminder and a looking-forward exhortation: excuse us while we sing to the sky. In the context of the whole song, it carries weight and significance, but it also stands alone as a little mini-sermon to me.
excuse--We are commanded to rest, to set aside time from the work and demands of the daily grind so that we might focus on prayer and meditation. It is a built-in human need to break away regularly and to have our minds renewed in the Word through the Spirit.
us--I am not alone in either my darkness, my pursuit of Christ, or my purpose in being transformed. One of the roses that has sprung up out of cracks in the concrete is the gift of camaraderie in unexpected forms. I have a lot of friends--when I think of how many people I could truly call friend, it is humbling and astounding. But somehow because of my additional level of brokenness and need this past year, I have formed friendships with a whole new strata of allies. That combined with the steady, committed, rock-solid support from Hank and the kids has undoubtedly been Aaron's and Hur's diligence to the arms of Moses.
while we sing--A sizeable chunk of my singing these days (both literal and metaphorical) is a dire cry for help from a dark and desperate place. "I'm broken!! I feel forgotten!" (Have you read Psalms lately? There is a heck of a lot of despair going on!) The reminder and challenge to myself here is that I keep on singing, but not alone. If left alone too long in my tune, I digress into hopeless dirges about my current physical state and the repercussions thereof. Lyrics of everything from fourth-century hymns to thrashing metal anthems have pulled me out of my self and directed my focus upward. Which brings me to the point of it all:
to the sky--If I sit here and look at myself, my problems, my hopelessness, I will never leave this place of discouragement. I don't keep my eyes on the ground. The beauty of these songs though is that they are NOT to ourselves, they are not just cries that float out unnoticed, but rather we sing to the Maker. He knows my frame. He knows the dust. He does not sit idly by, weak and unable to rescue. He is not shocked or surprised by my angry screams at being unable to simply go for a walk. He is not distant and indifferent to my pleas for release.
I love the Lord, for he heard my voice;
he heard my cry for mercy.
Because he turned his ear to me,
I will call on him as long as I live.
The cords of death entangled me,
the anguish of the grave came over me;
I was overcome by distress and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“Lord, save me!”
The Lord is gracious and righteous;
our God is full of compassion.
The Lord protects the unwary;
when I was brought low, he saved me.
Return to your rest, my soul,
for the Lord has been good to you.
For you, Lord, have delivered me from death,
my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling,
that I may walk before the Lord
in the land of the living.
Praise the Lord.
Listen to The Song here.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
The Grizz
We enjoyed a gorgeous visit to Jasper, Alberta last week. There were a zillion breathtaking scenes in the 5 days, but the most exciting moment was when we spotted this grizzly just a little over 100 yards from the road. We watched the powerful creature for about 30 minutes.
Thanks to the camera's zoom and cropping, it looks pretty close. But this was how far away it actually was:
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Creative Ambitions
Here is Eika.
She is capable, she is innovative, she is driven. Since she was 4 or 5 years old, she has loved making things and selling them at a store she would set up on an overturned cardboard box in her room. Without any help or direction from me (or any other adult, for that matter), she has developed an actual business of homemade body potions, artwork, and jewelry.
Afterpestering me diligently pursuing the idea for a number of months, she has finally succeeded in launching her presence online.
Meet Creativity by Eika!
(Jude's 4th birthday cake)
She is capable, she is innovative, she is driven. Since she was 4 or 5 years old, she has loved making things and selling them at a store she would set up on an overturned cardboard box in her room. Without any help or direction from me (or any other adult, for that matter), she has developed an actual business of homemade body potions, artwork, and jewelry.
After
Meet Creativity by Eika!
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