my brother owns sally the camel

About a month ago, Mom's doctor at the Medical Center scheduled her an appointment. The hospital called me to schedule a time, saying Dr. Wallace felt tests gauging Mom's possible levels of dementia would help us select a more appropriate healing path in the future. The only day they had open was April 1st. At 1 o'clock. Which means we'll be getting the 411 of my mom's grip on reality and sense of presence on 4/1 @ 1.

Seriously. April Fool's Day.

I would be laughing if it weren't my mom. And I hadn't remembered until I woke up this morning that the appointment is tomorrow. So despite having just spent two days up in Oklahoma, I go back again.

I called my brother, the challenged, happy child, and asked him to go with me. But the cable guy who was supposed to install his cable modem Sunday rescheduled for tomorrow, too. And he has to meet his case worker after work. He offered to go with me next weekend. And to pay for a hotel so we could not have to drive up there and back in the same day.

Although I don't talk about him much, my brother rocks. 

Severe bipolar disorder and its cousins of schizophrenic disorders run in our family. Our father was diagnosed as severely bipolar schizophrenic while he was in the Marines, and Benny presented markers not soon after he was born. 

Diagnosed a just few years ago (in his late 20s) as schizo-affective, the meds prescribed after the final, appropriate diagnosis worked the first time. Thanks to what he calls his "happy pills," he went from the temper flares of a 3 yr. old to an impressively balanced, responsible adult in just a few years.

He lives with a roommate, works 6 days a week. He works the bus and train system to get around town, can buy groceries and maintain a budget. He's pretty grown up.

When I moved up to Oklahoma, Benny and a friend of mine helped. Stuck in the car for 2 1/2 hours, topics of conversation dry up quickly, and the space left felt serene. But Benny's an energetic person, needing words and sound, so suggested one of his favorite games - The Song Game.

The Song Game came about because of Benny. One person in the car thinks of one word from any song lyric ever written, and says the word. Then someone else in the car has to sing a line with the word from any song as a guess, as long as it's not a song already sung. The singer then thinks of a new word, and the car tries to guess that song. If the original song the word is from is not sung, the word-giver can keep saying the word until it is (or the rest of the car gives up). If the car gives up, the word-giver has to sing the entire song from memory - with no help from Google.

It's a silly, fun game; unless there are three people in the car with entirely different musical preferences. And one of them is a good mood and has an evil streak. Then it's hilarious.

My friend, Quin, said fire, which Benny guessed as Garth Brooks' "Standing Outside the Fire". It wasn't what Quin was thinking of, but it was Benny's turn. And he decided we needed some Barney in our lives.

He said wheels, so I asked, "The Wheels on the Bus?" And he said I had to sing it, so I did. I only remembered the wheels part, but Benny was kind enough to supply the wipers, the horn, the money, the driver, the baby, and the mom verses in as well. 

He's a giver. And since he loved the game, I knew he'd just keep. on. Giving. 

I drove for a while, trying to think of a song he or Quin could guess that didn't have a word from a Barney song. I said humps (thinking of The Black-Eyed Peas' "My Humps"). Benny immediately jumped in with "Sally the Camel Has Five Humps". And he sang it.The complete countdown. With hand motions. For. All. Five. Humps.

When he concluded with, "Sally the Camel has NO humps 'cause Sally is a HORSE!" (complete with jazz hands in the backseat), silence filled the car. I'm not saying it was the song that broke us, but I'd laugh if someone else made the pun.

It was a good day, looking back. And I'll miss my brother on the drive to go see Mom tomorrow.

a good walk through the woods

Someone told me recently, I should be happier in my writer's voice. What you're dealing with happens to all of us, he said, and it's not that bad. It could be worse.

Full disclosure: this person read my blog, and there ends the relationship. We talked online once before presenting the comment. He's not a member of my tribe, not an intimate.

His opinion holds weight because he read. And spoke. Because he is human. 

And because it troubles me to think I may inauthentically represent this stage of my mom's journey. 

While seeking feedback and honest thoughts from an atheist friend, he shared that his current journey's goal parallels mine. Where my vocabulary contains ideas like worthy suffering and divinity, his presents wrestling with the difference between happiness and contentment. He's gone through a bit of a rough patch recently, having been broken up with about six months ago and the loss of a years' long friendship shortly after.

He mourns, but seeks contentment. Happiness, from what I gathered from our conversations, would only distract; and not heal. So he moves towards a worthier goal.

Something a professor told me once struck me while we were talking. As a computer science major, I enrolled in a painting class. To say it was challenging would be an understatement; the only brushes in my hand since elementary class had been for my hair or to apply some decor color to the wall. She was kind, seeing my first works, and said, "your hand will eventually convey what your eyes see. Until then, allow yourself to be fully in the space of growing; as we tend to be kinder to growing things than to ourselves."

What the blog-commenter may have been unaware of matters and may have affected his word choices. The last two trips to see my mom, I haven't talked about much. Because they have been fucking hard.

My force-of-nature mother trembled, leaf-like, at the idea of asking she be moved away from persons who frightened her. Her emotions vacillated like a child's - from feeling abandoned at not remembering the last day I visited - to being happy to see a familiar face within minutes - all within minutes; then the cycle began again. She began sentences and did not finish them.

She tried for about an hour before she became too tired from the effort, and slept again.

My writer's voice does not evoke happiness during this piece of thorny undergrowth; there are reasons.

And those reasons point the way to those places where kindness is shown to growing things. I'm slowly reconnecting with my tribe, with those in whom I find shelter; and I recharged in their presence last night at ArtHouse.

This morning, I took James to the mechanic for a check-up. He asked about my mom. And since he was very aware of last week's happenings (those admitted to and those better left on the side of a dark road in a small town, as well as the non-consensual, off-roading adventure week before), he thanked me for supporting his shop.

And paying for his son's college room & board expenses. I laughed, because he's honest. Most would have charged me enough to pay full tuition.

As I was leaving, another customer entered. They started talking trucks and inspection changes, but as I left, I heard Mechanic Alex say in his exotic spice accent, "she's a strong person. Few would have grace enough to handle her last reason to see me."

As aftercare for James (and because I jonesed a chocolate croissant), we drove to Barnes and Noble; where I met a Vietnamese Catholic priest. He shared the diverse writers' works in his hands: the Dalai Lama, Joseph Prince, Anne Lamott, Pope Francis's latest. We talked about God, about Peter's first assignment change in 18 years. About the chances of two progressives of a spiritual bent meeting in a Southern bookstore.

The conversation grew quickly into something beautiful and wild, not found in the safe places.

My voice holds not happiness. My path wanders although I am not lost. And I pray contentment thrives among the growing things gathered along this good walk through the woods.

Fury, Firefly, & philosophy

Last week, I found something challenging. The magazine article discussed the philosophical validity of a cup changing color if one person turns and does not look at it. A student asking the professor about the feasibility was pushing boundaries, to see if the professor would bend, as he had the reputation for being kind. 

The professor responded with the suggestion the one student not face the cup, while the rest of the group looked, and be asked about its color.  

The article went on to discuss how to stand for an idea without being a jerk about it.  Which is helpful information as I've noticed, to paraphrase Al Capone, kindness is often mistaken for weakness.

The thought of perception not being reality lingered in my head. Talking with a friend online, I shared that although Sunday was a royal bitch, I'd not blogged about it because I don't want to present as whiny or so selfish, I'm constantly looking for empathy. I don't want to be That Chick. 

He asked me what was wrong with seeking support from friends; said it's not a weakness.

Honestly? I hadn't thought of it that way, didn't see the situation in that light; didn't recognize it was acceptable or possibly appropriate. That idea was foreign, like a newly discovered color. I couldn't reference it, so didn't have a name for it; thankfully, I have differently color-blind friends.

I spent the night with Sarah this weekend. We watched movies, had pizza, ice cream; stayed up too late, had gluten free pancakes for breakfast. At noon. It was AMAZING.  

And from the outside, the evening sounds like an episode for some tweener show on the Disney Channel. Or would have been if we watched or a Pixar movie with some profound message wrapped in cool animation. Or a rom-com.

And if we were 12. Or not dealing with loss and the weightier, darker things of life.

Mulling over movie options, I realized I was secretly hoping for something light and bright; a romantic comedy looked like brain candy, an escape to me. I wouldn't seek out a drama about death; I'm living it. And that experience colors my world right now.

Conversely, Sarah would shy away from romcoms. No matter how much I might love to see the one with Meg Ryan and Hugh Jackman jumping through tesseracts and that fantastic talk about dogs seeing rainbows being like we humans don't see time. That space, right now, she just sees lacking. It's not where she's exploring; it's not where she'll find new life.

Instead, we tore through slices from a local joint, curled up on a couch under blankets, talking about random things, and scrolled through the new movie options OnDemand presented. We had Interstellar (which was long) and Fury, which had been written up in Relevant.

Somewhere between the beginning of Fury, and 1 am, we started talking about the past week. I shared my Sunday; how it started late, then offered enough traffic to make a 5 hr. drive into 8, how visiting on a different day meant Mom wasn't doing well, only to head for home and be pulled over for speeding. And then have a tire blow.

There was more when the sugar rush hit. Or the sense of the absurd.

She was a good friend, and listened. Even though she didn't have to. Even though dark night had fallen. Even though her world is colored by the truth of not asking to be a widow at 33. 

She said she's glad we're friends; because although she is one of the most Pollyanna-esque individuals she knows, she sees me as the SciFi channel. She sees this hallway season experience as Firefly, and hopes the next window shows Eureka.

She said she mentions me in her evening prayers.

I love the world I get to see through her eyes; full of colors I'd be blind to otherwise and things named as they are. We misfit together, she and I, although the odds of us ever even getting along were never in our favor.

Funny, by accepting each other as individuals, differently color-blind to our cups, we've learned to see unexpected beauty in each other's worlds. She sees me wandering hallways, and walks with me; and I see a Pollyanna, aiming to misbehave.

What else happened Sunday...

Stuck out on a two lane curvy road with no donut and a blown tire at the end of a super-fun day, a biker brakes behind me. I (cautiously) think yay! Help! He informs me there are 18 wheelers using this road often (like I haven't seen them), and maybe I should think about pulling off to the shoulder (like there was one).

I mention it's been muddy. And what happened the last time I tried to follow directions. Getting back into my car, I turn to hear him rev his engine. He's gone before my door closes. Yeah, he was a helper.

The next person to pull up behind me in the pitch black is a gentleman with a thick Okie accent in a truck. Who mentions I can park in his barn. Which is just under the single light in the distance. And assures me it's perfectly safe. Then offers a glass of iced tea while I wait. If I wanna.

This did not trigger Dueling Banjos playing over the shower scene from Psycho in my head. At. All.

Just after midnight, the Roadside Assistance tow truck appears like a gift from on high, and tows James back home to the other side of the Red River. The tow truck driver mentions he's a volunteer firefighter. And that he's picked up quite a few people from that particular barn.

He's heard the tea's delicious.

I was glad we'd crossed the border before he said that. Because I really could have used an adult beverage. Or 12.

I made it to bed around 3 Monday morning.

the one I love the most

My mom dies slowly, of something cruel and unfair. We don't know of a family history of this particular disease, although we do know of epilepsy, heart disease, high blood pressure, alcohol addiction, and stupidity.

Since moving from my home in Texas to an Oklahoman hotel there to a friend's trailer, to a house of my own, and then back to Texas again to a friend's couch - all in 6 months, I've thought a lot about the things we gather; and about what we carry when we can. I have things stuffed in containers in two states; pictures, books (not nearly as many as I did before), CDs, china, furniture, my mom's art. Things of little value to strangers, which tell the story of what matters to me.

My most valuable possessions live in my purse now: two necklaces and a picture of my mom. One necklace was a gift from her on Valentine's Day. It is delicate and feminine, and far too pretty for me to wear often. The other belongs to my mother, given to her by a visitor. It is cheap and clunky; the pieces having slid off the chain and been slid back on. There is a random, red stone, broken which requires repair. I keep meaning to fix the whole thing and return it to her, but she fears someone will steal it. 

So I treasure it. 

And here is the picture:

It's of Mom and me in the London Eye, the year after 9/11. We'd gotten tickets for crazy cheap, and spent a week there. I don't remember the name of the photographer, only that they were a cute couple from Germany. Our hotel was within walking distance of the Underground, and the weather was amazing. It rained every night, and each morning the world looked fresh washed and lush with possibilities.

We didn't rent a car, but walked everywhere. We looked at portraits in the Royal Gallery, caught a Bollywood exhibit at the Victoria & Albert Museum. Mom offered her chili recipe to a cook who thought chili started with stew meat and who was completely baffled by the idea of a burger with chili and cheese on it. 

Meandering through a Salvador Dali exhibit at a nearby Underground stop, we heard about the Royal family's wedding dress collection at Kensington Palace. We toured through, after scarring the right and proper ladies having high tea at The Orangery with our sweaty, horrific American tourist clothes and manners. The soul of the Old City floated on the air, and the energy fizzed like the first day of school. We  had so much fun; it felt like an entirely different world, one which fit even better than home.

This is the mom I miss the most.

gathering sky

It's Saturday and I didn't go see my mom today.

There are reasons. Mostly exhaustive depression, but also a cough and sinus issues. And while orange juice may look like summer sunshine in a glass, it doesn't really burn away the oppressive sadness of today's cinder block colored sky.

Why am I writing if I lack the energy to drive 5 hours to see my mom? How can I leave her in that place which smells of medical disinfectant, and agedness? Is it really because I don't feel well enough to drive, or is it simply because I am cowardly today?

Do I really crave the chance to hide in my cave of convenience and familiarity more than seek the light of her cherished smile?

I texted with a friend, explaining the lack of Waze link, why there'd be one tomorrow instead. Said I really am ready to be not quite so tired. all. the. time. He said to go to sleep and get up at normal hours, and get enough sleep.

Drink some orange juice. Get rest. Take care of yourself.

The words sounded like my mother's and tears slide along my cheeks before I blinked to stop them. I miss her keenly. But yet again, I won't go see her. Instead my roommate and I order pizza and watch Game of Thrones DVDs, calling it a mental health aftercare day.

We feast on seared animal flesh, our teeth tearing at bread drenched in garlic while cheering dragons. And ignoring that emerging somber sky.

a long talk with a friend and lamb korma

My friend Sarah and I had dinner last night in a local Indian restaurant Mike loved. I'd missed her something fierce during my time on the other side of the Red River; hours felt like minutes while we talked. And we talked about everything - God, sex, love, death, taxes, gluten free pancakes.

Somewhere between the pakora arriving at the table and the restaurant closing, we delved into the idea of how some life events affect such profound change, it takes a bit to adjust and find all the edges. Feeling out the new pieces and curves, a fear slithers in that the new normal, this new present's all temporary; it won't be strong enough to stay. Like unset glue, old habits will tug, sliding back into place, and all the work done to process will give way. And you find you didn't really learn or grow or benefit from this horrid experience at all. 

You'll just have failed. Worse, you'll have almost succeeded.

Something dear disappeared; a love dies, a parent disintegrates, a dream job becomes a nightmare. And the only possible redemption rests in the lessons learned through the process. And the hope that they stick.

Christianity presents suffering as a virtue, a unique and challenging concept among most faith traditions. But tell the truth and shame the devil, suffering blows. Suffering connects the proverbial door God closed to the window He's in the process of opening, forming a hell of a hallway.

And although life can bloom there, that space is nowhere to live.

Sarah has already seen good flow from her suddenly slammed door. Her eyes watering beatifically, she shared stories of faith, of deepening relationships with her sister and tribe. The grace with which she holds these moments floats like silk and exotic spice.

It's a honor, humbling, to walk this hall with her. But I have to confess, the glue holding my pieces together chips, too.

See, Sarah's got this. She is the rock star version of the little china girl from Oz, all of her pieces cracking delicately. Her tribe supports her, is present, inviting her to parties for friends who have been present for decades. She talks with her counselor when she has a need; her job understood and supported her, even though their relationship with her is still relatively new.

While I am living out of a suitcase on a friend's couch, unemployed, having uprooted almost all intimate ties 6 months ago; feeling guilty because I can't offer my mom even a fraction of the care Sarah offered Mike.

I'd own to being covetous if I had the energy, and thought it would do any good. Instead, though, I work on applications for jobs and wrestle with things I'd rather not admit to on my blog.

Talking with a friend online about how we define success, I said I'm not completely sure. Living a good life and telling a worthy story definitely ranks, but so, too, does contributing to my job and community at large. And I'd like, too, to be able to communicate my mom's story in such a way which would ignite change.

Leaving the world a better place than how I found it would mean I lived my life well; that would make me a success. 

The challenge of how do I get from here to there makes all the best stories great, as the characters move from what they were given to who they could be. Hobbits bringing Kings to mountains and destroying rings; Luke lifting ships and finding his father to be human; all the toys finding a place to be loved even if it's no longer with Andy; these are tales from the hallway, noble and worthy of attention.

But hallways present complex decisions because they're not as clearly defined as they seem. They have options and rooms to turn around in, different paths to follow around blind corners, choices with consequences not laid out or easy to spot. And if you're standing in a Matrix of a hallway, as anyone other than Neo, all the doors look the same.

Or if you're sleeping on a friend's couch, haunted by ghosts of those nearly and those dearly, recently departed, surrendering what can't be carried with you to gain what you really need, sometimes turning a knob looks a lot like a long talk with a friend and lamb korma.

stuck in mud

Driving home from Oklahoma last night, I hit traffic just as darkness settled full on. Waze showed 3 wrecks, complete with cops, slow downs and traffic jams along the two lane highway. For. Miles. The screen looked a kid's sticker book attacked by a pack 6 yr. olds hyped on artificial sweeteners.

Then it showed an alternate route from the highway double-backing along country roads leading around the massive mash-up of cars. Cutting out of line, James' wheels tore through a gravel service road, leaving a trail of dust for the off-roading 4 wheeling trucks to follow.

Except the winding country road was a driveway. And the road connecting back to the highway was a yard. Over a septic tank. Where James' front wheels got stuck. 

The cherry on the top? A friend of mine had ridden up and back with me, which means I can't deny this happened. Yeah. No joke.

We sat in James, contemplating options for a few minutes. I tried going forward. Didn't happen. Tried going back - also a great big negatory. I tried easing out of the hole the front driver side wheel had formed. The tire spun until grass thickly splattered onto the windshield.

That's when I called roadside assistance. The woman I spoke with couldn't find the highway we had just left. She asked if there were numbers on the houses. Which were dark and had barking dogs. Then she asked if I could see any road signs. I started twitching.

Once she figured out I really did know what highway I'd turned off of, and that the highway (gasp) actually existed in the town I said it did, she connected me with the tow truck guy. I flipped on my hazards (which irritated the dogs) and the heat (which kept me from getting cranky..er). 

Then we had nothing to do but wait. Quin started playing sudoku on his phone. I thought.

I thought about not ever being stuck before; and about how it is entirely different than being stuck in traffic. About what else I could be doing with the time, and how being stuck in a car on a dark road, waiting for someone else to come pull me out was unexpectedly freeing.

There was literally nothing I could do to change my circumstances. I love me some James, but he is a car - a beautiful curved, couple ton collection of metal, rubber and computer bits. And I'm no Bruce Banner. (I'm even less the Other Guy.)

I had done what I could to work the problem, to get James, Quin, and me back on the road for home.  I did what I could, when I could, and that was all I could do. It's all anyone could do.

So although it looked like I was stuck in the mud, filling time between doses of activity or busyness, in a quiet night full of flashing lights, stalled traffic, and barking dogs, caught between where I wanted to be and where I was, I was free. And right where I needed to be.

Saturday Night Coming Down

Johnny Cash sang a song Kris Kristofferson wrote called "Sunday Morning Coming Down." It's soulful and honest, jarring and jangly, talking about a Sunday morning full of bittersweet memories leaking into a present full of things better forgotten. 

There's a line about the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken, and how it took him back to something he lost somehow along the way. A few lines later, the singer wishes he "were stoned, 'cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone". The wistful wanting reminds me of my mom, of how good memories seemed easy to make with her.

I visited her last Sunday, before I packed up to leave Oklahoma. She was so keenly present, it was like there was no white mass, no memory loss, no darkness. She smiled for pictures and talked about naming her new stuffed puppy. We talked for almost a solid two hours.

Her vocabulary shrank sometime I wasn't watching, like one Sunday morning she came down. She spoke softly about how sad I had been the week before. 

I can't lie and couldn't deny it; it'd been a rough week. I'd tried not to cry in front of her, to be honest about the situation but not overly critical, since her emotions rule her so frequently and inconsistently. But truth was, I missed my mom and my sounding board. Isolation, frustration, unempowerment choked me.

I told her I was, but that it was ok; I would be sad for her. Oklahoma and I didn't fit each other well, but I was there to be with her. She said she was taken care of, happy where she was; that I had to do what was best for me. 

And that being sad wasn't good for me.

So I moved back to Texas with my packed PT Cruiser James.

I traveled back to Oklahoma to see Mom today, unsure how she might be when I returned. Walking into her room, she peeked out from beneath The Marshmallow. Her face lit up when she saw me, and God, I had missed her.

She cried because she was tired and wanted to rest but wanted to talk, too. Tears slipped from her eyes as she kept fighting to stay conscious, to remember her words, to hold thoughts.

She thought I had left and would not come back to see her. The week seemed endless as her memory played tricks. She asked quietly for hugs, clinging as much as she was able. 

Seems there is something short of dying that's as lonesome as the sound of the sleepin' city sidewalks: a Saturday night coming down.

bullying versus encouraging

There's a conversation happening in the interwebs about gender identity and the validity of being gender fluid or creative. It was sparked by a simple statement:

I refuse to be my child's first bully.

It's a noble idea, to intentionally speak kindness rather than expectation without relationship in any situation; especially when social norms, most of the interwebs and one's culture respond harshly. Self identification, gender identification, sexual preference all present large, important topics which need to be held with open hands. And from the outside looking it, what is appropriate and healthy appears obvious.

That noble idea when dealing with one's child, however, becomes murkier and harder to spot, let alone defend against when dealing with adults.

Or seen in a light differently, how does an adult appropriately respond when being bullied by another adult in a position of power? A boss, for instance, or a friend? 

Fact is bullying destroys another human being, and should be spoken against. But how do we change the behavior children have learned from their elders? How do we respond to bullying masquerading as encouragement?

"It's ok if you come out of the closet, sweetie; you just can't live here anymore." - a parent

"If I had to pick one of your weaknesses, it's you're a pushover." - a friend

"Take out your notepad. Write down this process. Write #1. Make a dot. When we finish, type up the notes and email them to me. And print a copy for your records." - a boss

As a child, I was told to avoid bullies who sought me out, to look out for those who were bullied. And I applaud my mom, the tribe who showed me a path through the thorns of childhood for ingraining that idea into me. But one of the implications supporting the idea all opinions are worth expressing adduces those expressions have been weighed, measured, each word and intent considered before it is shared.

Instead, we withhold our words as if they are more precious to us than they are to others who need them. And the world is a lesser place for our cowardice.

I confess in my past I have been a bully. I thought I was encouraging change; I honestly didn't see how what I presented did not reflect my intent.

I wrestle with the old, familiar causes of that behavior still.

Owning that truth makes intuitively knowing how to appropriately respond to another bully challenging. I know where my head when I was in that place, and it wasn't open to a conversation about why I wanted something for selfish, fear-filled reasons. Conversely, I know where my head is now - in a body being bullied. Which hurts, making me feel angry, trapped, and unempowered.

The initial reaction to bullies is avoidance, basic animal instinct of fight-or-flight. Avoidance at all costs - however difficult it makes the life of the avoider/victim - makes it a version of victim-shaming. That, in turn, can be seen as acceptance, if not approval, of the bully.

Which is a very human response.

The most appropriate option may be the hardest: find a space to discuss the behavior and reactions with the person. Own beautiful, imperfect-and-learning humanity lives on both sides without encouraging or condoning. Forgive equally. Hope for change, accept mistakes.

We humans, caught in bodies fitting-and-not, living in a world changing-but-familar, bully when we could encourage. Because no matter how much we may all wish not to be our first child's bully, they are here, among us. And until all fear is gone, our greatest power lies in authentically encouraging each other to find better paths.

choice, fear, & something better

Old fears have to be my absolute least favorite. They sound like trusted friends, even as they steal bites from my ability to be present. One of my personally least favorite fears seeded from my tween years. I can name it, see it, but still, its teeth take more hope than I have some days.

God is subjectively good. And wants only His version of good for you, whether you want it or not.

This wouldn't be nearly so paralyzing if it weren't quite so insidious. 

The base logic behind the thought starts with whether or not there is a God. (Which I can't explain or debate how I know there is, but something in me resonates with the idea there is. And He loves me. But that's another post for another time.) 

Then there's the idea that God is good. This is usually when I get tangled, and my world darkens as I pick at the mental Gordian knot.  The Bible clearly states (repeatedly) God is good and loves me; all of His choices bear out from love. If I believe in God and He loves me, wouldn't it be selfish to think God is good because He loves me? But that's the circular argument presented. And it bothers me because I can't figure out how it's acceptable to accept that.

Building on the idea God exists, loves me, given He is God with the whole speaking-things-into-existence thing, I don't have a lot of wiggle room - not being a god myself. (Being a blogger is my superpower; not so much being She-Thor.) I can accept this usually, not always graciously, and sometimes, it makes me angry and sad when I can't change things I really wish I could. All that said, the role given doesn't change, and only I can control my reaction.

Which is far too logical when dealing with a fear. And this is where this particular fear shows the maliciousness at its core.

Because I've just said I accept I am not only not the center of my universe; that there is a Someone greater, who creates worlds with a word; I've also admitted there's not a damn thing I can do against such a Power.

So He could choose whatever version of good He prefers - and I would have to accept it. Because it would become reality - as soon as He said it.

Which leaves me few options - other than the choice in how to respond.

But one of the lessons I've learned recently speaks directly to this fear: each choice matters - the big, the small, what's said, what's not, what's left in, what we leave out.

Choice is power. Not seeing it as such costs significant opportunity.

Stealing power and choice defines fear, not love. Love gives choices, dignity, offers opportunities. And if God is love, speaks love, seeks to show love, imposing His will over another's choice just because He can runs counter to that goal; frankly, that choice doesn't show love.

It shows a hollowing need, a lust for power. And I'd prefer to choose something better.

surrender is not failure

There's a story in American history of a general with an ego larger than the Atlantic ocean. Although he served a mad king, he thought if he won his battles, lined up the colonies like good little soldiers, his reward would be a few states as his personal hunting grounds.

But instead farmers with pitchforks and guerrilla tactics defeated the powdered-wigged general and the previously unconquerable British army. Cornwallis was so embarrassed by his surrender, he hid, sending a lower ranking officer to offer his sword as a sign of surrender.

He failed.

I moved back to Texas from Oklahoma this weekend because I quit a job which had become toxic. 
In a six month period, the position I accepted seemed unrecognizable from the one I accepted. I looked at the options presented to me, and the most honorable option was walking away.

And it feels like a failure. Because I surrendered.

With a mom in a nursing home; a financial debt to cover 4 months of care equal to some student debt; after trying each day for six months to find my place and failing miserably, I surrendered.

I did not fail.

My mom is cared for by people I don't know and have to trust; and I can't see her every day. Both of these truths cut keenly, but are 'tis flesh wounds from 2 years' long battle to get her the care she needs.

The truth is strangers provide better, more encompassing care than I can as her daughter. And Oklahoma and I did not fit each other well. Both of these situations could have been battles I could keep fighting, losing ground each day to feed my ego. 

Or I could accept the sheer force of my will does not dictate the outcome of this curiously organic life. And learn to accept surrender graciously.

Because Cornwallis and Oklahoma show, when I learn, surrender is not failure.

i feel tired and old

Because moving is hard, no matter what. Because I'm doing it alone. Because I'm leaving my mom. Because I don't know why I was sent here. Because I just got here 6 months ago. Because I don't know what waits for me. Because I have to live with a friend rather on my own for the first time in my life. Because I quit my job. Because it's sad outside and still icier than is really safe. Because I wanted to donate my mom's rocking chair to a local nursery. Because the church lady hasn't called to pick up the rocker, and that's just one more thing on the list. Because my mom is dying. Because.... moving is hard.