Happy Birthday Anthony Scott Jenkin! (Designer of "Over the Coffee")
My dear son, who goes by Tony, is 34 years old today. Can it be?! Before I celebrate the "good stuff", let me cleanse my system of all of the clichés we evidently must endure as our children age.
----Oh, the time goes by so quickly! (Am I really this old?)
----Oh, he was such a good baby! (Except when he was teething).
----Oh, I remember when he first walked! (At nine months; so excited he never napped again).
----Oh, I remember when he lost his first tooth!(Literally, I dropped it down the kitchen drain).
----Oh I remember his first day in kindergarten! (I cried the whole morning).
----Oh, I remember his high school graduation!(I cried for joy).
----Oh, I remember when he left for college!(I cried for months).
Those are memories, milestones of every mother (well maybe not the baby tooth down the drain). And yes, for the record, motherhood yields LOTS of tears. Thankfully, those tears yield to LOTS of joy.
Today, there are no tears---just a grateful heart at celebrating not with a child, but with a young man. I am thankful that I not only love Tony, but I really LIKE Tony! I love that he is a thinker, a connector, a truth-finder, and a creator. I love that he is a giver and encourager and teacher. I love his humor, his zeal for the outdoors, his physical and emotional fitness. I love that he is curious, and that he loves to learn.
I watch with admiration as he makes his way through a tough world, faces daunting challenges emotionally and physically for being only 34, and lands on his feet with grace, truth and humor. I am cheered as he presses in to find answers for himself, and for the world around him that are not so easy to find in this day and age. I wonder at his courage, but I am happy to be with him in his journey. So I say " Happy Birthday Tony!" Love you dear son, Mom
Monday, September 15, 2014
Friday, March 21, 2014
About Yesterday.............
Dear readers,
Yesterday, I posted two entries which were so different in their emotional content that when I read them on the blog, I felt as if I had put my finger into an electrical plug.
Am I that changeable I asked myself? Is this as jarring to my readers as it is to me?
I am suspecting so. It is out of respect for you the reader then, that I explain how the two came to be posted on the same day and what I have learned as a result.
As I sat at my desk yesterday, I revisited the post I had started on Chris' birthday, December 6, 2013, which was in my draft folder. I had not planned on writing anything additional at all, but my feelings gushed out. There was no stopping them, so I wrote them down. I wanted to attach this post to a brief entry I had written on December 6th, but alas, my inability (see CUT AND PASTE, last February) prohibited that, and thus, the piece posted yesterday.
I intended on posting the exercise piece because it is current with my dilemma of flab. Eating comfort food and watching old movies has to go, says my doctor. So, as I edited that piece, I howled with laughter as I recalled my first experience with Silver Sneakers. Surprised at the drastic swing of my own emotion between tears and laughter, I thought, "Am I really this schizophrenic?"
A day later when I reread my blog, I had to answer that, at the very least, the segue was just not there between the two columns. Years ago, when I began my journey as a writer, one of my "Bibles of writing" was ON WRITING WELL by William Zinsser (fourth edition). One of the things that sticks with me, is his respect for his craft, and for those who want to read what he writes.
This blog was started, not as much for you, the reader, but for me, the writer. It is a new venture for me--far from my journalistic roots. Balance and focus in blogging was a challenge even before our life was turned upside down with a death in our family.
I learned something new yesterday. A balance in this venue is not only words, but emotion and it is my responsibility to carry you as the writer. Hopefully, as we travel, I will earn that respect---
Over the Coffee.
Yesterday, I posted two entries which were so different in their emotional content that when I read them on the blog, I felt as if I had put my finger into an electrical plug.
Am I that changeable I asked myself? Is this as jarring to my readers as it is to me?
I am suspecting so. It is out of respect for you the reader then, that I explain how the two came to be posted on the same day and what I have learned as a result.
As I sat at my desk yesterday, I revisited the post I had started on Chris' birthday, December 6, 2013, which was in my draft folder. I had not planned on writing anything additional at all, but my feelings gushed out. There was no stopping them, so I wrote them down. I wanted to attach this post to a brief entry I had written on December 6th, but alas, my inability (see CUT AND PASTE, last February) prohibited that, and thus, the piece posted yesterday.
I intended on posting the exercise piece because it is current with my dilemma of flab. Eating comfort food and watching old movies has to go, says my doctor. So, as I edited that piece, I howled with laughter as I recalled my first experience with Silver Sneakers. Surprised at the drastic swing of my own emotion between tears and laughter, I thought, "Am I really this schizophrenic?"
A day later when I reread my blog, I had to answer that, at the very least, the segue was just not there between the two columns. Years ago, when I began my journey as a writer, one of my "Bibles of writing" was ON WRITING WELL by William Zinsser (fourth edition). One of the things that sticks with me, is his respect for his craft, and for those who want to read what he writes.
This blog was started, not as much for you, the reader, but for me, the writer. It is a new venture for me--far from my journalistic roots. Balance and focus in blogging was a challenge even before our life was turned upside down with a death in our family.
I learned something new yesterday. A balance in this venue is not only words, but emotion and it is my responsibility to carry you as the writer. Hopefully, as we travel, I will earn that respect---
Over the Coffee.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Chris' Birthday
December 9, 2013 Another level of good-bye to my son Christopher.
December 6, 2013 would have been his 39th birthday. There are waves, depths, seasons of feeling the pain of losing a child. There are waves, depths, and explosions of grief relating to the act of suicide.
Thoughts of "what if's" seize me, and shake me like a wild animal rips its prey. My body, and my mind are either frozen, or fired with the hot emotions of shock and pain, or both. I can't believe it, and yet, I can.
Today, it is a pile of ashes, when I want desperately to remember life.
I try to read to comfort myself, but my eyes cannot focus, and my heart is full of expressions I cannot possibly identify.
People ask "what can I do?" I have no idea. I want the life around me to go away-- I want people to go away-- and yet, I want them to come in.
I grapple with trying to lift myself up every morning under a terrifying oppression, a restlessness I can't satisfy, and a hope I can't find. Tears fill my body, but they won't come--they stand poised in ice, waiting for me to melt.
But I'm angry instead. It's not an anger I have experienced before--it is a quiet, smoldering anger, ready to lash out, but burning deep in my soul, and there is no focus. I'm feeling unsteady, uncertain, unready to relate to any circumstance, or to any person. Mostly, I just want to protect myself and stay in bed.
This is not the way it was supposed to be. This is not where I want to be. I can only know that, with God's help, somehow, some way,
I can move on.
December 6, 2013 would have been his 39th birthday. There are waves, depths, seasons of feeling the pain of losing a child. There are waves, depths, and explosions of grief relating to the act of suicide.
Thoughts of "what if's" seize me, and shake me like a wild animal rips its prey. My body, and my mind are either frozen, or fired with the hot emotions of shock and pain, or both. I can't believe it, and yet, I can.
Today, it is a pile of ashes, when I want desperately to remember life.
I try to read to comfort myself, but my eyes cannot focus, and my heart is full of expressions I cannot possibly identify.
People ask "what can I do?" I have no idea. I want the life around me to go away-- I want people to go away-- and yet, I want them to come in.
I grapple with trying to lift myself up every morning under a terrifying oppression, a restlessness I can't satisfy, and a hope I can't find. Tears fill my body, but they won't come--they stand poised in ice, waiting for me to melt.
But I'm angry instead. It's not an anger I have experienced before--it is a quiet, smoldering anger, ready to lash out, but burning deep in my soul, and there is no focus. I'm feeling unsteady, uncertain, unready to relate to any circumstance, or to any person. Mostly, I just want to protect myself and stay in bed.
This is not the way it was supposed to be. This is not where I want to be. I can only know that, with God's help, somehow, some way,
I can move on.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Today, I want to pay tribute to my dear friend, Elsie Larson, who three years ago today, went home to be with the Lord. I miss her tremendously because she was my writing mentor, prayer partner, and FRIEND. Upon her retirement from the dental field, she decided to write.
And write she did. An extraordinarily intelligent, grounded woman, she chose to grasp the techniques of writing--went to conferences, workshops, critique groups, read favorite authors, books on writing, and encouraged everyone along the way, that they had a story to tell, and that--
they needed to tell it.
I was one of the fortunate ones along the way. She moved into my area of town, so I joined a critique group she had formed. By then, she had published two books, and was well into her third. By this time, I had written as a public relations professional, free-lanced as a journalist, and had edited for various writers along the way. But our friendship bound us together as well as being writers. Toward the end of her life, she had laid writing aside and embarked upon art. Her greatest joy was journaling, then adding a "prophetic" art touch; indeed it sprang to life and she bequeathed it to her children when she knew death was at hand.
My biggest disappointment was not writing a book-she always said she didn't want to go home to be with the Lord until "you have written the book I know is in you, Katy!" Instead we partnered much on articles for Guideposts Magazine for which we both wrote. I helped critique and edit (along with others) that which she wrote.
We sequestered ourselves at the beach, writing days, eating and laughing and watching old movies at nights. We walked our dogs, talked about life, disappointments, joys, what God was doing! and in the end, we were kitchen table friends, enjoying each other, knowing our weaknesses and our strengths, and treasured "being" and sharing our creative endeavors.
My first book will be dedicated to her. What she didn't understand--and she knew me well, is that God had much to do with me before His book--that is, the book within me--would come forth.
Today, my heart says, "It is time for that book." For the journey and the book to come, I thank you Elsie Larson.
And write she did. An extraordinarily intelligent, grounded woman, she chose to grasp the techniques of writing--went to conferences, workshops, critique groups, read favorite authors, books on writing, and encouraged everyone along the way, that they had a story to tell, and that--
they needed to tell it.
I was one of the fortunate ones along the way. She moved into my area of town, so I joined a critique group she had formed. By then, she had published two books, and was well into her third. By this time, I had written as a public relations professional, free-lanced as a journalist, and had edited for various writers along the way. But our friendship bound us together as well as being writers. Toward the end of her life, she had laid writing aside and embarked upon art. Her greatest joy was journaling, then adding a "prophetic" art touch; indeed it sprang to life and she bequeathed it to her children when she knew death was at hand.
My biggest disappointment was not writing a book-she always said she didn't want to go home to be with the Lord until "you have written the book I know is in you, Katy!" Instead we partnered much on articles for Guideposts Magazine for which we both wrote. I helped critique and edit (along with others) that which she wrote.
We sequestered ourselves at the beach, writing days, eating and laughing and watching old movies at nights. We walked our dogs, talked about life, disappointments, joys, what God was doing! and in the end, we were kitchen table friends, enjoying each other, knowing our weaknesses and our strengths, and treasured "being" and sharing our creative endeavors.
My first book will be dedicated to her. What she didn't understand--and she knew me well, is that God had much to do with me before His book--that is, the book within me--would come forth.
Today, my heart says, "It is time for that book." For the journey and the book to come, I thank you Elsie Larson.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Hard Lessons?
One thing I am learning during this period of grief, surprisingly is -- gratitude.
Gratitude for my loss?
Let the record show I am not there. But I am aware that tiny sparks of light during my day are shots of gratefulness. Random things to be sure--personal touches which the Lord gives to me that encourage my soul. A beautiful fall, sunny and rich with color. An energetic dog which gives me reason to walk when I REALLY DON'T FEEL LIKE IT. A cat on my lap. A good book with a happy ending. Comfortable shoes. An afternoon with my notebook and pen, magazines galore, and I just peruse, jot down good thoughts, good ideas, good deals, and let my creative juices flow. Hope for home improvements, avenues for writing projects, stories of people turning their lemons into lemonade, that sort of thing.
Actually, I hadn't thought of the spiritual application until I turned to Philippians 4:6, an old favorite of mine -- "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication,with THANKSGIVING (caps mine) let your requests be made known to God;" I have memorized and prayed that verse countless times. Countless times I have felt the peace erase my anxiety. I turned to it by habit almost -- looking for comfort during my meditation time. Like popcorn popping in the microwave, thoughts sprang up that brought me joy--big and small.
Rejoicing with my son Tony over his brand new job. His graciousness and gratitude over our support, and his delight in treating us to a celebration dinner encouraged my mother's heart! Sharing laughter and amazement of how the experience unfolded as a family shored us all up in hope after the pain of the past months.
Hugging my older Chinese neighbor on a walk with my dog as she proudly spoke the few English
words she knows "How you doing?" I respond by bobbing my head up and down, and she laughs, using every known muscle in her seasoned face.
Grateful for my big new, COLORFUL umbrella which I had during a recent downpour. (Note to non-Oregonians--I rarely carry an umbrella here-rain is a way of life--I rely most generally on expensive hair spray.)
A conversation with a dear friend who honored me by sharing precious last moments with a friend in hospice and the joy it brought to her and to him.
Plopping down after morning chores, drowning with sadness and tears (a bad day) when I turned on T.V. and voila! an old movie I hadn't seen in years which took away my tears. I howled with laughter.
Surveying the mess in the midst of reorganizing my office, my dear husband comes home after a long day, seeing my distress, trucks me down to Office Deport to purchase a new file cabinet which has been on my "I NEED THAT" list for a long time.
There were other tidbits, but I got it.
Even in the midst of the storm, there is light, albeit at times, little sparks. But I know from experience, that those sparks, realized day by day, enlarge my vision, encourage my heart, and eventually burst forth to larger bursts of thanksgiving.
Thank you Lord.
One thing I am learning during this period of grief, surprisingly is -- gratitude.
Gratitude for my loss?
Let the record show I am not there. But I am aware that tiny sparks of light during my day are shots of gratefulness. Random things to be sure--personal touches which the Lord gives to me that encourage my soul. A beautiful fall, sunny and rich with color. An energetic dog which gives me reason to walk when I REALLY DON'T FEEL LIKE IT. A cat on my lap. A good book with a happy ending. Comfortable shoes. An afternoon with my notebook and pen, magazines galore, and I just peruse, jot down good thoughts, good ideas, good deals, and let my creative juices flow. Hope for home improvements, avenues for writing projects, stories of people turning their lemons into lemonade, that sort of thing.
Actually, I hadn't thought of the spiritual application until I turned to Philippians 4:6, an old favorite of mine -- "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication,with THANKSGIVING (caps mine) let your requests be made known to God;" I have memorized and prayed that verse countless times. Countless times I have felt the peace erase my anxiety. I turned to it by habit almost -- looking for comfort during my meditation time. Like popcorn popping in the microwave, thoughts sprang up that brought me joy--big and small.
Rejoicing with my son Tony over his brand new job. His graciousness and gratitude over our support, and his delight in treating us to a celebration dinner encouraged my mother's heart! Sharing laughter and amazement of how the experience unfolded as a family shored us all up in hope after the pain of the past months.
Hugging my older Chinese neighbor on a walk with my dog as she proudly spoke the few English
words she knows "How you doing?" I respond by bobbing my head up and down, and she laughs, using every known muscle in her seasoned face.
Grateful for my big new, COLORFUL umbrella which I had during a recent downpour. (Note to non-Oregonians--I rarely carry an umbrella here-rain is a way of life--I rely most generally on expensive hair spray.)
A conversation with a dear friend who honored me by sharing precious last moments with a friend in hospice and the joy it brought to her and to him.
Plopping down after morning chores, drowning with sadness and tears (a bad day) when I turned on T.V. and voila! an old movie I hadn't seen in years which took away my tears. I howled with laughter.
Surveying the mess in the midst of reorganizing my office, my dear husband comes home after a long day, seeing my distress, trucks me down to Office Deport to purchase a new file cabinet which has been on my "I NEED THAT" list for a long time.
There were other tidbits, but I got it.
Even in the midst of the storm, there is light, albeit at times, little sparks. But I know from experience, that those sparks, realized day by day, enlarge my vision, encourage my heart, and eventually burst forth to larger bursts of thanksgiving.
Thank you Lord.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
I don't enjoy surrender, ANY surrender. It's messy, gut-wrenching, painful, frustrating, decidedly S-L-O-W-E-R than humanly possible, if that is possible.
My personal agenda gets longer, I get weaker, my focus is mush on a good day, I am overwhelmed, indecisive and when I think I can, I can't.
So, grief has its way with me again.
I've always been struck (because I have grieved more than once in my life) with how life comes at you in the midst of tragedy. Since the death of my son Chris, four months ago, my three-year old refrigerator died, my vacuum cleaner blew up in smoke (yes, smoke), my kitchen sink pipe sprung a leak, and flooded, causing an outcropping of mold, ants marched nonstop across kitchen counters, the dog ate my husband's hearing aid, I received a $200 parking ticket (even the judge raised his eyebrows and exclaimed, "wow, that's a biggie") and, and, and. My mind tells me, "this is life -- move with it, ride the wave of life and pain, work with it, NOT against it!
But my emotions tell me something else-my heels are dug in, I resist feeling the desperation, the loss, the chaos of finality and death of suicide, of a young man gone, of a family changed. Of walking my dog during a beautiful autumn day and feeling the peace of God,
but not the fullness of kicking leaves, the plan of building a new deck, the thanksgiving of work and the joy of it, the thought of the holidays---
dread set in, and I don't want to fight it. I just want to finish my walk--the dog needs it. So do I, but I don't care. The "I don't wanna's set in!" I feel six, maybe two, maybe even before that.
But God. Today, it isn't a verse, it isn't a workbook on grief--though all those things are helpful--it is just setting with the sadness of it all, and
waiting for the Holy Spirit to take me to a deeper level of surrender. Maybe I can lift my heels just a tiny bit today. Just a little.
My personal agenda gets longer, I get weaker, my focus is mush on a good day, I am overwhelmed, indecisive and when I think I can, I can't.
So, grief has its way with me again.
I've always been struck (because I have grieved more than once in my life) with how life comes at you in the midst of tragedy. Since the death of my son Chris, four months ago, my three-year old refrigerator died, my vacuum cleaner blew up in smoke (yes, smoke), my kitchen sink pipe sprung a leak, and flooded, causing an outcropping of mold, ants marched nonstop across kitchen counters, the dog ate my husband's hearing aid, I received a $200 parking ticket (even the judge raised his eyebrows and exclaimed, "wow, that's a biggie") and, and, and. My mind tells me, "this is life -- move with it, ride the wave of life and pain, work with it, NOT against it!
But my emotions tell me something else-my heels are dug in, I resist feeling the desperation, the loss, the chaos of finality and death of suicide, of a young man gone, of a family changed. Of walking my dog during a beautiful autumn day and feeling the peace of God,
but not the fullness of kicking leaves, the plan of building a new deck, the thanksgiving of work and the joy of it, the thought of the holidays---
dread set in, and I don't want to fight it. I just want to finish my walk--the dog needs it. So do I, but I don't care. The "I don't wanna's set in!" I feel six, maybe two, maybe even before that.
But God. Today, it isn't a verse, it isn't a workbook on grief--though all those things are helpful--it is just setting with the sadness of it all, and
waiting for the Holy Spirit to take me to a deeper level of surrender. Maybe I can lift my heels just a tiny bit today. Just a little.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Old Habits Die Hard.
I have learned that, if I want to forgive and be patient WITH OTHERS, that I must FIRST be willing to be patient and forgive MYSELF.
Reads easy, works hard, especially in the wake of technology, MY WEAK SUIT. Mind you, I am married to a computer engineer, and I have two sons, both flourishing in the computer industry, sooooo. . . . .
Prouding proclaiming that I know how to CUT AND PASTE does not cut much mustard in my family OR my crowd (pardon the pun.) I am the last of my friends (well okay not the last, but close) to navigate freely through cyberspace. So I have to forgive those who dove in and eagerly acquired NEW KNOWLEDGE, NEW SKILLS while I steadfastly stuck to pencil and paper. As a result, I have caved under the weight of POST-IT NOTES, while my friends race ahead of me in the cyberspace lane. That would be the new FAST LANE.
My friend in Latvia comes to mind. Though she is my age, I swear she was born with a computer in her tiny new-born hand, and pondered how to CUT AND PASTE as the doctor CUT THE CORD. She has successfully authored two blogs, written articles and won awards through the internet, digitally photographed her adventures (and bravely, her misadventures) while most people were still on hold with technical assistance.
Then there's my friend in Arizona who CUT A DEAL for a Jaguar on the internet. Arranged for it to be inspected and shipped clear across the country, at a tiddy savings, all ON THE WEB. You heard me right. Humbled by my own inability to cut a car deal with ANYONE, I was pretty sure these two would not jump up and down at my tiny computer victory.
Yearning to share with SOMEONE, I turned to my Australian Shepherd, Gunther, to share my newfound knowledge of how to CUT AND PASTE. He always listens. He cocked his head, smiled as his lower lip quivered, and MY lower lip quivered as I knew that my dog, closer than a brother,
GOT my success.
But WAIT! He leapt out of the room, returned with his red ball, dropped it at my feet and barked.
My heart sank. With a sigh of resignation, I picked up the ball. "No Gunther, not CUT AND CHASE!
CUT AND PASTE!
Well okay--chocolate sundaes to celebrate anyone?
I have learned that, if I want to forgive and be patient WITH OTHERS, that I must FIRST be willing to be patient and forgive MYSELF.
Reads easy, works hard, especially in the wake of technology, MY WEAK SUIT. Mind you, I am married to a computer engineer, and I have two sons, both flourishing in the computer industry, sooooo. . . . .
Prouding proclaiming that I know how to CUT AND PASTE does not cut much mustard in my family OR my crowd (pardon the pun.) I am the last of my friends (well okay not the last, but close) to navigate freely through cyberspace. So I have to forgive those who dove in and eagerly acquired NEW KNOWLEDGE, NEW SKILLS while I steadfastly stuck to pencil and paper. As a result, I have caved under the weight of POST-IT NOTES, while my friends race ahead of me in the cyberspace lane. That would be the new FAST LANE.
My friend in Latvia comes to mind. Though she is my age, I swear she was born with a computer in her tiny new-born hand, and pondered how to CUT AND PASTE as the doctor CUT THE CORD. She has successfully authored two blogs, written articles and won awards through the internet, digitally photographed her adventures (and bravely, her misadventures) while most people were still on hold with technical assistance.
Then there's my friend in Arizona who CUT A DEAL for a Jaguar on the internet. Arranged for it to be inspected and shipped clear across the country, at a tiddy savings, all ON THE WEB. You heard me right. Humbled by my own inability to cut a car deal with ANYONE, I was pretty sure these two would not jump up and down at my tiny computer victory.
Yearning to share with SOMEONE, I turned to my Australian Shepherd, Gunther, to share my newfound knowledge of how to CUT AND PASTE. He always listens. He cocked his head, smiled as his lower lip quivered, and MY lower lip quivered as I knew that my dog, closer than a brother,
GOT my success.
But WAIT! He leapt out of the room, returned with his red ball, dropped it at my feet and barked.
My heart sank. With a sigh of resignation, I picked up the ball. "No Gunther, not CUT AND CHASE!
CUT AND PASTE!
Well okay--chocolate sundaes to celebrate anyone?
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