Merry Christmas Daddy

Dear Daddy,

As I sit here by the fire visualizing the family home decorated with multiple trees, multiple children, boundless love and laughter, my heart aches for the sound of your voice...your kiss on my forehead...your corney jokes...your wisdom. There are many times when driving home in the car I reach for my phone to dial you before realizing that your number has been disconnected. I have questions Dad. Many questions. What should I do about the mold in the corner of my basement? What about my life insurance, my meager investments? Is the foundation of my house strong enough? Will it survive the storms yet to come its way? Is the foundation of my person strong enough? Will I stand up to the challenges yet to come my way? What about my future...is this the path I am meant to travel? What should I say to my children when they ask me crucial questions about the nature of life, choice and consequence?

I am grateful to you for joining me in my runs, meditations, moments of mourning. I feel you there...often. I realize that I speak to you now more that you are gone than I did while you were living. I regret that I rationalized my silence by the fact that we both had busy lives separated by 1000 miles and endless family/work/personal obligations. It is with the deepest sorrow that I confess that in the end..when you reached out to me...I turned away. I was afraid of something far less devastating than what actually came to pass. I learned my lesson...much too late...there is no recourse...as of yet, minimal healing.

I am frequently suprised by the depth of the waves of grief that crash against me, hold me down in the swirling darkness, and slam me face first into the sand. It seems to me that as the years pass, the grief would fade, scar tissue would smother and dampen the sensation. This does not seem to be so. The grief waxes and wanes with the moments, days, weeks, each return is different. Not better, not easier to bear, but different.

I feel that there is no closure in this correspondence, just as I have not found acceptance nor closure in the loss of my sweet, sweet father. I think of you often. I miss you daily. I love you. Here's a fish.

To Brothers and Sisters

I have been doing a lot of writing/thinking/meditating in self reflection these past months and this process has opened me. I continually return to the deep acknowledgement that it is the experiences, the moments of my life that have shaped my spirit, molded my heart and sculpted my person. While gratefully that process continues, I am blessed with the opportunity to look back and review the cause and effect of the patterns in my days. In this analysis, I have become more aware of the true gifts of my life. Let me name a few:

Monkey bumps,
titty twisters,
elk urine bombs,
crayons in the nose,
skinned knees and bloody elbows.

Sunday afternoons with the boys and a ball,
Bulls with two who are now gone,
My first day of 7th grade knowing that Bubby was there...
Running side by side,
running after,
running to,
listening to her breathing/snoring/whimpering as we sleep side by side,
laughing, crying, celebrating,
playing, hiking, hunting, camping, rafting, kayaking,
surfing, swimming, driving, skiing, scuba diving,
talking, fighting, praying, pleading, wondering, waiting, mourning,
anything...

Baptisms, scout camps, missions, weddings, divorces, births/blessings, graduations, Courts of Honor, meetings, funerals...

They hold my hand,
They hear my words,
They know my heart,

They are anything...They are everything.

P.S. Once again, I cry for pictures not taken...

There Are Not Words...

I have often said that my hair is my only feminine feature. Until Wednesday, November 7, 2007, I did not realize how true that statement was to me and how deep within my core it lives. I had Whitney take these pictures of me after Belinda cut my hair last April. I felt beautiful that day.

Whitney took these pictures of me at Mom's request after my most recent "deflowering." Be grateful for the somewhat darkened scene. It takes some of the shock out of it.

My new crown of golden tresses has elicted the following comments:

Holy _ _ _ _ !

It looks like you got your head caught in a paper cutter.

WHY???

And other things not fit for human ears.

I know it seems petty, and I obviously have a much larger problem with vanity than I previously thought. And, yes, I know...it will grow back...in about a year...so until then I will be perfecting my spinster school teacher look. Bring on the bobby pins!

The Water Gene: Heredity or Gift Given?

My first memories of water come in the form of mother's words telling how, at two years of age, I walked into the swimming pool and bobbed around until she fished me out. I think there might have been fear attached to that story. Mine or hers I do not know. I vaguely remember my first swimming lessons. I was nine years old. What I remember is fear. I recall that as soon as I could kick and fin on my back the length of the Rexburg Municipal swimming pool, ( I don't think I liked to have my face in the water) I was enlisted to work out with Cherie Eddy and the swim team. I have no memory of comfort in those water experiences. It was the most traumatic experience that changed everything. Our new, male, and somewhat stern swim coach knew that I had untapped potential. At that point in time, I could only muster up enough courage to swim 25 yards then I would hang on the wall, gasp, rest, and begin again every few minutes. One evening he screamed and yelled at me to keep going. He walked beside me from end to end and yelled at me when I tried to stop and rest. I cried and coughed underwater as I swam length after length. I was angry and terribly frightened. I must at one point have feigned cough induced vomiting and taken refuge in the locker room. I cowered there until practice was over. When Mom picked me up I was perched on the curb blubbering. I spilled the sad story through snot and sobs. I don't remember what happened next, except, I was never afraid in the water again. I became a natural swimmer, an extension of the water. I find such peace and pleasure there...in the weight of its silky silence. People often tell me that I am a beautiful swimmer. I am unaware of what I look like in the water but I do know that I feel at home, at peace, at one with the water. A sweet friend of mine, after first seeing me in the waves of the ocean, called me a true selkie.

The Selkie legends belong to the islands and coasts of Scotland and Ireland. They tell of seals who can become human and humans who can become seals. At certain times the Selkie are drawn to land, when they take off their skins to become human. If their skins are stolen from them, they can never return to the sea. (This is plagiarized by the way)

I have to confess that I am actually a human girl but I do relate to this mythological creature. When my eye doctor told me that I should not swim again at risk of losing my vision earlier than later...my response was that I could sooner stop breathing. There must be something selkish in my aura as my students (unprompted by me) created a fictional narrative with Ms. Watson as the main character who transforms, at the full moon, into a sea roaming creature that swims and hunts sea lions while longing for the love of a Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer (there is an explanation behind this that only Special Education students can understand!) At day break, I turn back into a human, don my squeaky teacher shoes and arrive at school with still wet hair. If you look closely, (and many of them do) sometimes I will still have the bloody flesh of sea lions stuck in my teeth! Their presentation of this story in the regular education English class made me quite famous. For several days following, regular education students would peek their heads in my classroom door hoping for a chance glance at the "freaky" Ms. Watson.

As for what others see, and in my students' case, imagine about me in the water, I cannot explain. Just as I cannot hope to put into words the depth of my love for the water. According to Mom, it is the water gene. Whatever it is...I am eternally grateful for the gift given. It serves me well and offers me much. It is definitely a gift...but is it genetic?

My Sweet Family

It seems that just yesterday we were snuggled on the couch reading C. S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia series and negotiating for a delayed bedtime after reading one more chapter. The three of us read nightly until the seven books were crinkled and dog eared.









Now my darling Derek goes to bed each night in Iowa after studying Actuarial Science and working as a level-two Geek at Best Buy. Derek turns twenty-one today. He is working and has no big plans for his birthday except to put his birthday money in savings. The birthday in his first year of college he requested that I bake and mail an apple pie to him to celebrate the occasion. The request did not come this year or last, I guess he has grown past that need. We talk often on MSN Messenger. I have two contacts, my children. I enjoy the moments and sometimes hours that we message back and forth. We talk about things that need to be said and need to be heard. It is priceless time and valued dearly by me. He is an accomplished, hard-working, respectable man. It is with joyful agony that I watch as he walks his own path and finds his own way. I know that he is guided, as I am, by the ones that have gone before us.

Sweet Whitney started high school this fall. She studies French, upper level math and science and is dreaming of her driver's permit (just a few months away). She no longer crawls in bed with me in the wee hours of the morning and her goodbye kiss as I drop her off at school has become a head leaned towards me so that I may plant a lip-stick-free smooch on the top of her chunked, bleached blond. She is a growing up before my eyes and I am puzzled at where the years have gone. I am grateful for our daily contacts because I am honored to witness the frequent, rapid changes. My life is blessed by my interactions with her.

It must be that every parent (person) comes to this place...the overwhelming awe and wonderment of "how it all happened so fast." I have to admit that I am struggling with the intense emotion attached to my engorging awareness of the fragile, temporariness of this life. I have to remind myself that there is a time and season for everything. If I really focus, look inside myself, and listen, I hear and feel the memories flow over me like water. We have moved through the moments together...shared the joy, sorrow, sweetness, ravaging grief, pride, fear, hesitancy, terror, triumph, love and deep, deep acceptance. The blessings of motherhood (humanity?) have, and continue to be mine. Today, I am grateful.