I wonder if he'll get this.

I was thinking about my Dad for the third or fourth time today. I was thinking about my Dad in this time of the year. This time when cold comes and strips the land to barren. I was thinking about my Dad in this season of deep grieving. It is a time in the year when I am in the West, the time of darkness, solitude, pulling in upon myself for the purpose of healing. This also tends to be a season of upheaval. A recurring nightmare arises, I steel myself against the blow, dig my feet deeper and pray that this time I will stay standing.

I was thinking of my Dad as I drive towards home on a dark highway, lines of light on the road ahead, my grown son asleep in the seat next to mine. I listen for his slow steady breathing and I remember.

I remember a time, on a dark highway, my Dad holding steady the wheel of his Chevy Silverado. His strength guiding us between the lines on pavement. It is snowing, not enough to stick, but enough to draw my eyes to the lines of frozen white coming forth and sliding past. We are in a globe of floating, mesmerizing, whiteness. The heater vent fills the cab with warmth as a Country station plays on the radio. My Dad sings along, hums a few bars, adds his own words. I smile in silence. I don’t remember where we are, I just know we are all headed home. There are other kids snoozing in the back and my small son asleep on the seat between us. I listen to my Dad sing and I listen for the slow steady breathing of my own precious child.

I was thinking of my Dad and that peaceful time, I was thinking that if only I had known. If I had known of the loss and anguish that lay wait for us. If only I had known…I would have asked. I would have asked him all the questions that are left unanswered. They come and wait on my tongue as I no longer have the strength to voice them. If only I had known, I would have told him I can’t possibly survive this loss without him. I would have said I am not ready. I was not ready then and I am not ready now. I would have reached across the seat and told him of my love and gratitude. I would have held his hand. I would have joined him in his song. If only I had known.

Now as I steady the wheel and drive towards home, towards my deep grief and fear, towards uncertainty, the radio plays softly but I do not sing along. I watch the lines of light come towards me and slide past. I guide us between the lines on pavement, and in complete dark solitude, I think of my Dad. If only I had known…

A Personal Inventory of Sorts...

I have heard it said repeatedly that even positive experiences can be a source of stress. Weddings, graduations, anniversaries, family reunions, getting a new job, moving to a new home, committing to a new relationship, walking a new path...with the excitement comes a shift...an unbalancing...especially if not processed adequately. So here I am processing in emotional segments, written images and visual memories.

For the first time in...forever...I have opened my mind to new possibilities, making changes, taking risks, moving beyond my carefully constructed and maintained comfort zone.

In the excitement, I find myself making lists of necessary tasks, setting goals and moving forward one step at a time. In the past weeks I have been sorting household items, recycling, eliminating dead wood, thinning out. I have decided that this process, while valid, is emotionally invasive. I do have true faith in the prosperity principle which is based on the potlatch practice of aboriginal people. This ancient principle states that the movement, the clearing out of material objects prompts a spiritual opening where the material gifts given, magnify and return to the giver in the form of spiritual/emotional blessings. It also helps to lighten the physical load while turning the eye towards a focus on those things with eternal significance. What I have found though, is that there is an uncomfortable place here in the middle of this process. Sorting through memory laden "stuff," trying to decide what to keep and what can be discarded is a little like trying to decide which parts of my past life are no longer important to me. If I choose to recycle the object, am I admitting that the experience no longer holds value? After much thought and soulful consideration, I have come to a decision about many of the material items in my possession. The answer came to me when I realized that the emotional angst prompted by this experiment is evidence enough of my lasting attachment. Numbered among the list of previously cherished items: baby clothes, books, water damaged pictures, my wedding dress, every picture ever drawn by my child's hand, the first quilt my mother made me, my maternity clothes, etc. are a few things that I cannot part with. But mostly, the warm internal touch of the memories is all that I need. And in this process...with the warm internal touch of the memories comes the healing necessary to enable me to walk forth, to find, and to do the next right thing.

A Travelling Christmas

I am continually amazed by the diverse beauty of nature. I am grateful to have shared these sights. It was a lovely, peaceful holiday.

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?