Held Back

Freddy got diagnosed with a blood disorder when he was just over one year old. He got a cold, which turned into a cough which turned into pneumonia and his little body was working too hard making red blood cells to even remotely fight the pneumonia. It's a rare hereditary blood disorder, and I'm so thankful that it hasn't affected his life too much. Once in a while when his body can't keep up with the rapid rate of red blood cell destruction, we bring him to the hospital for blood work and if need be, transfusions.

There's this image in my mind. No, it's in not just in my mind, it's in the gap between my skin and memory, my senses and instincts. That space that juts out into our lives whether we want it to or not like a sharp rock between here and there, a space where we can either stand upon or lose ourselves on. And it's of Freddy's tiny toddler body, bound in a hospital bed sheet in a way that kept him still enough to give blood for tests. He was too young to understand that we bound him to help him. He fought hard against us, against the binding force, his iron will flexing and pushing, the angst inside his body practically bursting through his skin and all I could do was stand there and helplessly watch him fight.

I've seen this scene manifest in different ways with each child. It's not a hospital sheet, in an emergency room. It's on a couch. It's in the backseat of the van. It's in a restaurant, it's at home. It's here and there and everywhere in between but to me, it looks the same, that my child's angst is practically bursting through their skin and all I can do is stand there and helplessly watch them fight.

I want to unzip the gap, gather my babies in my arms and duck us all down beneath the great divide between here and there, stand upon that rock, and know peace. And know peace. To close up the unknown and lie still in the safety of love where there is no pain, there is no fight, there is no angst.

But then we wouldn't move forward.

Mileage Monday

Lora recently texted me: "If heartache was a physical pain I could take it."

Running converts emotional pain into functional energy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there is more emotional pain at the start line of an ultra endurance event than at the alter of a church. We keep trying to convert it over, pushing the pain through the emotional/physical barrier, but no matter how much pain we put ourselves through, we merely sweat blood. All that the physical pain does is temporarily distract us from the heartache. It gives our hearts a rest and sometimes that's all we need to keep breathing, to keep moving forward.

I'm not really in a lot of pain. Running ultras doesn't demand a history of abuse or neglect; it simply calls forth the sensitive souls, the empaths, the ones who carry too much of everyone else's shit in their own suitcases. I've often tugged at my hair and wailed, "I just don't want to feeeeeel so much anymore!!!" And then what do I do? I run it out. Or, at least I try. All I know is that I feel a whole lot better after a run than I do after four crown and cokes. Both result in a bit of nausea, sweating and chaffing, but nevertheless, the run just works better for me.

Here's my weekly mileage: 60 big ones.

Monday: A slothy 7 miles on the treadmill during Callum's morning nap. I tried to watch a movie but it was stupid. Ah well, got 'er done.

Tuesday: No school today, so I left the big kids in charge and took off for 8 miles while Callum slept. It was freeeeezing, and the wind was relentless. My mom came over later and I joined Andrew for 6 miles of his 21 mile training run. He did really well, especially considering the wind and cold.

Wednesday: 5 miles on the therapymill while the chubby kid napped.

Thursday: I watched the first half of the movie "Almost Famous" while doing 10 miles on the treadmill. LOVE that movie. Love love love love.

Friday: I started watching the rest of the movie on the treadmill but then Andrew came home to do some work and print things off so I decided to cut my run short (5 miles) and have lunch with him. And then I scored some free time later on and decided to finish my day with 8 miles outside in the freezing but beautiful temps. I even paused to watch the sun go down.

Saturday: 5 miles on the treadmill, keeping an eye on the MOST DISGUSTING SPIDER IN THE UNIVERSE.

Sorry Jen!!!

Sunday: 6 miles on the treadmill. The spider is gone. Please baby Jesus let it be not in the house.

I'm dying to run another marathon, but I can't until the C man is weaned from the boobies. Until then, I'm going to keep hammering out as many miles as possible. My dream is to take my current PR of 3:10 to a sub-3 hour marathon. We'll see.

Communion

Tonight's journal entry, bravely copied and pasted here for the world to see. I hope my writing helps you more than it hinders me. I hope my transparency inspires vulnerability and therefore love. That's my hope.

This is my safe zone, a place where I don't have to edit who I am and so tonight, with the candle's flames licking my eyes, glazed over from too little sleep and too much emotional drama, I put down my running shoes and instead, I write. Pearl Jam's "Garden" and a small cup of scotch keeps me warm, but my toes still tattle on the chill of adrenalin in my body.

Marriage is hard. Blended family life is harder. I am a strong woman, and even my own knees sway from time to time after a gust of whatthefuck passes through. I actually don't even know where to start except to say that if I learn anything from this season of my life, besides all the practical knowledge I'm stocking up on in regards to blended families, divorces, second marriages, stepkids, etc etc, it's that everyone has a story. Everyone has pain of some sort burbling below the surface. It's either old pain or new, scabbed over or fresh, but it's there.

And we have two choices: either go it alone, or go it with other(s). And although being alone certainly has its place in my life, I do know that I want love. I need connection. And that being closed off and pretending everything is perfect is not the way to get it.

This is. Being vulnerable and open and receptive. And no, I don't need a bunch of head-petting and casseroles, no. I just need to be heard. And then I want to hear you back, and then I want to run.

BFF (Blended Family Friday)

When most people find out that we have a blended family of eight, the first question they ask us is if our kids all get along. At first we felt pressured to not only lie and say yes, (ha!) but then to somehow force everyone to be happy together. But then we were like, wait. What? Do blood siblings of regular typical families all get along? I know two brothers who fought each other to the near-death while they were growing up and now they're in their forties and closer than ever. Andrew will tell you that he drove his sister nearly mad, taunting and antagonizing her, but was their family life a flop? No. Not at all!

Fighting is normal and expected in every family, however, there needs to be a foundation of love and respect, and that takes time. It also takes trial and error, hurt feelings and sore shoulders, but at the end of the day, each sibling needs to have the other one's back, in some capacity or another.

The more people in the family means more issues and more work, sure. But more people in the family also means more opportunities for learning, and more rewards. There are growing pains, but we can either focus on the word "growing" or the word "pain." I recently read somewhere that divorce doesn't really end family life; it just reorganizes it.

Fridays will be the days that I focus on our blended family. I'll write about everything from our struggles to our favourite recipes that feed a bazillion people for cheap.

Enjoy the show!

Hold Strong

Anyone who knows me knows about my eating habits; they are not pretty. I was a vegetarian in high school; I stayed away from meat and stuck with ketchup chips and chocolate bars. Not much has changed, except with the necessary addition of chicken wings and cheeseburgers.

However, from time to time when circumstances would force me to change my habits, I would collapse at the mercy of my nutritionist, Brenda, and she would save me. When my dad got diagnosed with colo-rectal cancer, Brenda set me up with a colon cleanse. When heavy doses of antibiotics threw my body into yeast-overload, she armed me with everything I needed to get my body back into balance.

Brenda has the most amazing skin. I stand there in her office, my armpits sweating, feeling pathetic and hopeless and she puts me at ease with her soothing voice, her radiant smile and most importantly, her knowledge of the human body. One of the tests she uses on me is what I call the "hold strong" test. If she wants to see if I'm lacking in say, vitamin C, she will put a bottle of it in my hand while my arm is flexed and she tells me to "hold strong" while she pushes down on my forearm. The theory is if I am needing the vitamin C, I won't be able to hold strong; my arm will give easily to her pressure. And if my body is all stocked up then my arm will not give. It will hold strong.

During the toughest time of my life I would have that phrase put into my mind and heart several times a day. Like, Suzy? Take this. Yes. Now hold strong.

Okay, I'm getting all choked up.

I will take whatever life chooses to put in my hands. And I'll hold it, I'll take it, I'll let it move through me and for me and against me like a cancer and a cure and then I will grow from it. I will survive it.

And the next time I am handed something hard to hold, I will be able to hold on that much stronger. 

Crackerjacks

When I was a little girl my mom and dad would take me to the Vancouver Canadiens baseball games and there, during particularly tense moments I'd hunch over, my tailbone digging into the plastic chair and I'd focus on my thumbnail, of all things. I'd lose myself inside of it, envisioning the pitcher whipping one right down the chute and then the batter whacking it out of the park. Weird, eh? Ya.

I have a strong will. I've always figured that if I wanted something bad enough that I would just get it. If I could only draw up every last drop of internal energy and squeeeeeeze it out as magic potion into whatever situation that needed it then I would be able to save it all, steering the wheel of the ship away from its demise. From time to time it would work as I envisioned it inside of my thumbnail; the good guys would hit a home run and win the game. But most of the time I have to face reality: I'm not God. And that sucks.

I'd like to say that if I was God, I'd run a perfectly painless world. But we all know that beauty comes out of ashes, flowers grow where dirt once was, and grace grows in the cracks. Right? A lot of the treasures in our lives exist because of the mistakes we first made. Our present situations, although at times uncomfortable, can be redeemed with Love. So maybe, just maybe, I could stop looking down at my own strong will and instead look up and just enjoy the game. Plus, I'm sure the people sitting closest to me would appreciate it if I stopped focusing on my thumbnail and passed the popcorn already.

I Will

I will never be drunk enough for this, for these nights, the ones that shove me forward, my toes on the brink of the fall. There's nothing that can take the edge off the burning in my body, the muscles of my will to survive shaking in exhaustion, digging themselves into the earth. There's no respite, only sharp sobriety.

Anne Lamott is one of my most treasured writers and she taught me how to feel each moment, really drink it in and wait, wait long enough for the moment to reach my extremities. Our tendency is to fight it, to stuff it, to will it away. If I don't let myself feel the pain then maybe I can trick myself into thinking that it's not really painful.

The same theory applies to the pains of childbirth. The more we fight the contractions, the worse they feel and the slower our progression. As each wave hits, if we make our bodies rigid, clenching our teeth in rebellion and fear, we will literally be pushing against Nature in an attempt to win a losing battle. But what does it look like when we let go? Our bodies become vessels of that power, rocking through the waves, delivering love. We move around, roll our heads, sway our hips. Each wave, starting at the centre of Creation radiates freely through our bodies, unhindered by fear, untamed by control. It reaches outward, and is released. And just like that, as we let go, our love is birthed, and we can begin to heal.

I will hold my position on the edge, I will feel the burn of my will to keep going, to hold strong. I will ride each wave as it hits, I will resist the urge to fight it and instead let it move me, let it rock and roll me. Love prevails, and I will let go.

Aid Stations

Andrew is running his first marathon this weekend. He's panicking about it, navigating around the land of "what if?" to the point where he knows all the landmarks and on a dime, could give a tour of its every fear and apprehension.

I assured him that any of his worries not only can materialize, but probably will and that a lot of the pain and discomfort of running a marathon cannot be avoided but they can be managed. And that managing the obstacles that pop up in his path is the key to crossing the finish line.

He's going to get tired, he's going to hurt. He may even throw up and get diarrhea. But that's what gels, ibuprofen, Imodium and port-a-potties are for.

It's like life. Some of us struggle with eating too much. Others hate being around people. Some can't sleep, some are scared of commitment, and some have enough dandruff to totally kill their shot at a social life. That's just the way it is, because we are human and we are alive.

Nobody is guaranteed a smooth sail through the finish line. The more people I meet, the more I realize that everyone has a story. And in each story is a struggle. An obstacle. A bout of diarrhea, some pain, some nausea, some exhaustion. These are the things we are called to manage, if we intend to finish this race. They're unavoidable, and so we face them head-on, right? With our names on our bibs, with our loves at our sides, and with drinks at the finish.

Magic Trick

On Victoria Day in May, our family of eight, along with Andrew's parents and friends went to the May Day parade in Fort Langley, an annual tradition for the Slane family. As usual, nothing went smoothly for us. Jeebuz turned up the rain dial to a '10' so that we all had to stand out in the torrential downpour for a solid two hours, with a baby. Soaked with cold rain and bad attitudes, we hung around and counted down the seconds until we could jump back into the heated van and fuck off out of there.

Although, Andrew said something that really resonated with me. He reminded me that I wouldn't feel this frustration a couple of days from then. Sticking it out in the chaos and rain and frustratingly bad attitudes would be difficult, yes, but it's short-lived and totally worth it in the big picture.

I know this phenomenon to be true in the running world. Running can sometimes hurt, a lot. But there's a mental muscle that builds endurance and it grows stronger because of the pain of it all. And proving this "big picture" mentality true time and time again helps me to translate it over into my other categories of life as well: family, teenagers, money issues, etc. That some days just absolutely suck. We get served legal papers, or someone gets lice. And in that moment it takes everything in us not to fake an injury and take a cab ride home but we learn that sticking it out, riding the wave, makes us stronger people, better parents, closer friends.

The only time that this phenomenon doesn't work is in Walmart lineups with no Coronas at home. Otherwise, it's golden.

Push

A mother is bent sideways, balancing life on one hip, edges rounded by the delicious fruit of love. A mother carries the weight of her heart: her children. And when love gets too heavy, she lowers her heart deep down into the cells of each emotional and physical and spiritual muscle ever flexed within her and she draws upon a strength conceived in the exact second that she became Mother. And from that strength, with the grunts and groans of childbirth, pained and exhausted, she heaves life back into her children. Their frail limbs once quivering with the weight of their worlds, silently, from behind like a breeze, her love lifts them up and guides them forward.

I became a mother at the age of twenty-two. The shift from a life focused on Suzy toward a life focused on my child served to carve out parts of me that I didn't know existed. An operation of sorts carried on without anesthetic or any hopes of morphine, recovery, or regained mobility. Running marathons helped me to see the rigors of motherhood in the big picture--that the hard work pays off, the painful moments eventually pass, and a little throw-up never hurt anyone. But it's such a thankless job, isn't it? Our efforts are a well-kept secret from the rest of humanity like a private club in which the initiation would buckle the strongest of knees.

But what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger.

We don't do it for recognition, no. And we certainly don't do it for the fame and fortune. We do it for love. When our children, teetering on spindly legs, venture out into the big world and find their strength waning, they'll be able to look back home and feel the warm wind of our love holding them up and pushing them forward.

Bring it Home

My chest wrings its muscles in angst, my eyes are flecked with worried wet and it's all I can do to tame it, hold it back, rein it in until I get there. I do all the right things: I shoulder check, signal, calmly pull into my spot with my jaw flexed into a peace-forced half-smile while my muscles twitch with emotional overload.

Collecting myself, adjusting the tongue of my shoes, I set my eyes on the path ahead and take names. One step to start, two to keep me going, and then it's no turning back. Not for a while. Not until I'm finished pouring myself out, fertilizing the forest with my heart.

A burn pile's smoke pulls my gaze to the right, interrupting my rhythmic breath for a moment while I draw it slowly in and up! An eagle! Chest out and proud. I lift my own in hopes that I too might be recognized as supreme and then a second later I trip on a root and instead, promptly remember my humility.

My humble feet take me to places in my heart that not even flight could bring.

I run and I run and I run and when I find what I'm looking for, I don't stop and turn around. No. I hold it close. I let it in and turn it 'round until it warms and molds to who I am, becoming a part of me, and then I carry it home.

It's a bit heavier, but I'm a bit stronger. So it all evens out.

Our Voices Carry

The greatest human need is the need to be heard. Take away our voice and our story becomes disabled, stunting our ability for healing and forward movement.

And yet in the other direction comes things like blogs and Facebook and Twitter: turbo-charged vehicles that carry our voice straight from heart to Universe. At least a biography takes time and editing and patience and approval--all this social media horse shit (and I'm excreting it on my keyboard right this second) if, manned by a driver under the influence of wrong motive, can cause a major wreck.

And yet we do it anyway. Because for the ten people who will squelch our voice and ridicule our story, there will always be the one who is encouraged and helped.

I find it to be like eating and drinking, and any other verb in this world that we tend to soak dry to fill unmet needs. Eating and drinking can bring people together if done well (when I use the term "well" I refer to an action filled with things like integrity and good health) but if abused can lead to sickness and death. This is why I keep quitting and re-joining Facebook--because I am aware of its explosive nature and I want to tread lightly through its minefield.

I have a friend on Facebook who, like me, is pregnant and due around the same time. And yet she found out that her baby probably won't live until her delivery day and if he does live, he won't live much longer out of the womb. Would it be easier for her to let her voice be disabled along with her baby? Much easier. But this woman stepped out in vulnerability and courage and shared her story with the Universe. I have no doubt that for every ten people who ridicule her and her family for the decisions they have been forced to make, there are a hundred people who are healed by her voice. Who hear her story and from the guts of our humanity, hold her up, breathe in and out beside her and let her speak.

More often than not, that is all we need.

The "F" Word

When Jason and I were first married we made a pact to never mention the word "divorce" and if we ever had to talk about it we'd refer to it as "the 'D' word." Looking back, and I can only guess, I'd say that our pact was fear-based rather than founded on the security of our relationship. Like how when we were kids, we'd ask Jesus to forgive our sins each and every night for fear of dying in our sleep and waking up naked at the judgement gates with our sins on the big screen. Was I sorry that by throwing Wes' pants into the pile of sawdust puke I'd be burning the bridges of friendship? No. I just wanted to make sure that me and my pants weren't being thrown into the fiery furnace.

Ignoring the urge to throw up and swallowing back the vomit won't stop the purge. Like, I thought I was done my morning sickness phase as the last time I threw up was about two weeks ago but just this morning my orange juice met porcelain. And I always believed with my whole heart that I wouldn't be a divorce statistic. I'm a non-conformist. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorces? Fuck that, not me! I dug my heels in, but into the wrong foundation.

Fear sucks.

I came into work yesterday with puffy eyes and cry-face. I told Bonnie through pathetic gaspy sobs that I had listened to Lee Ann Womack's song "I Hope You Dance" on the way to work bawling my eyes out, thinking about my kids. It's these lines that get me every time:

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance, 

Never settle for the path of least resistance.

Living might mean taking chances but they're worth taking, 

Loving might be a mistake but it's worth making.

I think our biggest obstacle in life is fear. I really do. It's not death that kills us. I mean, ultimately death has the last word but it's fear that snuffs our life out before death can even touch us. We're so scared of failure that we don't even look up. We're all just heads down, hands tied behind our backs, two feet in the grave. As if by not looking up at the climb we can pretend that it doesn't even exist. Meanwhile, we're left behind while everyone else digs their heels into the side of the mountain to get to the top to enjoy the view.

I want our kids to shake off fear and face their mountains. Of course I don't want them to feel the pain of the climb. But even more so, I don't want them to miss out on the view at the top. If I truly want this for them then I need to be an example of a fearless leader. Trudging through uncharted territory, often messy with sawdust puke, we'll eventually get to the top. And then we'll all look back down at what we went through, and it will all seem so small from way up here. 

So small from way up here. 

Inked

There's this guy who used to regularly come into the physio clinic when I first started working there and then his ICBC claim time limit came up and he stopped going. I remember him being so... defeated. His head was slung low and his shoulders seemed to curl forward as if they'd swallow his body whole and he'd disappear completely.

I can't imagine what it might be like to live with pain day in and day out. I see a lot of people at my work in pain, and I don't wish it on anyone. It seems to be a relentless beating that doesn't have a trigger; each attack is a surprise, not leaving a clue as to when it will cease. But then I noticed that there are some people who come in who deal with pain even worse than this guy and yet they have this positive and hopeful outlook on life. They might limp, but their eyes are sparkly. They might have paralysis in their face but they smile with as much of it as they can.

I don't dare judge, as I can't imagine standing for a moment in their shoes let alone walk a mile in them. All I do is observe and wonder how I'd live it out if it were me. I can only hope that my eyes would sparkle and that my mouth would curl into a lopsided grin but I bet with all of my able body parts that I would have both good days and bad.

The guy who stopped coming came back in the other day and when I unhooked him from the IFC machine, I noticed he has a tattoo on his back that I hadn't seen before. It reads: "Carpe Diem." Seize the Day.

For now, the tattoo is ironic. And maybe it would have been better if he had inked the slogan on the tops of his feet, as that is where is gaze usually falls. But as I stood there and wiped the ultrasound gel off his back, I decided that it's up to me, and only me, to seize the day.

Like a Rainbow

Whoa, I found another page in my notes section dated August 22, 2010. I can't publicize everything but what I can share is this quote from Nelle Morton:

"There is an awful abyss that occurs after the shattering and before a new reality appears."

I love how I wrote this quote underneath my lament about the state of my life. I'm not exactly sure what my abyss looked like but I have a hunch that while I was floating around in the darkness, I had dreads, I smelled like patchouli and had bits of kale and sunflower seeds stuck between my teeth.

I'm thankful that my abyss didn't last very long and I appreciate the fact that my friends didn't ditch me for someone who smelled less like dead grass and more like humanity, but I do acknowledge that my darkness provided me with the gift of transformation; I came out the other side just like, way better of a person.

I remember phoning Jane up and I'd be messy-crying, sobbing and gasping, "JANE! I just want to feel NORMAL AGAIN!" and she would tell me, "Suzy... you won't ever feel the way you did before. You're inventing a new normal, now."

A new normal. A new reality. First a shattering, then an abyss, and then a new reality will appear, I promise. The darkness will feel all-consuming, but it's where the transformation happens. And I'm not leaving, either, even if you smell.

Unchained

I believe in hell. Look around us! Hell is the environment that contains the consequences of our bad decisions. Sometimes the burn comes from the fire someone else sets in our path and sometimes we scorch ourselves, but either or, hell hurts. It doesn't just hurt us but everyone close to us.

Divorce didn't just hurt Jason and I, it hurt our kids. We hurt our kids. We did that. Pretending that we didn't totally shit the bed won't get us out of our painful mess and in fact the first step toward healing is acknowledging the pain we created and taking responsibility for it. We could sit in the middle of our beds pointing our fingers of blame at everyone else but at the end of the day we'd still have our own shit stuck to our thighs.

I love this part, though, that we have a choice. Once we acknowledge the hellish mess we are sitting in, we have two choices: to stay or to leave.

Some people stay there, feeling depressed and worthless, punishing themselves in dramatic self-deprecation. If I did that, then my kids would be robbed of a healthy, loving mother. I could stay stuck in my grief and dread my hair and eat sand and chew on my foot callouses. Another way to stay stuck would be to point my fingers and blame everyone else for my current condition. I could take on the whole world with my righteous anger, declaring war on anyone who even thinks about holding me accountable for my mess. I've tried both avenues and I can say that even despite moments of triumph and satisfaction, the peace didn't last and each time, I faced a dead end.

Grace isn't just a term used to rationalize bad behaviour; grace is a gift that is lived through the consequences of bad behaviour. What I mean is, grace isn't our ticket out of hell but our fountain of cool water in the midst of it.

Divorce hurts kids, there is no doubt about that, but that doesn't have to be the final chapter. I refuse to chain my children to my side while I sit in my shit, while I stand in my hellfire. I'll accept the fountain of cool water to drink because I want to share it with my babies. I want them to know that there is respite, that redemption and new beginnings exist, and that life doesn't end at our mistakes.

Grief

Before you go into this, I ask that you read this post with a soft and respectful heart.

There's this quote that Jason and I used to ponder when we were working on what was left of our marriage and it goes like this:  

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results".

We'd come back from a counseling session with instructions to find something in common. We bought kayaks, floated around local ponds and ducked through tunnels of pond shrubs, picking spider webs off our faces and necks. We also tried local pub-hopping to find the perfect nachos as if finding the immaculate conception of peppers and cheese would be the expected miracle that would save our marriage. You know what we discovered? We both liked kayaking, we both liked nachos, and we both knew our marriage was over.

There are some decisions that are easy to make like wearing thongs under yoga pants and bare feet with sandals, but most of the time, the bigger the decision the more murky the water.

I believe that God hates divorce. Bloody hell, I hate it too and I guarantee if you ask Jason how he feels about the subject, he'd agree. But sometimes, when all we have to see through is pond water, we can only make our best guess with what we have in front of us, and in our limited human vision, we are only able to move forward but for the outstretched guiding arm of grace. What am I trying to say? We are fucked, but we're not fucked forever and ever because life and love doesn't end at divorce just like it doesn't end at cancer and in fact, sometimes the first time a person ever fully lives and loves is at the beginning of their dismal diagnosis.

Divorce is a very real and a very painful terminal illness and it causes a grief that often has no closure. But the gaping hole left over can always be filled with beauty and grace if we so choose, the way tulips spring out of the dirt above a buried coffin.

Please pass the nachos. 

Lilies

I love much and therefore I lose much, but to me, it's worth the risk.

I once stood in front of my cabin at summer camp and with my heart in my hands, I offered myself to love. I didn't have much to offer back then. I was empty and small and needy as I stood there in the dirt patch with my hair blowing into my mouth, my eyes open and hungry. But I gave all I had. He dropped my heart into the dirt and walked away.

Between then and now I fed my soul and healed my wounds and became whole. I can stand on that same dirt patch with my heart in my scarred hands with my hair blowing into my mouth but this time there are lilies between my toes, wrapping themselves around my legs. My eyes are open and full, my feet planted firmly in who I am. Once again I give my love.

I lost myself once, when I was small and needy. I won't lose myself again not because I am hardened and jaded but because I am strong like the sky: you might not be able to see my strength but it's always there, being breathed into and out of my heart. I have much love to give and therefore much love to lose. My dear friend quoted this to me yesterday: "Life is like photography: we develop from our negatives."

Lilies grow where dirt once was.

Waiting

I used to drive to Vancouver Airport and stand on a grassy field just outside the perimeters of the runway and watch the jets take off and land. The rush of metal and jet fuel would max out my senses, driving out any unwanted feelings that might have been trying to take over. Just when I would feel wild and uncontrollable, I would stand there, face up, chest open and arms wide, and let the forces of the plane dominate my body and press me to the ground in one giant roar of authority.

There have been times in my life where I’d stand there and wait, feeling wild and uncontrollable, and no plane would fly overhead. I’d scour the sky, desperate for a higher power and yet there was none. Sometimes it seemed like I stood alone in that one spot for an eternity, watching the seasons change, hoping for a sign of Life for when I stood alone in that anxious state, I was never really living.

Sometimes the isolation and hopelessness would be too much to bear and I’d take matters into my own hands, exchanging anything I could offer for some sort of salve to stop the bleeding. Whether we like to admit it or not, we all find our own escapes from pain. Some of us drink or eat or run. Or maybe we have children to fill the void. Or we treat sex one-dimensionally and spread it on the surface of our skin like the desert sun hits the outermost layer of sand; we feel its burning presence but it leaves our deepest layers untouched and cold.

I know that the healing happens in the waiting. That we have two choices: to exchange our souls for the first thing that crosses our path, risking contamination, or, we can wait for the fuel that will ultimately satisfy our longing and satiate our bellies.

It’s part of our growing process. It’s cocooning. It’s the pregnant silence carrying the whisper of what’s to come. And when our promise flies overhead, we will know the roar of its omnipotence so intimately that we will tremble with relief.

Dance

It seems to be that being able to find purpose for our pain makes it somehow tolerable. Growing pains exist because we are being stretched beyond our physical capabilities. The inner parts of ourselves are forcing us outward and upward and although painful, we wake up the next day and look in the mirror and see growth. My sister Lori has been asked before, "how do you do it?" and she replies, "you just do it; you think you can't but you can." Adversity drops us onto a pathway of hot coals and by reflex, our feet begin to dance.

I guess it's all about perspective that if we let ourselves get stuck in the grief then we won't grow. Grieving is good and healthy. Rolling around in pain, reaching for hot pads, comforting words, reassuring hugs, ice packs and medication is not only appropriate but necessary. Depending on the situation, this grief could play out for years. And maybe, just maybe, the more intense that the pain is, the richer the growth will be when we wake up and look in the mirror. But that's the kicker right there, that at some point we need to wake up, drag our sorry asses to the bathroom and look at ourselves in the mirror.

It's easy to get stuck rolling around in our pain. I did that when I went through my dreadlocks phase, and I'd be a big fat liar if I said that I still don't do it from time to time. In fact, I'm probably doing it right now by writing eight hundred posts about the damn subject. But the difference, and this is what I want to hold onto, is my perspective. When I think about the term "growing pains" I choose to focus on the word "growing" and not "pains." I will feel the pain, ohhhh I will feel it, but I will let my inner parts of myself force me outward and upward so that when I wake up out of the fog and stumble to the bathroom mirror I'll be able to see a stronger Suzy filled to the brim with strength and grace framed by some seriously huge bed head hair.