Something In Me Wants to Create Again

I haven't painted in forever.

Well, unless you count the kitchen and living room walls, which I painted last spring.

In fact, most people who know me now, probably don't even know that I ever painted, or drew, or was an art major in college before I took up writing and made that my vocation.

But painting with anything other than watercolors, which by nature tends to be a quick process, requires hours of uninterrupted time, and that is something I've not had since about 1985 when my daughter was born. Of course, the last painting I did was of her as an infant sleeping. I'm sure I did it while she was sleeping. It hangs in my youngest granddaughter's bedroom and bears more than a passing resemblance to the child who sleeps there.

Generally painting is not something I miss.

It's not something I have time to miss.

One day this week, though, a friend's Facebook post suddenly reminded me of how good it feels to take a blank canvas/paper/whatever and create. The fact that we were art class friends who not too long ago reconnected through Facebook only reminded me more of who I used to be, what we used to do.

For the biggest part of the first 24 years of my life, from the time I could safely hold a pencil, I drew. I received paint-by-number kits for Christmas and I progressed to taking the leftover paints and creating new things. I drew birds and dogs and cows and horses and things from my imagination. In high school we sketched each other in art class. We painted still life and abstract creations. In college I was an art major and submerged in the counterculture of the arts building where I painted, threw clay, learned to weave, ran shop tools to create crafts, and got drunk with my classmates. I even modeled for other art classes. I thought I would be an art teacher and recreate my favorite place from high school.

I was an art major for a year before a teacher suggested that I might want to pursue writing, and I went on to double major and then, shying from the education classes I would need to teach, went back home to work at my hometown paper.

It's been nearly 30 years since I painted. My art has been limited to crafts -- cross-stitch when I can keep children away from the needle and see to thread it, crocheting, knitting and children's activities. My creating has been with words, not a visual work for a long time.

Seeing someone else's creation the other day reminded me, however, that in this effort to put myself back together and find the bits I've lost in the last two and a half months, there are bits that I lost even longer ago that were once integral to who I was and that, perhaps, I need to reclaim those bits as well. Perhaps just as I carved out time a few months ago to return to the keyboard each morning, I can make a conscious choice to spend some of my evening hours with a paint brush.

Odds are good that the effort will do nothing more than cost me money for paints and perhaps take time that I might have spent doing something else, but perhaps it will still be good for my spirit, which often stumbles through the day.

I haven't painted in what feels like forever, but perhaps the time has come.

Finding My Way Back to Walking Again

I've walked Pedro the last two mornings even though the sun hasn't been over the trees behind the house and the air has been crisp and cold.

The first time, it was more or less by accident.

I couldn't find my clogs when my daily daycare dog arrived, and my hiking shoes were in the closet by the door, so I slipped them on instead. When I let him out alone to do his business in the kennel yard, he didn't want to come in because despite everything he had been through before his rescue, he's full of life and loving every minute of it. Back before winter turned the world so gloomy and my world tilted on its side Dec. 15, he could count on a brisk walk most mornings.

Looking at his hopeful face, I decided what the hay, grabbed a leash and gloves and earned a quick bounce and sudden sit from Pedro, who has learned to wait patiently to have a prong collar dropped over his head. Then we were out and down the road and I was freezing my ears off (I'd forgot my hat) and feeling the needle cold March wind through my jeans. We fast walked it to the end of the road and back, about 20 minutes for the 1.25 miles, and both started our day with a little fresh air in our lungs while the sun was still struggling to get over the poplars.

The second time, it was more premeditated. I knew where my clogs were, but I had on the hiking shoes anyway. I also found my hat and we didn't waste time with going out in the yard first. Instead I opened his crate holding the leash. He walked out and sat and soon we were heading down the road with my yard dogs, Rebel and Macy, in tow.

Coming back I thanked him for helping me to begin to recollect another one of my missing parts.

For years, even before I opened my kennel and with more focus since then, I've walked my road on a near daily basis with dogs. Once upon a time it was my yard dogs, Otis, Sunny and Snickers now long gone beyond the Rainbow Bridge, and then later with Rebel, kennel dogs, house dogs and Macy. It was an important part of my mental health.

Walking a smooth, familiar route with generally no sounds but the jingle of a leash and the pad of athletic shoes and doggy paws on the road was my morning meditation. I spent it in silent prayer, often for Ethan, or in quiet contemplation of the world around me and the way my body felt moving through the universe. It centered me for the day ahead, gave me time to organize my thoughts, got my heart pumping and reminded me that I was part of the world around me.

The routine varied with the weather and the season. Summer means early walks to intentionally beat the sun's fierce heat once it tops those same trees. Winter brings a later start to enjoy the midmorning warmth. Many days with kennel dogs I've walked the route two and sometimes three times to make sure that everyone willing and able gets a chance to be out.

This winter, however, my walks, as important as they've been to my sanity, have been one of the pieces that I've dropped and had the most trouble picking up again. Although I've managed an occasional stroll, I think my walks Wednesday and Thursday were the first back-to-back walks I've taken since Dec. 15 when I learned that my son was dead. Just as I struggled with being alone for a while (something that has gradually changed), the last thing I wanted was time with no real distractions. I found physical outlets with Zumba, PiYo and my exercise bike, but those were accompanied by mental distractions as well -- the choreography of the dance steps, the sequence of the poses, the Kindle or a book on the bike.

Walking without even a phone call for distraction is a different process (I walked Monday a bit later and spent the whole time on the phone). It's dropping the distractions and focusing on the feel of my feet on the ground, the movements of the dogs, the feel of the wind numbing my face and chilling my legs, the cold air filling my lungs, the chilly blue sky overhead, the voice in my head which may in time return to more intimate conversations with God, but this morning was content to repeat the chorus to "It's Good (Love's Not Safe)."

Writing this I realize that my walks are not only meditation, but often a form of worship, which I've also struggled with. Not surprising that I've found it easier and safer to stay in the house and avoid that risk when I've occasionally fled the sanctuary of church for much the same reason.

There are other missing parts, things I once did casually with hardly a second thought, that I'm struggling with: bills are paid late even though there is money in the bank, I cannot remember my daily vitamins, my next needlework project is waiting to be started, seeds for the garden haven't been ordered, and some mornings the dog on the bed is almost enough to keep me from making it. I deal with what must be done each day and fall exhausted into bed with those pieces still scattered on the floor.

But I think I've picked up one more piece and put it back in its proper place. It may take some adjusting to get all the edges lined up, but it feels right and I think it will stay. Eventually, I'll collect the other bits and finish my reassembly.

The thing is that I know that while I may look the same, I won't really be the same. I'll always be different from how I was before and there will always be a piece that's missing. The piece that was the physical presence of my son will always be an empty hole in the center of the puzzle of my life.

A River of Tears Seems to Water My New Life

I cry too much. Sometimes, I think I should be dehydrated, just from the tears.

Headed home the other night with tears running down my cheeks, I thought, "I wish I wasn't a person who cried all the time."

There was nothing really to cry about. I had just dropped the girls off at home and was headed home myself. I had money in my wallet, gas in my tank and a safe vehicle to drive. I think it was a song on KLOVE, or maybe something they were talking about on the radio, and suddenly I'm crying.

It wasn't Ethan, or grief, or overwhelming despair. Just tears.

Of course, that thought was quickly followed by another.

"No, I don't."

I realize I tread this ground repeatedly in my thoughts, but I guess that is part of making it my new reality. Each time I cross this bumpy terrain the path is a little wider and a little easier to walk. Each time this part of my journey becomes a little easier to embrace.

This fragile, caring, tearful person that I've become over the last few months is deep down a better person than the woman I was before losing my son. Although I'd give any possession I have and even my own life to have him back and whole (not just like he was before), I would not want to return to the person I was three months ago.

While I grow tired of the tears and the smeared mascara and what sometimes feels like a constant ache in my chest, losing Ethan opened my eyes and my heart to a world that I was content to ignore or brush off.

Now the pains of other people, even casual acquaintances and friends of friends, can move me to tears.

A stranger losing a child is almost more than I can bear.

The mothers I've met who are still struggling to deal with their child's addiction, or who like me are grieving, have a place in my heart and my prayers.

People who are no more than a few sentences and a picture on a Google+ site or a Facebook friendship, people who are on the other side of the world, or even not identified by a place, move me to tears, prayers and reaching out.

I find myself counseling people I would have never dreamed of counseling, or reaching out through cyberspace to let someone know they're not alone, or crying over a song on the radio, and I'm glad.

God made us to care about one another. Jesus told us to love one another and bear one another's burdens.

The world and life itself tells us to not do these things, to look after ourselves and let everyone else do the same, to keep our distance from things that don't concern us. We insulate ourselves from what and who we are meant to be, not just with one another, but with God.

We think we can take care of ourselves and we don't need to let other people into our lives. We think we can do it with God as a backup plan, a Sunday morning savior, a daddy in the sky we run to when things get rough.

Losing Ethan stripped away all that insulation and pretense.

I'm not doing it alone and some days I'm hardly doing it at all. Some days, God is doing it through me, and sometimes it's only the prayers and the realization that this is what I have to do that keep me going.

I'm so grateful for everyone who hasn't felt this pain who has reached out to me when there is nothing I can do for them. I'm so thankful for the exchange of support with others who know my pain. I'm so blessed to have found a better me through all of this who appreciates the miracle of each day and wants to feel, even when it means tears.

I still stumble. I still wish sometimes that this wasn't who I had to be, or more accurately that I didn't have to go through what I have to be this person. But I'm still trying to accept that I had to be broken to be made anew.

I'm still singing "Keep Making Me," sometimes with tears and sometimes with a thankful heart, still fearful of the words of this prayerful song, but at the same time aware that life is beyond my control. My prayer now isn't to be broken, it's to be healed and to be filled and to be this better person that I catch a glimpse of sometimes.

The one with smeared mascara because she's crying again.

Wordless Wednesday -- Crap I've Got to Get Out of My Yard Before the Grass Grows, Thanks to My Dogs

(I know, yuck. It looks like a big time hunter or serial killer lives here. But it would be worse if the desiccated roadkill cat had not already been bagged and disposed of and if I had not already done one roundup of deer bones, which, by the way, they have carried in from far and wide. I do not know where the stuffed animal or tennis ball originally belonged either.)

Think Back Tuesday -- What Makes You Smile?

Yes, it's that time again. It has snowed a little, again. Another week is underway and it is oh, so long until the weekend.

But it's Think Back Tuesday.

I started out struggling through my undertaking. Three things came easily and I challenged myself. "Think of at least seven. You need seven things that you didn't expect to make you smile that did."

By the time I pushed myself to six, they were rolling out and I think the list could have gone on and on.

1. Making it to PiYo and Zumba last Monday after I had resigned myself to not getting to go when someone drove through the front of the store where my son-in-law is manager. Going to class means I have to be able to take the girls home, and it looked like he was going to be stuck at work so that wasn't an option, but things worked out.

2. Going to the grocery store with E2 to pick out a pizza for dinner Thursday night after gymnastics. While we had fallen into the Little Cesar's habit/trap, there's been some kind of problem at our local option. They may be hot, but they aren't ready and the previous week the three of us agreed that we would not sit in line for 45 minutes for a pizza any more. Get help, get an oven fixed, whatever. The joy was E2's delight in being the one to pick a pizza and choosing which one looked the most delicious to her (plus not sitting in that infernal line).

3. A new song from the Newsboys that I heard while grooming dogs Saturday. I don't normally get to spend a lot of time with a radio, so I had not heard "We Believe." I was singing along with the chorus before the song ended and went to Amazon to buy and download it yesterday so I could hear it again.

4. Watching the rescue bulldog Pedro play with the teenager who helps me out around the kennel twice a week. Pedro came with so many issues to overcome after a life of neglect that there were times even after he was in rescue care that they considered having him euthanized. He had been labeled dog and food aggressive, had never bonded with a human and actually bit me over food a short time into his stay. But we've worked on his issues and while he still doesn't like other males if he is off leash, he is the most absolutely fun dog to have around and watching him come barreling in with happy eyes and a wagging tail makes a lot of my work seem worthwhile. I'm his first love, but I think he'll be able to love again.

5. Our two-week delayed Valentine's Dinner at church, where we sat with people we didn't really know well. If you're thinking stuffy meal, you don't know my church or my pastor and his wife. The meal was great and my husband managed without me needing to cut his meat after breaking his arm at work last Tuesday (not joy). After the meal a round of the Newlywed Game and a balloon dance had us laughing and getting to know one another a lot better.

6. Meeting another mom who's followed my journey because of this blog. On Saturday, I cried with a mom whose son is an addict and who fears this path I'm on. Yes, we met through Facebook and this blog because we are grieving, if not the actual loss of our sons then the loss of who he could have been. We shared stories that we wouldn't talk about with a mother not on this journey and we cried a little together, which is better than crying alone. Reaching out to her and others makes me feel like I can do something despite the pain and a purpose that brings a flash of joy.

7. Eight eggs a day for three days in a row from my backyard hens. It's not so much the eggs, although they are welcome, as it is the sign that spring may be more than a skunky smell in the air. Hens are notorious for not laying in cold/dark weather, so increased production means they feel something I'm wishing for.

8. A surprise birthday party for one of my "doggy moms". When I opened my kennel, a little six-month old ball of fur named Chipper was my first guest. Now it's been years and I count Chipper's "mom and dad," and a lot of my doggy "parents" as real friends. When Ethan died, Chipper's parents were one of my doggy families who showed up for the service. On Saturday, her family had planned a surprise 65th birthday and I had been invited by a daughter. Despite what shaped up to be a hectic day, I went and had a really good time. It was so nice to celebrate with her and her family and friends.

9. Hosting a "dinner party." Seriously, I don't entertain. It's like no one but family or occasionally another couple (very rarely) comes to my house. It used to be my kitchen/dining area, which I hated, but I remodeled it (mostly myself) last spring. Saturday two other couples from our church came over (there were potentially more people, but they didn't make it). I went from worried over getting the house clean to just relaxing and having a good time with food and friends for several hours.

10. My husband having to ask me to make him a sandwich to pack for lunch. I do not have a husband who is needy. He does his own laundry, packs his lunch each night for work, makes his own breakfast and fixes our morning coffee. No, he doesn't clean or cook and you cannot trade. After he broke his arm, which was not a good thing, he was so sheepish about asking me to fix a sandwich for his lunch the next day. He hated being helpless in any way, and he might could have struggled through opening the mayonnaise jar, which I think was the big barrier, but he asked me and I was glad to be able to help. By the next night in a real cast with more finger mobility, he was back to taking care of himself, also something to enjoy.

Your turn: What brought you unexpected joy last week? Like me, you may be surprised at what all you find.

The Public School Experiment Begins

The oldest little E will be starting school today.

It's a decision we've collectively wrestled with for months and one only exacerbated by her diagnosis of Sensory Processing Disorder, which technically makes her a special needs child.

To us, she has always been special, from the long wait for her actual delivery to her rushed first steps and delayed first words. In many ways, she's far ahead of many of her 4-year-old peers. She knows her colors, counts to 20 and usually remembers 16, can count by 2s and sometimes 5s, reads a little, and like all children has a mind like a sponge that soaks up everything. It's been our job to give her plenty to soak up.

SPD, however, means that sometimes she soaks up too much, or doesn't absorb it in the way we would. She wants to taste and sniff things we don't think about, her aversion to stinkbugs drives us up the wall at times, food has to be far from hot on the cold to warm spectrum. She's in near perpetual motion, humming and thrumming when she lies down to rest like an old-time telegraph wire so that we can practically hear her thoughts still racing. Too much of the wrong thing, or sometimes anything can push her over some unseen line, sending her into a meltdown that strikes fear in the hearts of parents and grandparents, not to mention siblings.

So going off to school of any kind has been a long debated prospect. We have researched home schooling, weighed the pros and cons, and in many ways found it preferable -- something I would never have said a decade or so ago. The resources are available to make it a viable option, even if you don't think you're a teacher. The support groups are there to provide help and social outings.

Ultimately, however, her mom came to the decision that we just couldn't unless we absolutely had to do it. She sees our work as the barrier, but while I agree I think even with work it would be possible, if E1 were the only child, or even the youngest. While her mom doesn't have enough hours to give her the time for school, I have the hours, but don't see how I could structure them so that she had time to learn without her little sisters, especially E3, driving us insane.

So after a visit to one of the county's pre-K classrooms last week, even as the debate on her future isn't quite settled, a decision of sorts has been made.

We're going to see how it goes.

While there isn't a lot at stake, while the structure may be more forgiving, while if it proves to be too much we can write it off as a failed experiment that she isn't ready to undertake, E1 will be going to school.

Perhaps she'll do well and the structure of a classroom will be what she needs away from the roller coaster days of life with a teething toddler. Perhaps other children who aren't her easygoing sister will help her to balance herself in ways we can't foresee. Perhaps the little girl that she hugged goodbye after her brief visit last week will turn into a real friend.

Perhaps all our worries will prove to be ill founded.

Or perhaps, as her dad said, we'll get called to the school a dozen times in the next few months. She won't take the transition well and she'll become the meltdown queen of her elementary school. In that case, we'll know we have a few months to come up with a workable plan B and prepare for kindergarten at home.

Either way, we're looking at a few weeks of adjusting. My house will be so much quieter without her little voice. E2 will be lonely without her playmate. Naps will be reconfigured to make time for after school pickup. Rough evenings for E1 are anticipated as her routine changes.

It will be a learning experience for us all because this week, E1 is going to school.

I'm not sure any of us are really ready for it.

Skunks Are the True Harbingers of Spring

Groundhogs get way too much credit for predicting the arrival of spring.

In fact, rather than the shadow of some rodent whose appearances are better orchestrated than some would-be rock stars, I'm more inclined to pay attention to the smelly scent of skunk suddenly wafting through the February air as a sign than the seasons are changing.

After being rather low profile for most of the winter (they don't hibernate, but do den up in groups for long periods, not something you'd want to stumble on), skunks are out in full force as their mating season hits full gear.

Why, you may wonder, do they have to do the deed near the road? Well, they pretty much have to mate where they can. Although they are no longer classified as part of the weasel family, at one time they were and weasels are among those animals that, when the urge arrives, must mate or die. Whether skunks still fall in that category of desperation when mating season comes around I don't know, but either way, it's important.

So, from mid-February to mid-March, skunks are desperately looking for love.

What they encounter, however, can be less friendly. It could be a vehicle on the highway -- hence the telltale black and white carcasses on the side of the road. Quite often it is a curious dog.

I started my day last Saturday with one such unfortunate pup. A lot of unfortunate pup.

Sis is more than just a regular guest, because she's here every day during the week, and her "parents" have become like family. She's like the unofficial mascot for my kennel. And late last Friday night, while making her rounds in her fenced back yard, she apparently spotted something moving and bounded over to take a look. Odds are good that the fence still stood between her and the skunk, but the little mammal was taking no chances. Sis got sprayed, but good.

Needless to say, she spent the night outdoors and by Saturday morning, both she and her "parents" were eager for relief. Luckily for them and me, I had already had one bathing encounter with a skunk scented dog, and an internet search late at night already had them in possession of the right ingredients for cleanup.

The recipe you'll find on line for 1 quart hydrogen peroxide, 1/4 cup baking soda and 1 to 2 teaspoons of liquid soap does work. Add lukewarm water if needed (for larger dogs). Mix ingredients well. The solution will fizz, as a chemical reaction is occurring so don't mix it in a bottle with a lid. The quicker you can do it the better and it needs to sit on their hair for a while before rinsing out. Recommendation is to not wet the dog first, so the stuff is less diluted on their hair. Oh, and use mineral oil as protection in their eyes and don't use this stuff too much around eyes, ears and mouth.

Unfortunately for Sis, that was where she took the bulk of her spray, so even after returning her to a much more pleasant condition, she's still sporting a bit of aroma. She also doesn't like a bath at all, so I required a wardrobe change, but at least she was able to go home and stay indoors.

For almost 18 years I had a dog who got sprayed on a regular basis, but since he stayed outdoors he never got bathed afterwards, just left alone. Otis loved other dogs and cats and I don't think he ever quite figured out that skunks weren't kitties.

Despite our unfortunate relations with skunks, I have a soft spot for them as well as they're one of the breeds of orphaned animals I've raised. One summer we found a series of dead baby skunks in the yard -- never knowing what misfortune their mother had met. On one evening returning home, we found a survivor under one of the cars in the driveway. He was the size of a small kitten and despite his knowledge of how to spray, stamping the ground with his front feet and then twirling and flipping his tail up for action, he wasn't yet chemically equipped to do the job.

R.J., as we named him after a coworker who died suddenly the night we caught him, lived much of that summer indoors with us and soon overcame his fear. Since skunks are omnivores and he was big enough to be eating on his own (his siblings were often killed trying to steal dog food to survive, even in a dog lot), he wasn't hard to feed. My daughter lobbied for keeping him, but a bit of research determined that if we did and he ever bit anyone, he would be beheaded for rabies testing. Although some states have approved rabies vaccines for skunks, we didn't live in one. There was also the issue of his scent glands, which I didn't know a vet who would remove since he was pretty much an illegal pet.

Once he reached a more reasonable cat size, we moved R.J. to a large outdoor dog carrier in the edge of the woods and began limiting our interaction with him. When he once again began showing signs of fear and an apparent ability to spray, we hauled the carrier to the end of our rural road where an area had been timbered over leaving lots of good hiding and hunting places for a skunk and we released him into the night. We never knowingly crossed paths again, however any time we'd smell a skunk near the house, we always wondered if it were R.J.

So the next time you smell a skunk's aroma in the late winter air keep in mind what I always think.

That isn't the stench of a black and white, love seeking mammal. That's the first scent of spring.