Alice and Alba

About a week and a half ago, two new roommates joined my household. Alice and Alba are 7-month-old shepherd-hound mix sisters. They have mange, but are on their last treatment, and it's starting to clear up. They were rescued from a kill shelter in western VA by Homeward Trails Animal Rescue, a pet fostering & adoption organization. After a day in HT's care, Alice & Alba came home with Rachel and me. They were very timid and frightened for the first few days; they had obviously been abused and/or neglected before they got to us. They were both way too skinny, and they would shy away if you got too close to them. At first, they wouldn't even take a puppy biscuit from your hand; they'd run and hide in the corner under the coffee table rather than let you get close. It was painful to watch.

Fortunately, both girls are getting healthier and happier! They're both putting on some weight--especially Alice, who likes to hog the food!--and they're not scared of us anymore :) Alba is still timid, but she'll let me get close enough to take a treat right from my hand. We're helping them get used to us by having them eat handsful of food right from our palms. That seems to be making a big difference. Both of them are learning to walk on their leashes. Alice love to hop around on her leash! They enjoy being outside, but run straight for the house as soon as they've done their business. We're working on the house training, and expect both puppies to be accident-free before too much longer. Like all puppies, they LOVE to chew--we have to watch out for our fingers to avoid being nibbled on! Both of them now have a menagerie of toys to chew on and play with.

All in all, I'm glad that we're fostering the gals. They're looking for a loving permanent home--if anyone is interested, let me know!

Opening scene

This is a possible opening scene for my memoir. It's taken me a long time to get it finished, even though it's less than a page, because it's hard for me to acknowledge the emotional struggle. I have no problem talking about my physical rehab, pain, etc., but this is much harder. I debated pretty hard about whether or not I wanted to post this; it feels very exposing. What finally decided me is that, if I really do write and publish this memoir, the audience could be much broader than the loyal few who read my blog. So, here it is. Let me know what you think. (Oh, this is set in April 2004.)


Despite the sunshine streaming in the window, I slumped on my bed with my head in my hands. Why am I so sad? I tried to ignore the tears crawling down my cheeks. Life is good, so why can’t I be happy? Wiping my dripping nose on the back of my hand, I flopped backward. I don’t enjoy crying; everything about it makes me feel crappy. To end my jag, I worked on solving the puzzle of why, exactly, I was crying.

It was April. “I’ve been sad for over a month. I want to stop being miserable. Wait—I was sad last year at this time, too. I wonder if I have that seasonal depression thing?” The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. “Oh! I get depressed every year at this time. It’s the anniversary. Duh.”

With this “new” knowledge in hand, I picked up the phone and called help. The woman I called, Jill, is a friend of the family and the mother of a childhood friend. She had recently gotten certified & started practicing clinical psychology; I knew that she would be able to steer me to someone who could help me.

“Hi, Jill. I have a favor to ask. Do you know of a local therapist I can contact? I just realized that I’m having depression issues related to my stroke.” That conversation would change my life. I was about to start a journey that had been 12 years in the making. For those 12 years, I had been oblivious to the emotional charges buzzing around in my mind. I was finally going to start trying to defuse them.

Memoir exercise: a picture

This is the latest of the exercises I've done for my memoir class. The assignment was: choose one photograph that connects to your memoir and write as much as you can about the photograph. Include who is in the photo, where they are, what they are doing, how you feel about the event/place, etc. Below is what I wrote. Please leave feedback--I'm eager to know what people think.


The picture is of me in the coma. I’m lying on the hospital bed, hooked up to various machines and monitors. I have tubes going into/out of various parts of me: breathing tube, feeding tube, insulin drip, sedative drip, and so on. You can’t tell what all the tubes are, and I can’t really tell that I’m in a coma—I could be sleeping, except for the fact that I never sleep on my back.

In the spirit of fun, there are troll ponytail holders on each of my big toes. I loved trolls when I was 11, and my family wanted to bring something silly that I would have enjoyed (had I been conscious) to the room. There is an Irish flag at the head of the bed. I’m part Irish, and was obsessed with that part of my heritage. Since St. Patrick’s day had come while I was in the coma, “I” celebrated with the flag in my hospital room. My security blanket (which I slept with back then, and still do today!) and my stuffed lion are by my side. My family has done what they could to make my hospital room homey.

Mom is sitting next to the bed reading something—I can’t see what. She’s looking down at what she’s reading, holding it in her lap. The picture was taken after many of the lines and machines I was initially hooked up to were removed, and Mom looks serious, but not panicked.

I feel blasé about the picture, partly because I’m so familiar with the story and because it’s been so long since it happened. It doesn’t inspired great emotion in me, but at one point it interested me because it showed me during a time that is missing from my memory. It often seems like something that happened to someone else. My recovery sticks firmly in my memory, but I know nothing other than what I’ve been told about the time while I was in the coma.

More Memoir Mining

Here's another writing sample from my memoir class. The assignment was to write a passage starting with "I remember." The teacher really liked my submission--I hope you do, too! Let me know what you think.


I remember the bluebell-carpeted woods behind our house in England. Each summer, the bluebells would bloom, turning the woods into a sea of blue. It was breathtaking. You would almost expect to see fairies dancing among their flower homes; dwarves, unicorns, dragons, and princesses wouldn't have been out of place. Fairy tales are made in places like this.

I could play in those woods for days, if permitted. I would invent magical friends, dangerous adventures, and discovery-filled journeys, either by myself or with my sisters. We are a family blessed with imagination. Worlds were ours to explore in this magical place called The Woods.

We had names for a few of the 'roads' in the woods. These included Foxhole Road--named for the holes that we assumed housed the foxes who frequently graced our back garden--and, logically, Main Road, which was the biggest road, and the only one that vehicles could pass.

I remember the cows who summered in 'our' fields; being suburban folk, we were endlessly entertained by living next door to cows. One summer it was horses instead of cows, and we loved them! There was one beigey-colored horse that we named Peachy. She was beautiful, and we were sad to see her and her fellows go at the end of the summer.

England was a wild, magical, magnificent adventure that left me with an overactive imagination and a taste for nature.

Treasures

This is an exercise for a memoir writing class I'm taking. I'm so pleased with the results that I thought I'd share it with the world! The exercise was: write about your treasures. Here's what I wrote:


My treasures are many and varied. Some of them are material things, like my books or my rock collection, but most of them are spiritual. My material treasures are probably easier to write about, because I have words to describe them—so that’s where I’ll start.

I mentioned my books; I am more than an avid reader; my soul depends on reading. I am capable of going a day or two without a book, but I start to wither and die inside if I go too long. Reading is my heroin, and books are my fix. I don’t get the same reading high from magazines or newspapers. There’s just something about holding a book, with its glossy soft cover, corners slightly battered like an old tomcat’s ears, and the smoothness of the pages between my fingers, that soothes my soul. I regularly get too little sleep because I read in bed and lose track of time while I’m in the world of words on the page. I can escape any troubles in my life through the magic of books.

Other worldly treasures are a cup of tea on a rainy day (or any day, but there’s something even more special about tea when it’s raining), flowers blooming in spring after the long silent dormancy of winter, a breathtaking sunset, the world under a fresh carpet of snow the morning after a snow storm, and the booming power of a summer thunderstorm. Part of what makes these treasures for me is their fleetingness. I can enjoy the moment of my cup of tea on a rainy day, or watching a thunderstorm, knowing it will end. I know that this pleasure is for a finite time, but that I will get to enjoy it again someday.

My spiritual treasures start with peace—peace of mind, of soul, of emotion, and of body. This is one of the gifts I received from the journey of my stroke; the ability to experience peace in turbulent circumstances. Over the years since my stroke, I’ve come to lean more and more on God and trusting that He knows what is right and good, and that somehow, some day, I’ll see how His plan has played out in my life. During those dark moments, I can take a step back and be eager to see how this will end up blessing me and the world. God has given me the confidence that, despite the fact that I feel awful and I don’t think that what’s happening is a blessing, in the light of eternity it is a blessing and I will understand how and why when God leads me there. Knowing that He can use even my stupidest mistakes and poorest decisions to make blessings is a comfort, and from that I derive peace.

Peace leads me to joy. Knowing that, with God’s peace, everything will work out to the good even if it’s not in my lifetime, frees me to feel all-encompassing joy even in dull moments. I can look at the sky and feel awe at its scope and know that all is well. The joy swells up inside me, starting at my stomach, and pushes all my negative feelings away. And with that radiating joy surrounding me, I can share some of my peace with others. It’s a “vicious” cycle—I feel peace, which leads me to joy, which brings me more peace…

These are my treasures.

Memoir?

Okay, so I've been working on writing a memoir for a couple of months, but haven't really gotten anywhere. Anyone who knows me probably knows what the memoir will be about: my stroke. Why should I be struggling with it, though? I've told the story a million times, so it's not like I don't know what I'm trying to say. That of course, is part of the problem--I've told the story so often that I don't pay attention to the details of the story. I also play it down a lot, for several reasons. One of those reasons is that it always comes out sounding melodramatic, and I don't like melodrama. I invariably feel like I'm trying to out-do the person I'm talking to, a la "I've suffered more than you have!" which is never what I'm trying to say (unless I'm talking to Kara or Jane. But that's a different issue!) Also, it was 17 years ago--plenty of time for me to forget those details. And last but not least, it's boring for me (like I said, I've told it a million times. You can only remain interested in your own story for so many tellings!).

Right now I'm working with a concept of interspersing tidbits of the stroke story with fiction. I don't know how that will work out. In the long run, I want to communicate what I've learned & how my stroke shaped me. One of the things I learned is the importance of temporary escape (along the lines of going to my imaginary special place when the pain of PT got overwhelming), and I'd like to provide a bit of that by using some of my fiction along with my memoir. I just don't know if that will end up going over well--or, for that matter, how to work the fiction in.

So, someday, I hope to publish a memoir. I welcome feedback, questions, and suggestions--not to mention prayers for me to actually finish it!

Unanswered prayers?

I'm listening to a podcast sermon-type thing about "unanswered prayer" (from crosswalk), and it's driving me crazy. I don't have a problem with prayer being much more powerful when it's aligned with God's will and His plan; what I take issue with is the concept of "unanswered" prayer. God never leaves any prayer unanswered. I think what causes us to stumble over this is that we don't know what an answer is. God answers prayers in one of three ways: yes, no, or later. The reason some people think their prayers remain unanswered is that they don't hear the answer they want. They don't recognize a "no" as an answer to the prayer. And "later" is probably even worse--who wants to wait for God to answer a prayer? We want results NOW.

Sadly for us humans, God doesn't work that way. He's on an eternal schedule, not constrained by our deadlines and impatience. If I pray for a friend to be healed, but that friend remains sick, it's not that God ignored my prayer; it's that He said "no." If I pray for God to move a mountain for me, and it stays where it is, that doesn't mean that God hasn't answered, it means that he's either answered "no" or "later" (The secret for figuring out which? If there's no definitive answer, it's probably a "later".)

How do I know this? Aside from all the places in the Bible that talk about "waiting on God" (also here, here, here, here, and here, among others) and persevering in prayer, I've seen it in my own life. Any number of times, I've prayed for something for months (and occasionally years) without hearing back from God. Then--seemingly out of the blue--I'd get an answer that was beyond my wildest hopes.

So don't believe the nonsense about "unanswered" prayer! Maybe you just haven't gotten the answer you wanted. Just remember (this one's hard for me) God knows what He's doing, and he's smarter than us. Trust Him. Oh--and it's always worth the wait.

Some nonsense, just for fun!

I've written a few nonsense poems that I decided to share. I'm including each in a separate post to make it easier to read them individually. They've been hanging around for a while, and I haven't done anything else with them yet, so this seems like a good opportunity to "publish" them.

I had a lot of fun writing them, and I hope you enjoy reading them. Let me know what you think!

(And yes, this is how I'm using my linguistics degree. Useful, no?)

Ninny Nanny Nonny-sense

Wiggle waggle woggle wump
Fliggle flaggle floggle flump
Miggle maggle moggle mump
Ziggle zaggle zoggle zump!

Weezle wazzle wizzle warg
Feezle fazzle fizzle farg
Meezle mazzle mizzle marg
Zeezle zazzle zizzle zarg!

Widdle waddle wuddle wode
Fiddle faddle fuddle fode
Middle maddle muddle mode
Ziddle zaddle zuddle zode!

Iffle piffle tiffle tonk
Niffle diffle kiffle konk
Hiffle liffle ziffle zonk
Wiffle miffle biffle bonk!

Hiddy diddy biddy bud
Niddy middy ziddy zud
Piddy widdy fiddy fud
Kiddy jiddy giddy gud!

Wergle the Nergle

Wergle the nergle wanted to climb
To the top of the kergle of Miggledy Pime.
He waited for evening, as that is the time
When climbing is best at Miggledy Pime.
He got to the start of his kergley quest,
The bottom of climbing up to the Lerg nest.
For Lergs live way up on the zippedy-zest
Of tall kergle flondubs, above all the rest.
Wergle climbed up the high kergle kuzzo
And felt full of awe to see the nergles below.
From up on the Kergle, he saw them bestow
His evening climb triumph with a nergley glow.
he felt all a-flutter on seeing that sight
and knew he would always remember this night;
the night he found out that glowing was right
when all his friend nergles showed him their light.