Hallelujah

This beautiful word 1st comes to us from the writings of David in the Psalms. It is actually two ancient words: Hallelu Yah, meaning, and also often translated as praise The Lord, praise Jehovah or praise Yahweh.

In this song, written by Leonard Cohen, and sung by K.D. Lang, there are biblical stories mentioned. One is the story of David and Bathsheba, when King David's humanity is truly revealed. He sees Bathsheba bathing on a rooftop and he wants her. He calls for her, knowing that she is married to Uriah, one of his own generals, who is gone to battle. Yet, here the story usually told makes David and Bathsheba to be adulterers, which is not really the case.  From a technical point of view Bathsheba was not a married woman since David's troops always gave their wives what were known as conditional divorces, just in case a soldier went missing in action he left his wife unable to marry again..The Bible does state clearly that David acted improperly, and although the Scholars and Wise Ones explain that even though David did not commit adultery in the literal sense, he totally violated the spirit of the law.

David sleeps with Bathsheba and she becomes pregnant. When David learned of the pregnancy he sent Uriah into the battlefront which resulted in Uriah's death. David marries Bathsheba and thinks all is fine, until the prophet Nathan is sent by God to rebuke David. When David is confronted with Nathan's words, he immediately is humbled and confesses. David was not a man afraid of admitting his wrongdoings. Yet, when the baby is born and dies, David knows that this was the outcome prophesied by Nathan. Can you imagine the heartache and despair he must have felt?

When David writes the poems and songs which make up a lot of the Psalms, he writes from the heart of his humanity. David is much like you and I in this way. He wore his humanity, his greatness, his weakness, his love of God very openly for all to see. There were times when he shouted Praise Yah, hallelujah, as he danced and played music to the Lord. Yet I think there is more to the depth of David's hallelujah, which went with him through the cold and broken times in his life. Broken times when he was in a forced to hide in a cave, trying to stay one step ahead of King Saul, because the old king wanted to kill David. He wrote some very gut wrenching psalms as he hid in those caves.

When I listened to this song, I was drawn to the power of the cold and broken hallelujah. When we, like David, are broken, when we are taken through times of despair, times of repentance, times of not knowing what will become of us. In the times we may feel crushed and as if our heart has been broken with pain of grief, our body ravaged with disease or the crippling of our mind from depression, anxiety or other mental anguish. We become like David hiding in a cave for protection when all the world seems to be crashing in on us.

I have experienced many times when I have cried out a cold and broken hallelujah to the Lord. I am sure there have been times when you also have experienced this human condition. Yet, what brings us through these times of devastation? Our faith? Our hope in the Lord? Our being able to trust in God's divine plan for our lives, no matter what the circumstances? Is it our ability to cry out, as David did, "I praise you Lord, especially in my brokenness."

The extraordinary thing about this experience is that once we have lifted our faces to heaven and mouthed the words, a little strength comes. When we move to the place where we sing out a small hallelujah, more strength comes, and we find we can sing louder, with more passion, even in the pain, we sing with our heart....hallelujah. Even in the pain. Even in the pain.

The words reach to heaven, and God hears our cry. The Spirit of comfort, of peace, comes to us in our darkest hour enveloping us with unconditional love. We are bathed in the Light of Christ, and are reminded that we are not alone, no matter how alone we feel in this world. Christ promised to send the Holy Spirit to comfort us. Especially in the pain. Especially in the pain.

If you are at a time where you feel lost, alone, cold and broken...I challenge you to begin to sing hallelujah. Praise God. Praise Yah.

In Better Shape Than I Thought (My Mother was proud of Me)

Last Sunday I woke up and decided that I needed a good walk to clear the brain from all those old messages I spoke of last posting. I decided to walk the Pevine/Iron King Trail that begins in Prescott and ends in Prescott Valley. A simple 7 mile walk!

We got to the parking lot, got our backpacks on, dogs on their leashes and about to start this wonderful trek, when we realized that neither of us had the $2.00 parking fee. I was extremely disappointed and frustrated that I had gotten up my hopes for nothing. We were on our way back to get the truck from the end of the trail, when Marty pulled over into the parking lot that overlooks Lake Watson. We had to walk an extra 1/2 mile back to the Pevine Trail and I was still pretty annoyed and concerned time wise about how long it would take for us to walk the trail. We needed to be back home in time for Marty to get ready to work a night shift with the ambulance.

We began our walk at Watson Lake at 1 p.m. When we got to the Pevine Trail, there was this beautiful copper colored shaggy dog being walked by a volunteer for the Humane Society, and I stopped to pet her, and as I did all the stress and annoyance left me. I was grateful for that small yet much needed 'pet therapy' from Miss Copper. Now I could enjoy being on the Pevine Trail with our wonderful dogs.

The Pevine Trail is so beautiful with all the granite rocks surrounding the trail. Watson Lake is such a relaxing lake to view, as the calmness of the waters begin to be reflected in one's own soul, there is a peace that prevails for the rest of the walk.

There were lots of people on the Pevine Trail, some with their own dogs, others riding bicycles, and others walking in preparation for different charity walks to raise money. The weather was absolutely the best for walking at a brisk pace.

We stopped every hour to take a 15 minute break, eat some snacks and water the dogs. Our dogs are just the very best on trails. They have been hiking with us since they came to be part of the family, and are used to being off their leashes, and are still very well behaved and only travel so far up ahead of us, then they will wait for us to catch up. We kept them on their leashes for most of the Pevine Trail, but when we reached the split where the Iron King Trail heads toward Prescott Valley, there were only a few people walking, so they were off their leashes a lot of the time. They ignore other dogs and know that their job is to enjoy their own walk and not pay attention to other walkers or bicyclists. Unless the people actually begin to talk to our dogs, Jake and Ebony mind their own business. They didn't even pay any attention to the cows that we passed along the way. I love our dogs!

When we reached the 3 mile marker on the Iron King Trail, it meant that we had 3 miles to go to the truck, and I have to admit that after walking the 4.5 miles to get to this point I was still very excited and pumped. We were making great time, and I felt great, other than I felt a small blister on the pad of my right big toe forming. I was so amazed at my body's reaction to this walk. Not one time did I get short of breath, my heart never raced, and my legs didn't hurt. How could this be after all this time of inactivity after the stroke, and being on the meds to prevent migraines. Getting off the Propranolol was the best thing I ever did. My body was responding with more energy and less migraines than when I was on all that stuff!

So we continued on as the trail twisted and turned through the rocks going around Glassford Hill, and finally hitting the last two miles of trail which were very dull and boring to me. I liken it to the long drive from Kingman to Las Vegas, where you can see the highway spread out miles in front of you and there is nothing to look at but the barren land around you.

There was in the distance a gorgeous view of the San Francisco Peaks up in Flagstaff. They are beautifully snow covered, and I wondered when Marty and Sarah were going to plan their skiing day and my snowshoeing day.  Left with not much of what I call beauty surrounding me, my mind went to thinking about how I wasn't satisfied with just walking a mile to start out with. I went for the longest trail I knew, without a lot of elevation changes. That is pretty much how I respond to challenges in my life. Go for the hardest, highest, in order to prove to myself that I can do it.

I remembered that when I took homemaking in Junior High school, we were required to make a full dinner at home. Now I had been cooking since I was in grade school. I had just about worn out the pages of my two cookbooks for children by Betty Crocker. So when faced with making a full 7 course dinner, setting the table with formal elegance in mind, I decided that for dessert I wanted to make something extra ordinary. I made Baked Alaska, complete with serving it at table side flaming with fire from the brandy poured over it.
My Mom and Dad were very impressed!

Then there was the time I was in homemaking again, this time in high school, and we were required to sew something for our final grade. Most of the girls in the class made simple skirts or dresses, but not me. I chose a pant suit so popular in the ate 60's, with a lined jacket to boot. My teacher wrote a note home to my Mom about what an excellent job I had done, and said that I could have chosen a much less complicated project. Mom wrote her back, telling her that I never went for the simple way, I always chose the hardest things to accomplish, and she was very proud of me. SHE WAS PROUD OF ME.

Wow! What a memory to come forth on this last mile of the trip. Even though at every turn in my home growing up, I did not manage to measure up to Mom's standards very often, she did on occasion express that she was proud of me. I wonder now, if her constant raising of the bar for my performance wasn't her way to ensure that I would become strong enough to reach for my own goals and passions of my heart. I guess it did instill in me a core strength that would come to surface many years later when I needed it the most.

I began to think of other things I have accomplished that showed my determination to tackle the hardest of adventures. I did not drop out of high school when I was pregnant with Shan, I graduated with my own class.

I recovered from a tragic car wreck which left me literally without teeth for 6 months when I was 19, and I had to use a walker to walk again, in such pain that my doctor wanted to put me back in the hospital, but I wouldn't let him because I needed to take care of Shan.

In my mid 20's I decided that I wanted to climb the highest mountain in Colorado. Mt. Elbert was climbed! And not on any trail leading to the top...we just started climbing from our campsite, and made it all the way to the top, where we could look out on the valley below, our blue station wagon just a tiny speck of blue on the valley floor. What a great adventure to add to my 'bucket list', and yes, even back then I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish before I died.

I guess the hardest and longest adventure I embarked on was the one of going through years of therapy to get myself healthy enough to get out of a dysfunctional marriage, to get my youngest two children away from the situation, and to go on to give them a stable, loving home in which to grow up in. Is therapy hard work? Yes it is....VERY hard. But I did it. I got out. I became a paramedic. I got the kids out. I faced a mountain of remorse and guilt, BUT I finally forgave myself for staying in the unhealthy relationship for 16 years.

I gave myself permission to find love again. But that is a story for another time.

I went back to college to Seminary and became a Minister of Peace, and with it set my sights on being a Hospice Spiritual Counselor. Which was accomplished and I had the honor of being with hundreds of precious souls as they passed from this life into eternity. I am the Peace I want to see in the world.

I set my sights on getting well from my stroke, and I have done that. My brain may be a little slow in some areas, and there are days when thoughts just fall into the white spaces of my brain, but I am back. I chose to get off all the preventative meds and determined that the Reiki work I do would work on my brain, and it has. Charlotte is back, energy and all.

So it was no surprise to Marty when I awoke on Sunday morning and told him we were walking the 7 miles. He is used to me pressing on the upward way, new heights to gain every day. Now I will admit that the last mile of the walk was not very pleasant, my legs were hurting a little and I thought for sure that the next day I was gonna be in tremendous pain. But I wasn't. My calves were a little sore, but not even the blister hurt. My conclusion from this adventure was...I am not in as bad of shape as I thought.
Seven and a half miles of encouragement to keep on keeping on.

We made it to the truck in 3 1/2 hours

Who is this Woman in the Mirror

From my earliest memories of what a female's body should look like, I have never measured up. When I was young my mother told me quite often that as a young woman her brothers could put their hands around her waist, middle fingers touching, and that was how tiny her waist was. This mortified me, because I could NEVER put my hands around my waist and have them touch each other, no matter how hard I tried. I was never thin enough for Mom. She loved Twiggy when she was in the limelight, and made lots of references to me that I should try to look like her. Well, Mom, here I am 50 years later, and it just is not in my DNA to be a skinny girl. Never has been, never will be. Yet, here I am 50 years later with all those words playing like a stuck recording in my brain.

From 3rd grade on I was looked upon by my schoolmates and called these names: fatty Cathy (Chatty Cathy was a popular doll from those days); pudgy, pleasantly plump and a myriad of other hurtful names.

I can remember that I was always the last person to be chosen for team sports...which meant that the team I played on just got stuck with me. I hated sports.

In Junior High my mom sent me to Wendy Ward Charm School, where my best friend Vicky and I had so too much fun. I had by now grown taller and shapelier, like many adolescent girls, once the hormones kicked in, but I was still not thin by any means. Charm school was awesome. We learned how to walk with books on our heads, with one foot placed directly in front of the other, so that we glided across the floor. We learned how to take 'tea'...with one's pinkie finger up. We learned how to cross our legs the lady like way, how to sit down and stand with elegance. Oh my goodness...what a long way we as a society have come in the last 38 years.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until...until the day in gym class that we had to do pull ups. For the life of me I could not pull myself up to even do one. I was so embarrassed, and yet the gym teacher (who I will not name here) singled me out and made all the other girls come watch me, in her words, to cheer me on. Now you know how much junior high girls really want to cheer someone on when she is not part of the 'in crowd'. They ended up making more fun of me, and I ended up running into the locker room in tears.

There was not one time from then on that I ever could do a chin up, or pull up, or whatever the things are called. I just ended up getting a big X put on the spot for those. BUT, I did determine that I would find one thing that I could do better than the skinny, popular girls. I could do sit ups. I beat the record for sit ups in our girls gym class. For both years in junior high I rocked at those sit ups (you would have thought I would have lost more weight, but NO, I stayed the same.) It is just my DNA.

So, High school came, and now being thin is really in...You had to be thin, have long straight hair, and be able to wear hip huggers to be 'hip'. It wasn't like it is today, when females can wear the low rise jeans and have their bellies no matter the size, show for all the world to see. Nope, back in the 60's and 70's our abdomens were expected to be flat, and that was that. No wonder so many of us grew up to be anorexic/bulimic. Not me, the thought of throwing up food just to loose weight always seemed ridiculous to me.

Anyway, high school was pretty much OK. I didn't really worry about my weight so much, I had plenty of boyfriends, and everything was fine, until I got pregnant with my oldest son and gained lots and lots of weight. Weight that didn't go away immediately...although I look at photos of myself back then and think, who in the world in their right mind would have called you fat? My first husband did, and continued to tell me that the whole 8 years we were together. Even when I only gained 5 pounds when I was pregnant with my oldest daughter. Needless to say, living with those negative words and emotions took a toll, because now I had my mother and my husband telling me I was overweight and not attractive. Great combo.

The years went by and we divorced...yet the damage to my self esteem was well done. All I saw when I looked in the mirror was an overweight, scarred woman (I had my gall bladder out when I was 19, was in a car wreck when I was 19...all which left me with scars which were considered ugly and unattractive).  I was 25 and weighed 135. NOW, I shake my head in amazement how I could have let what others think about me have such a drastic effect on my psyche. But I was young, and foolish.



I married again and my weight flluctuated for the next 16 years of marraige, when the divorce came I was up to 165 wearing a size 14. That was 10 pounds more that I weighted when I gave birth to my oldest son. As women so often do with divorces, I lost a lot of weight. I don't know how it came off, it just did. I was 42, pre menopausal, and it was easy to loose weight back then. When Marty and I married in 1999, I was in a size 10 and loving life.



Marty and I April 1, 1999



I stayed that size until 2002 when I had my shoulder surgery and couldn't be actively involved in any household remodeling, planting my garden, etc. I could not work either, since the injury was a work comp injury, and I had to go to court to even get the surgery to begin with. The case didn't settle until summer of 2003, and my lawyer was very clear on the fact that I could not do any thing to jeopardize the case. So, I spent that year scanning all our photos onto CD's, and began to gain weight.



We have now been here in Arizona for 10 years. The year we moved here...2003 was the year I started menopause. I used to write funny stories about the mood swings, weight gain, etc., that we women endure during those years. And back then it was funny. I still had lots of energy, and we were hiking the trails, remodeling our home and back yard.  I was still in a 10/12 size and everything was ok. I felt good about myself.

Then the stroke happened in my brain, and I spent literally a year on the couch. I had no energy. I was exhausted all the time. Even watering my beautiful back yard was overwhelming. I gained weight of course. I was put on medications to help with the migraines that caused the stroke. Those meds put more weight on me. Before I knew it I was up to 175, 185, 190. And the drugs caused me to have a fatty liver on tope of everything else. My body doesn't even look like my body anymore. I do not recognize the woman in the mirror.

A little Irony here: the last 10 years of my Mom's life she spent battling weight. She got up to 189 and tried everything to loose it. We would talk and she would tell me that she didn't recognize the woman in the mirror staring back at her. She didn't recognize her pouchy belly and flabby arms. My Mom was 5 foot 10 inches, so the weight didn't look that bad on her. Anyway, it is just funny to me how my 'skinny' Mom came to the place I am at now. She who was thin all her life, me who battled weight all my life...both ended up with bodies we didn't want.

My doctor says: exercize, walk 30 minutes a day. Just thinking about that makes me overwhelmed.

I eat healthy, and very small portions, so it has nothing to do with my eating habits, I am not really hungry that much anymore. I listen to my body and eat what it wants, when it wants it. I know I need physical activity but I HATE EXERCIZE. Did you get that? I HATE EXERCIZE.

Three weeks ago I found a Pilates DVD that had never been opened at a thrift store for 99 cents. I bought it and have been doing the exercizes from 3 to 4 times a week. No weight lost.  GRRRRRRR

Who is this woman I see in the mirror, every day, staring back at me? It's Me, still inside here, the same Me...I just don't recognise the body.

 

                                                                    55th birthday 2010
                                                     



My Cousin Gary

One of the greatest joys from my childhood were days spent with my cousins from Houston. All boys from oldest to youngest: Michael, Gary, Steven and Byron. Gary and I were the same age, and we always had such fun together. There are so many wonderful memories I carry in my heart of those childhood days. I don't have many photos of Gary when we were little because my Dad loved to take movies with the old camera. I do have lots of film footage of us at the lake enjoying the water on summer days.

My earliest memory of us together was when they had come up from Houston for a visit and we packed up my Dad's truck with all the things we would need to stay at our cabin for the week. The boys and I climbed in the back of the pickup (an old 55 Chevy truck) and we bounced our way out RM2222 to RM620, then from 620 to Commanche Rd, just East of Mansfield Dam. (Later this road would be the one that led to Hippie Hollow). Around some more curves and we would come to our Cabin on Lake Travis.We would hike the cedar covered hills, go on down to Windy Point to swim, and try to fish once in a while. At the end of the day we would look for lightening bugs or find the big dipper on those beautiful clear Texas nights. We all got to sleep out on the porch because there were lots of bunk beds out there due to my parents owning the cabin with two other families, and sometimes we would have about 15 kids total enjoying the summer nights.

I remember one summer Lake Travis water level was SO low that we could walk across the whole Lake. We thought that was just be best! We found tons of fresh water mussels, and we loved to break them open to see the beautiful colors of the shell inside. Those weeks spent at the Lake were perfect.

The postcard

As we grew a little older we went with Cecil, RoseEdna and the boys to different State Parks around Texas. One of them that stands out for me is Garner State Park. We had such a great time there. We stayed in cabins and cooked on the grill each night. There were paddle boats and a little dam that we could walk over and jump into the water below. We even went horseback riding, and later that year someone sent us a post card from Garner State Park which had all of us lined up on our horses riding through a stream. I still have that postcard.

I have a very vivid memory of a time when Gary, Byron and I had walked up to the 7-11 to get some ice cream, and when we came out of the store, there were two boys from the area across Braker Lane that housed quite a few people on limited income. They made some remark about me, and Gary and Byron told them to shut up and not talk about their cousin like that. (One of the reasons I loved the Pearson boys SO much was they were like wonderful protective brothers over me). Well, these boys didn't like what Gary and Byron had said, so one of them pulled out a knife, at which point we began to run as fast as we could home. Thank goodness we knew all the shortcuts through yards so we got away from the boys, but all of us were pretty scared.

One summer we went camping at Lake Summerville, and Gary taught me to play pool. We practiced so much that I became quite good at it, so it became a routine for us to challenge other boys to a game of pool. The boys would bet on who would win, and pretty much everyone bet against us because a girl was on the team. We always won, and it was truly one of the finest moments of my young teenage years. Me, a girl beat the boys, and Gary and I would just laugh and laugh. He helped instill in me a confidence that I had never had before.

There was another time we were camping at Lake Summerville and hanging out at the marina, putting money in the jukebox, playing 'Sitting on the Dock of the Bay', the summer of 1968, when Gary and I were 13. Some older guys (they had just returned from basic training before being shipped to Vietnam) were driving around in a brand new Barracuda, and we got to talking to them and Gary talked them into taking us all for a ride after our parents were asleep. We talked our parents into letting us sleep in the back of the truck in sleeping bags, so once we were sure they were asleep, we ran down the road to meet up with the guys. I got to ride in the front seat, in between the two guys (of course the gear shift was in the middle too), so really I was sitting on the lap of the soldier riding in the front passenger seat. We had so much fun just driving around feeling all that teenage excitement of doing something totally incognito. We got back to camp around 4 in the morning, just in time for the fishermen to begin to stir.

When I started high school that Fall I met a new girl in town who was from Houston. She was living with her brother and his family, while her parents remained back in Houston. I went with her to spend Thanksgiving with her parents, and while I was there I met a boy...my very first official going steady boyfriend. Chris Paxton. He played in a band and really was a nice guy. BUT, and here is the big BUT...I went back to visit for Valentine's of 1969, and I stayed at the Pearson's. There was a Valentine's dance at some dance club where we met up with Chris. Gary let me know by the end of the night that he had decided that Chris was not good enough for me. Since I trusted my bestest cousin in the whole world, I broke up with Chris when I got back home. After all long distance romances do not go anywhere I told him.

I don't remember exactly which summer it was that I flew to Houston and spent a couple of weeks with my cousins, but we spent a lot of time going to ride motorcycles on a corner lot not far from their house. Gary taught me how to ride, and we would go round and round and round the track for hours.

We just had the best times together Gary and I.

As we grew into young adults (me with a baby at 16, married at 18) we grew apart and didn't see a lot of each other. I remember the family reunions at Zilker Park, I remember him living with my mom...his Aunt Midge, for a while in Austin.

Byron, Shannon, Kimberly, Shan, Me, Wanda, Gary

The last time I saw Gary was at my mom's Memorial service in February 1998. He was the same wild and crazy Gary I had known from our youth. He had not lost any gusto for life, and he was living his life to the fullest, always on the edge. I loved him for that.

The last memory I have of Gary was when he called me in September of 1998 to see how I was doing. He had met Marty at my Mom's memorial service and knew that we had just moved to Iowa, taking our first paramedic jobs there. I told him I was doing OK, still missing Mom, and wishing that somehow I could have known what it was that she could never forgive me and my Dad for. I told Gary that I thought it had to do with my Dad siding with me about not getting an abortion when I was pregnant with Shan. Gary told me the truth. I could always count on him to do that...he was always truthful with me. He told me that the reason my Mom stayed so upset with me and at times expressed hatred for me, was that she believed that my Dad and I had been having an affair and Shan was my Dad's child. She had told Gary this when he was living with her. He also told me that she had told her whole family this untruth.

For the first time in 27 years I had the answer to why Mom always held herself at arms length with me. I knew why my 'family' had all deserted me, they believed what Mom told them. I told Gary that I was so very grateful for his telling me the truth, for it made so many things clear to me.

We spoke a few other times after that, then we drifted apart. Actually I lost his phone number when he moved and was afraid to call Cecil and RoseEdna to get it. I knew that they believed my Mom's story. So I just let go.

About a month ago I began to have dreams about Gary, he was always holding out his hand and getting me to try something different. I saw us riding what looked to me to be a Harley. I was on the back holding on  and we were both laughing like we did when we were children. He stopped to let me off, and drove off waving goodbye. It was in January that I got a response from RoseEdna on Facebook (I had found Cecil's page over a year ago, and had written him after my stroke, to get my affairs in order, all my relations in order in case I had another bigger stroke). So, it wasn't until the end of January when I found out that Gary had died in a motorcycle accident riding his Harley.

I am grateful to have had the most wonderful cousin a girl could have ever had. I am eternally grateful for his being the Light that shed truth on my relationship with my Mom. And I am SO grateful that He rode by here in early January to take me for a dream ride and to say, 'Good-bye'.

Gary, may you always be riding your Harley through the roads in Heaven. Give my Mom and Dad a huge hug from me.

Patience with My Brain

Today I have spent the morning going through files and trying to get everything organized. In doing so, I am reminded ever so 'right in my face' that my brain does not work like it did before the stroke. I have in one form or fashion kept writings, poems I have found along the way, things from my years with hospice, things from seminary all filed away in folders, yet there is no sense to how I just stuck papers into the various folders. As I sort through them all, and try to put them into some categorized order I have papers all over the desk and my brain seems to be as jumbled as the papers are. I can make no sense of any of it.

I must be very patient with myself. It is almost noon, I have not even gotten dresses, haven't done my pilates, I am out of my normal routine and it shakes, rattles and rolls my brain into a mass of firing nodes.

Pre stroke I could have had all this sorting done in no time, labeling the folders and putting them away into the filing cabinet. I could keep up with the piles of papers and the mess on the desk with ease and joy (I love organization). Yet, here I sit, typing on my blog, just to give my brain a break from thinking what to do.

It just amazes me how one tiny 1mm infarct can have this much affect on me. It gives me a greater compassion for people with major strokes and traumas to the brain. I cannot even fathom how much time and energy they put in to recover from such things. Some people never recover. They live out the rest of their lives in bed, or wheelchair, in a nursing home or other care facility because the demands of their care are too much for family to handle. And yes, I do believe that even the best of families eventually reach a place where they have no choice but to place their loved one in a care facility. Private 24 hour a day care is expensive and in the times we live in most caregivers cannot give up their jobs to stay home with their loved one.

So, sometimes there does creep into my brain the thought that someday, should I experience a major stroke, that I might end up in a care home also.

With that thought, I will go back to sorting papers and making some sense out of all of this mess I have created.

Little Girl Crushed

In the telling of my story I promised myself that I would be totally honest, which in the past has gotten me into immense trouble, yet, I continue to be very open and honest about my life. Many people like to hide their past, pretend it didn't happen, or live in the past, as if they are reliving each hurt done to them on a never ending merry go round for pain and disappointment. I think that maybe I decided I would not live on the merry go round because that is where my Mom chose to live out her life. She remembered in vivid detail everything that anyone had done to her that caused her to suffer, and she would relive those moments over and over again. Sadly Mom never learned the freedom that comes with forgiveness.One of her famous sayings was, "I can forgive, but I will never forget." Because the memories brought her such anguish, she lived her life out being angry and bitter at those who wronged her.

So I continue my story as a young girl adopted into this dysfunctional situation. I learned at a very early age that I was adopted. Although my Dad's family totally accepted me as 'family', Mother's side was divided on whether I was truly family or not. There were cousins who told me at every family reunion until I was grown, that really I was not part of the family because blood was true family. There were cousins and Aunts and Uncles who never treated me with anything but acceptance and love, and whenever family reunion time came around I would try to stay beside them. Our reunions were always at Zilker Park, in Austin. Us kids would ride the train, and swim in the pool. I don't think I have ever swam in water as cold as in that pool. It was created from natural springs and it was freezing!

I keep faltering here with the right words to explain the darkness which crept into my little girl world. The darkness which stole my innocence from me when I was in the care of my mother's sister. I long to focus on the joys I find in those early years, and yet to be complete in my story I must tell what happened. I have written in depth the truth of those years in a story entitled "The Cavern". It is very explicit in describing the sexual abuse I experienced and was the tool I used to bring about much healing to little 'Charlotte Jean'. So, I have no desire to repeat here the happenings of those hot, humid Texas nights. I will just say that for months, if not years, I endured being molested by one of my female cousins. To this day, if I close my eyes, and picture the curtains blowing gently in the heated breeze, I can smell the interior of the room and feel the rabid fear begin to take hold. From those nights I grew into a adult terrified of the night. It has only been since Marty and I have been together that the night fears have faded and I am at peace with being alone.

I never told my Mom what was taking place because this was, after all, her family. Plus I loved my cousin. I admired her. She was older than I was and I remember watching her put on her makeup to go to school, or out on a date, and she would put lipstick on me. I loved to play cheerleader with her pompoms and she would teach me the cheers and we would laugh until our stomachs hurt. I felt loved. To say that seems like such a contradiction, but I was so hungry for someone to love me, that I mistook her affections for me as real love.

Many years later I was able to talk with my Mom about the abuse. She responded very casually by telling me that her older sister's daughter had been molested by the same cousin, and Mom had known about that before she allowed me to be babysat by this Aunt and my cousin. I asked her why she let me go, and she said she thought that my cousin had outgrown her tendencies to molest. I was stunned to say the least, that Mom was 1) so naive; 2) so nonchalant about the whole thing. It was then that she shared her own experience of childhood molestation and told me that she just didn't think about it. That was how she had tried to cope for about 65 years. It was after this talk with her that it became so apparent to me that my mother's side of the family was filled with incest and sexual abuse. Thank goodness that by the time I had this talk with Mom, I had worked through all the anger and hurt, and had come to a place of not blaming. All I felt was this tremendous sadness for my Mom's stolen innocence, and for the brokenness of so many of her family. It gave me understanding of so many of Mom's behaviors over the years, and I saw her as a frail little girl, just like me, who had been abused.

There was so much pain that lived in her family members. One cousin married a pedophile, he was caught taking photos of her own younger sister. Another cousin committed suicide. One cousin was an alcoholic/drug abuser for many years. One cousin beat his sons with a razor strap..which I witnessed on numerous occasions. And the list could go on and on. I look at each one of them NOW, and I hear the deepest, darkest painful cries of their own wounded spirits, and it just crushes me. I pray that as the years have grown on, that each soul has found healing and forgiveness to bring wholeness and peace to their lives.

It is my hope and prayer that each one of us who experienced the loss of our innocence be totally healed in body, mind and spirit.

I hold the deepest love and gratitude to each person who helped me through, to my angels, to my spirit guides, and also to myself. I would not have made it through to this place of peace if it were not for you.

Namaste'

Little Girl Lost

My fondest memories of my childhood were days I spent with my Dad. I don't remember much about being with Mom, only brief glimpses of her sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette, her hair always in an immaculate coif. She took great pride in her looks, and her weight. I can also see her standing with her hand on her hip wagging her index finger at me telling me to go pick a switch from the peach tree. If I got the wrong size then she would go pick one a whole lot bigger, so I learned quickly to pick the right size. The switch of course was to punish me for something I had done 'wrong'. But that is for another day's telling.

Right now I want to look at the early years when Daddy would take me to work with him on Saturday mornings. He would give me a hammer and some nails, and would let me hammer the nails into any piece of wood I wanted too. I wonder how many houses that he built in Austin have those hidden little nails standing at attention behind wallboard. I liked to go to work with Daddy because I thought it was just the most wonderful thing to have a Daddy who could build a house from the bottom up. Daddy owned his own contractor's business, City Builders, and he had two partners. They did not believe in unions. They were experienced house builders who could pour foundations, frame it up, put the windows in, put the roof on, do the electrical and plumbing, put in the cabinets and flooring, do all the drywall work and they even did brick work on some houses. My Dad built the house that I grew up in at 700 Sandpiper (now changed to 704 Sandpiper), just on the outskirts of Austin on I35. It used to be a beautiful red brick house with green trim, but the company that bought the property when Mom died painted the brink a gray color. Poor beautiful red bricks.

Other than building houses and doing some remodeling work, Daddy loved spending time fishing and working with amateur radio. He would take me fishing about once a month, and now I realize that he had to be the most patient of men, for my line would get snagged repeatedly and he would reel his line in and come rescue mine. Needless to say we didn't catch a lot when I went with him.

I loved being with my Dad. To this day when Marty is working on some remodeling project around the house, and he smells of sawdust and sweat, I am instantly transported back in time when I would run out to meet Daddy when he drove in from work. He always smelled so good....sawdust!

Those early years came to a close very abruptly when I was about 4 or 5 years old. I never understood why, but my Mom would no longer let me go with Daddy. And once my Mom made up her mind about something, there was no changing it. I spent the next 23 years not being able to have a normal father/daughter relationship. I did not realize it until the weeks before she died when she was able to share with me but she had been molested when she was a little girl. She never did tell me by whom, but her fear of leaving me alone with my Dad seems to tell her story. She was molested by her own father at the early age of 4.

What my Mom didn't realize was that when she stopped us from spending time alone, it opened a hole in my little girl heart. I felt lost and alone. Through the years that came and went, Daddy and I learned to adjust to mother's needs. We spent time watching TV together, when she was present. We would work on his HAM radio in the garage, with the door open from the den to garage so she could always hear us and see us. When I got older, and was not living at home, we had to make sure that if we had phone conversations, Mom was on the other phone listening, or we had to tell her of what we spoke about if she wasn't home. It was a very dysfunctional home, but it was home.

One of the things that Daddy and I did that was just for the two of us was this: we would have a bowl of ice cream almost every night while watching TV. That is why I went from this:

to This:

And so, my battle with weight began.

And my self esteem spiraled down.

Happy Birthday to ME

So, today is my extra special Life birthday because it occurs on 1/11/11. Yep. January 11, 2011. Plus this is the year I turn 56, which 5 plus 6 equals 11. So I am anticipating some awesome things to happen this year. I took this photo at 1:11 pm (I already saw 1:11 am) when we were headed down to Phoenix to see our daughter Sarah and go out to the movies and dinner.

I am ready for whatever this year brings.....Universe? Bring it on!

And So the Story Begins

So, 56 years ago today at 2:05 p.m., in a small hospital in Georgetown, Texas, I was born. But there is a wee bit more to the story than that, of course.

The woman giving birth to me was my birth mother, Rachel Teague. She was a young woman, single with one son already, and she could not afford to take care of me. She told me that my birth father's name was William "Red" Lawson, who was in the military at the time, either stationed at Bergstrom Air Force Base or Camp Mabry. She never told me which one. At any rate, he left Austin without even knowing of my existence.

I must digress here and say that there is still a little more to the story, and as my husband likes to believe, I just may well be kin to Elvis Presley. You see, there was a time when Elvis was in Austin, Texas, traveling in his pink Cadillac. Rachel and a friend of hers went on a double date with Elvis and a friend of his. They had quite the time dancing in Austin and various honky tonks, and driving around the Austin area with the top down enjoying the atmosphere of the 1954 era. I will let you be the judge as to weather Elvis plus Rachel could equal Charlotte!

 I did find another interesting photo of Elvis when he was a baby himself, along with his parents and a baby girl who looks suspiciously like me when I turned one year old. I do believe Mr. Presley's ears have been passed on to the young girl. Hmmmm....very interesting.

Sticking to the facts of my birth, via Rachel, and the information that my birth father's nickname was 'Red' (and 100% Irish), and seeing as I was born with a little tuft of red hair meself, I do believe that I am the DNA product of Rachel and Red.
Since Red was no where to be found, and since her parents were the very strict religious type, her father being an Assembly of God preacher in Austin, she decided it best to give me up for adoption. She found Hunter and Clarine Degress through a mutual friend in the Sheriff's office, who knew that they had helped another girl 'in trouble' and found a home for her baby. Hunter and Clarine knew that my adoptive parents had been wanting a baby for the past 14 years. Hunter had been my Dad's best friend from his childhood days up until Dad died in 1984. So, they set it all up that Rachel would be taken care of, all expenses paid, and when I was born, I would go home with a new set of parents.

Waiting in the hospital to take me home were my new parents: Robert Eugene Bryan and Mildred Lucille Pearson Bryan. My birth grandmother Susie Teague Mooney was there also and she held me before I was taken home by the Bryan's. That incident angered my Mom very much because she had specific instructions that Rachel nor any of her family were to see me or hold me after I was born. One she found out that Nanny (my birth grandmother) had held me, she did everything in her power to get them to release me to go home, and after speaking with my pediatrician, Dr. Clifford Thorne, I was released to go home...at 8 hours old.

I have some old movie footage of Mom and Dad coming out of the little hospital in Georgetown, along with Clarine and Hunter, coming down the steps of what looks more like a house than a hospital. I did forget to mention that Mom did not want me born in Austin, so that the birth announcement would not come out in the paper. Hence, being born in Georgetown, which back then was very far from Austin.

I arrived home to 5102 Woodview, Austin, Texas...ready to be loved by my new family.

This is the Year of Music

For quite a few years now I begin the New Year by finding it's name. This year began it's dawn as beautiful music woke me from my sleep. Over the next few days my world seemed to be filled with song, and I felt compelled to sort through all the CD's we have, and of course, putting them in alphabetical order! I even went through the songs I have on my computer and put them in order. (Aha..there's one lesson...music has order to it.) My heart soared as I decided that this would indeed be the Year of Music. From time to time I will be posting songs which have surfaced, wanting to be heard..to make the list so to speak, of the music that will guide me through this year. I hope you will enjoy them as much as I will.

Cat Stevens - Morning has broken

Morning has broken on this New Year of 2011

"I Grieve" by Peter Gabriel

I was happily getting ready for my daughter Sarah to get off work down in Phoenix and drive up to spend New Years Eve with me. I tried to get her to stay down in the valley and go out with her friends, yet she continued to say she just wanted to be here with her Mom. So I had made the snacks we usually ate when she used to live at home. All her favorites: Stew with Monkey Bread, Shrimp cocktail, chips and Velveeta cheese sauce, and hot spiced apple cider.



I was just about to put the bread in the oven when my phone rang. It was a message from Sarah, which I thought would be telling me she was on her way up the mountain. Instead the words "Mom, Ashley, Carlos sister just died. She got in a car accident." I instantly remembered that here I was in this intense grief journey myself, and now this. My precious daughter just lost one of her best friends. No details yet, but by the time she drove up the mountain I had found the news report from Maryland. One vehicle involved, no names released, but there were two young men who were flown to trauma centers.

Sarah came through the door, dropped her bags and we hugged. She cried. I cried. More loss.


We spent the evening laying on the couch, barely watching the movie we picked out...each lost in our own thoughts, yet being there for each other. I asked Sarah to tell me about Ashley...bringing out her happy memories of the two of them together. We laughed some. We cried some. All this loss.

We awoke at 12:10 with some beautiful music playing at the end of the movie we ere watching...we had slept through the New Year's arrival. We said, 'Happy New Year' and Sarah fell back asleep. I watched her sleeping for another hour, making sure she was sleeping soundly, my beautiful daughter...then I quietly added another log to the wood stove and went to bed.

Thinking about all the loss...all the loss.....and thanking God for strength, courage and peace that we would both need during these next weeks as we grieve.

Welcoming in 2011

As the last days of 2010 trickled by I experienced intense grief over so many losses this year. It was an interesting feeling, to allow myself to be enveloped in sadness and to be comfortable with wearing this garment of grief.

I found it interesting that as I prepare to lead the new grief group forming at church, that I would be entering this sacred ground to look at all the loss in my own life. It wasn't pretty. I cried. I held a few sorrow events in my honor. Mostly I just allowed the grief process to take it's own course, and I followed.

It seemed everywhere I turned, grief was there. I heard the song 'I Grieve' on the TV one night, and found it on You Tube afterwards and with soul wrenching cries, I let a lot of the held in emotions to breakthrough to the Light. It was there, as the light shone on these painful memories, lost relationships, loss of mind function, loss of job, loss of health, loss of the only person in Marty's family who loved me unconditionally from the first time I let her, and loss of Marty's Gram, who came to love the hugs I gave her when we would go visit. There was just so much loss, so many tears, so much pain held deep within my soul.

I also noticed that those with whom I shared this intense grief with were not very comfortable at all. They were used to seeing me smiling, happy, full of Light and Peace and Encouraging words for everyone. They did everything they could to cheer me up, to lighten the load, to make sure I had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I did finally pretend, for their sake, that I was just fine (and I was, even in the depths of grief), and Christmas was wonderful and we were anticipating having a Happy New Year.

Yet, underneath it all. I grieve. And all is well with my soul...just as it is.