Write of Passage 2 -- Everything Falls Apart

June 23, 2012:  The day I had held in fear since we first started planning Hannah's Rite of Passage, arrived today at 5pm.  The phone rang, and on the other end of the line was Patty our mission trip leader. Her news was devastating and had me crumbling into the nearest chair....our trip had been cancelled. Seems that several participants had to back out last minute for personal reasons. Patty apologized over and over, saying this rarely ever happened. "What are we supposed to do," I cried out loud. We had our flights. We had reservations at a B&B for an extra 2-night stay. We had all our plans put into place. The best Patty could do was offer us either another trip at another date and time, or World Servants would refund our mission trip money and cover the cost of our cancelled flights should we decide not to go at all, ever.  I couldn't believe it. I held the phone in my hand, but my mind was racing out of control and my body was collapsing under the weight of the news.
Everything had just fallen apart, with only three weeks left before we were to get on our plane.

I hung up the phone and started crying. Hannah wasn't home. She had left for work a half hour earlier and I knew she wouldn't be back until close to midnight. There was no way to let her know what had happened, not that I was ready to. I couldn't even comprehend the full ramifications of what had just happened--how in the world was I going to tell her? As my panic grew and my tears spilled out, Josie (my youngest), took on the role of mother, soothing me with those tried and true "parental" one-liners I'd used all too often in the past...."It'll be ok. Everything will work out. Just breathe. Things will be fine."
I appreciated her words, but I knew I also needed to talk to Dan. He would give me some direct advice, he would offer a solution, he'd know what I needed to do. But a quick search around the farm didn't turn him up. So I headed back inside and did the only thing I could think of. I fired up my computer and started all over again.

Evan Almighty

As I waited for "Google" to load, a scene from Evan Almighty (a movie we had just watched the weekend before) began playing in my mind. It was the part where Morgan Freeman (God) chuckles when Steve Carell (Evan) tries to argue that building an ark doesn't "fit his plan." Was God chuckling at us a bit too, as we kept "telling" Him all the wonderful ways we were going to serve Him in Puerto Rico? With all the twists and turns and stops and starts we'd had over the past 11 months, was God really trying to clue us in and say, "It's time you leave the details to Me?"
As this idea rolled through my psyche, it connected with another long-time belief of mine....."God helps those who help themselves." So, with an open mind and a prayer in my heart, I clicked on a couple new volunteer opportunities in Puerto Rico. One for the El Yunque National Rainforest and the other for a pet rescue shelter. I wrote down the phone number for the first, and shot off an email to the second. Then Dan walked in.
As I took a deep breath preparing to share my news, I felt another small fear bubble to the surface of my heart. "This is a make-it or break-it moment." I knew that in telling Dan what had just happened, I would and could be about to find out his true feelings for these mother-daughter excursions. I mean, he's always been outwardly supportive. He's never told me not to go. But I always wondered if there was a deep-down part of him that didn't understand my reasonings for taking each of our girls on such a trip. This would be the perfect opportunity for him to softly discourage us, to tell us not to go, all without him having to be the "bad guy" by suggesting it. He could simply say, "Take this as a sign," and the trip would dissolve into nothingness.
But that's not what happened.
Instead, when I blurted my news and then cried, "Now what?", my husband, without blinking an eye, spoke these words I'll never forget: "You still go. Don't cancel anything. This trip has always been about you and Hannah spending time together. You'll find something else to do." Little did he know that besides the verbal question thrown between us, he had just answered some hidden questions of mine as well. In this strange twist of fate, I was given a great gift---a chance to see directly into the heart of my husband, and know once and for all that he supported these rite of passages, 100%.
It was then that I waved him over, and showed him my computer screen filled with the new volunteer opportunities I had found.  "See, it will be alright," he said. "You'll figure it out as you go. Just go."
It would be 1:00 a.m. before I shared the news with Hannah. It was then that she came into our bedroom to say she was home and to ask if three girlfriends could spend the night. I told her yes, but that I had something to tell her first. Even in the dark I could sense Hannah's body tighten. She knew this was an unusual request on my part, to talk in the middle of the night. She crouched down beside my bed and as gently as I could, I told her about the mission trip being canceled. Immediately her body sunk to the floor, and the words "Oh, no" escaped from her heart.
"Hold on," I said.
I filled her in on the rest--what I had found out during my evening of online investigating and that we would still go, no matter what. Although her dream of a mission trip was taken away so suddenly, to my surprise Hannah's resolve and strength and faith rebounded almost instantly. She leaned in and and gave me a hug, whispering into my ear, "It doesn't matter what we do, Mom, as long as we're together."
Ok, but that 's the easy part, my thoughts replied. I was still silently anxious about what we were going to do and where we were going to stay.
As Hannah turned to leave, she got half way to the door, when she turned around and came back to my bedside. Giving me another tight hug, she added, "We'll go on faith, Mom. We'll trust what God has planned."
And with that simple, yet incredibly faithful statement, I fell back asleep knowing that God had just clued me in---He would be the One tending to all the details.

RainForest Inn

Post Note: Over the next 3 days, I would contact the El Yunque National Rainforest to inquire about volunteering opportunities, and I talked with Bill at the RainForest Inn, where we were to stay our final 2 nights in Puerto Rico. (Sue's Place, which I had originally booked, turned out to be yet another "falling apart" in our plans. When I called to confirm our reservation, I was told by the owner that she never accepted our booking. Instead, Sue's Place would be closed that week we were traveling, and she, in turn, would be on her own vacation.) The RainForest Inn turned out to be a wonderful blessing! It was actually the first place I had found online when Hannah's Rite of Passage process began. At the time, I thought it would be too far away from where we would be taking our mission trip. But the place never left my mind; it was always popping into my train of thoughts, my research, my online investigating. When I called Bill on the phone to inquire about extending our stay, he was a world of information and support. Their inn was right outside the El Yunque Rainforest, and he offered to dig up volunteer opportunities for us prior to our arrival. I booked our full 10 day stay in Puerto Rico with him and his wife, Laurie. With that done, I breathed my first real sigh of relief. Somehow I knew this was the place we were meant to be.

Write of Passage 2 -- Eleven Months of Legwork

September 2011-June 2013

El Yunque Rainforest

Like I said, Hannah and I turned many a stone over, trying to find the perfect fit for her Rite of Passage. Below are just a few of the ideas we kicked around during the 11 months prior to  leaving for Puerto Rico. Some of these ideas were explored in great detail, others were nixed within 24 hours of conception---like the trip to Ghana, when we found out plane tickets would cost well over $2,000 a piece---way beyond our budget, if Hannah hoped for any financial help with college from her parents!  For 11 months Hannah and I would close in on a particular geographical area and type of volunteering, only to have our hopes and plans dashed for one reason or another. Time and time again, our research and ideas were wiped clean, much like an eraser being swiped over a chalkboard drawing. But with every blank board we faced, Hannah and I would start anew with determination, despite our disappointment.  

• Mayan region of Mexico
• Branches of the Vine--Ghana, Africa
• Turtle rescue in Guatamala
• Casas por Cristo Missions
• Forget Me Not Ministries
• Peruvian orphanages
• Student International, Dominican Republic
• World Servants, Puerto Rico

World Servants finally met all of Hannah's criteria--a mission trip that would lift us up and off the continent of the U.S. and place us on "foreign" soil; a trip that wouldn't feel too much like a vacation but would work us mind, body, spirit; and an adventure that would include a team of volunteers from all different ages, races, and varying backgrounds.  The bonus for me in having Hannah pick Puerto Rico was that it was (and is!) a territory of the United States.  I would no longer have to worry about taking her out of the country, relying on passports for entrance and exit, with intensive/extensive customs to pass through. Although the culture would be new and exciting, and the language barrier a bit of a challenge, we wouldn't have to "leave" the U.S. to experience any of it.
All of that meant great peace of mind for me.

After several more email exchanges with Patty Juarez, our contact leader at World Servants, Hannah and I finally booked two spots on their team leaving for Puerto Rico, July 28-August 4. As the weeks passed, information began trickling in via snail-mail, and one day a huge white envelope arrived with our names on it. Inside were our registration forms, applications, flight information, and packing lists. In the days ahead, I sifted through all of it, eventually going online to reserve our round-trip flights. I decided to pad an extra two days into our itinerary at the end of our week, so that Hannah and I would have a chance to breathe and reflect upon all that we had seen and done. This decision meant renting a car and finding an additional place to stay. But I knew that these two days would become just as valuable as the work we would be doing, and that we'd need the one-on-one time after we said goodbye to the new friends we would be making.
So, with our flights booked, I began searching for a place to stay those extra two nights. I finally stumbled upon Sue's Place, a little loft located near Puerto Rico's El Yunque National Rainforest.  For years, Hannah and I had talked of seeing and hiking through a real rainforest, and here was our chance to do it! Making this a part of her Rite of Passage was a dream come true--and after calling Sue to reserve the room, I thought we had locked the final piece of our long-awaited puzzle into place.  

Write of Passage 2 --- A New Journey Begins

El Yunque National Rainforest - Puerto Rico

Hannah's Rite of Passage began 11 months before we actually boarded the plane for Puerto Rico on July 28, 2012. My middle girl had a very specific picture inside her head of what she wanted her mother-daughter trip to look like. Turning that trip into a reality, however, proved quite a bit more challenging than I had anticipated.

First and foremost, Hannah wanted the essence of her adventure to be a mission-oriented. An opportunity to give aid, assistance, support and care to those in a particular need--be it people, animals, or nature, as in our all too often neglected environment. We googled, we hunted, we networked. We talked with those who had taken mission trips in the past, with those who lived among the less fortunate, and with those who knew a friend of a friend, who might know someone we could contact. We did a lot of leg work. We turned over many a stone. Throughout all our months of planning, we rode a roller coaster ride of emotion, as our ideas materialized and then dissolved, over and over again. We got excited, and disappointed. Energized, and discouraged. In the end, when we finally had every "i" dotted and every "t" crossed, and we knew where we were going, and had booked our flights to get there....when we were confident, and clear, and ready to roll....that's when everything fell apart.
Little did we know, that as it did....it was actually all falling right into place...... 

Another Mother-Daughter Journey

Hannah and I left on her Rite of Passage, Saturday, July 28th, heading for Puerto Rico, and more specifically the Rainforest here. It was a whirlwind day of travel, to say the least.

Although I am journaling our experience every single day, and will share more later, for now I wanted to send off this much. Hope you find a little something worth holding on to......

Journal Entry, July 29th:  "I'm beginning to feel my heartbeat fall into rhythm with the heartbeat of the rainforest. My soul is sitting cross-legged and happy at the edge of a place called Peace."


Peace be yours today and always,
Jolene

A Winter's Journey

(A piece written several years ago, when I was going through a difficult time and was in a difficult place).

I took a walk through the January woods the other day, in search of winter’s beauty.  It was to be the first step on my journey to revive and reclaim my faith, which had become battered and sorely bruised.  My heart had quietly whispered to me that in the beauty of winter, I would once again see the face of God.  However, as I began my journey on the snow-covered path, I didn’t see the face of God at all.  I saw only the deadness that winter had to offer.

     The trees were stripped bare of their beautiful fall garments, and their bark was as dry and brittle as my faith had become.  Nothing moved except winter’s cold wind that stung my cheeks and burned my lungs.  Even the branches overhead appeared as gnarly, bent fingers clawing at each other in some imaginary struggle.  “There is no beauty here,” my mind scolded my breaking heart.  “You won’t find your faith in such a desolate place.”  My heart, weak as it was, pleaded that I continue on.  So I trudged deeper into the winter woods.

     Four dead leaves halted my search for faith in its snowy tracks.  These four dead leaves clung lifelessly to a dead, barren branch and my withering heart could stand no more.  A half-crazy laugh bubbled beneath the surface of my being, as I felt myself slip off the edge of hope.  Dead leaves dangling from a dead branch!  You’ve got to be kidding!  “You’re dead!” my mind screamed.  “Give up the fight!  You have nothing left to offer!  Just let go!”  My mind then quieted and spoke once again to my heart.  “There is no beauty here.  Only dead leaves, dead branches, and a faith to match.”

     It was then, when both my feet and my search had stopped, that I caught my first sight of winter’s true beauty that day.  A deer in the distance lifted her head, alerted to my strange and new scent.  With my thoughts interrupted and my feet no longer moving through the crusted snow, my heart heard a faint voice whisper, “Be still.”  The deer darted deeper into the safety of the thicket, but my feet remained firmly planted on the snowy path.  “Be still,” the whisper came again, and my mind obeyed.  The words rustled once more through the four dead leaves dangling from the branch above my head.  “Be still and know that I am God.”  I breathed the words in deeply, and as I did, they seeped into the cracks and crevices of both my heart and mind.  I closed my eyes, and allowed my heart to pull in all that was around me.  I heard the pecking of a bird on a limb high above in the treetops.  I smelled the beauty of winter in my prickling, cold nose.  And I felt the hand of God upon my shoulder.  “Be still and know that I am God.”

     Slowly opening my eyes, I was no longer standing in the same winter woods in which I began my journey.  There were sights and smells and touches of life all around me.  I was afraid to move, for the spell of faith being restored I feared to break.  As I tilted my head upward, in search of the pecking bird, the warm, whispering voice washed down upon my face.  “You are my beloved.”  Tears welled up within my eyes, and the guilt in my heart protested.  “Me? No, there must be some mistake.”  For really, how can one who has lost the sight and touch of their faith ever be considered “beloved?”  But the voice would not be silenced, and as it chanted again, the beauty of winter seeped into my being, and together my heart and mind offered up one single response.  “Thank you.”

     “Be still.”  I wrote these words into the untouched snow beside my path, and into the untouched cavity of my faith-searching heart.  It is only in being still that we can see what really lies before us and within us.  In my search, I discovered my faith was never truly lost.  It was only hidden, like the forest floor beneath the snowy blanket of white.  And the face of God was never absent from my view.  I had just forgotten what it could look like.  The face of a deer, a bird in flight high overhead, and even four dead leaves dangling from a tree branch.  Yes, even the leaves were now a symbol of faith for me.  My eyes and heart had opened to see them for what they truly were—a reminder for that tree—that living tree—of what it used to be and what it would be again in the coming spring.  Those leaves didn’t abandon the tree.  They stayed, even through some of the most harshest and coldest of days that tree had to face.  We all have someone who stays with us through our harshest and coldest of days.  God never leaves us or abandons us, even when we feel we have lost our faith.  Like the four leaves, He stays.  That is the beauty of winter, and in turn, the face of God.

Autumn Awakening

Upon my autumn carpet,

its beauty stops my journey.

My thoughts turn from what was to what is,

as I stoop to behold the ruby at my feet.

Red, vibrant, burning with fire,

its fall from grace not long ago.

My fingers slip beneath its delicate features

and I stand holding it gently.

It’s soft within my grasp,

still breathing life from a branch

stretched far overhead.

To my eyes, I lift my perfect treasure,

ready to admire its boastful beauty.

Behold, its ragged edges,

the small scars upon its surface!

Its velvety skin is torn and tattered,

bruisings of brown have begun their assault.

My treasure, thought to be perfect, is,

upon closer inspection, far from it.

My mind slows, and my vision yields.

Beauty lies not in our perfection, my heart whispers,

but in our flaws, by which our vulnerabilities are exposed.

It is in our weaknesses, that our strengths are revealed,

and our strengths shall carry us upon the breeze.

Though we fall,

our beauty does not end.

For all that lies within us, becomes one

with that which catches us,

that which is waiting,

patiently,
to welcome us home.

BEGIN

It's time...

I did something two weeks ago, that I've been waiting a long time to do.
I got a tattoo.
I'm sure it was a surprise to some when they saw it, and maybe a disappointment to a few others.
Or maybe not so much a disappointment (at least I can hope), as that maybe a few were just left wondering, Why?
I didn't do it to provoke reactions. Though the reactions I have been given have been varied and somewhat interesting. Those in my life I expected more from, gave less. And those I thought would be closed off to the idea, actually threw their arms wide open and celebrated with me.
Begin. It's always been a favorite word of mine. To begin. Today. To be the person I hope to someday be. To begin. Today. Breathing a bit deeper, praying a bit longer, and dreaming a bit larger. To begin. Today. Picking up the pen and putting it to paper. To begin. Right now. From where I am. With what I am. In hopes of uncovering every last ounce of all that I am.

Water for the Soul

Recently, I finished reading the most amazing book--Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen.I have to say, this is the best book I have read in a long--LONG time.
The author's writing seemed to seep inside my very soul. The vocabulary was so rich and warm, you could almost taste the words upon every page. They fed my writer's spirit, and I found myself wishing I could write with such passion, such detail, such pull. I'm not one to write fiction....but, oh to be this good, if I could! How thrilling it would be to move the very hearts of my readers, the way my heart and soul were moved by reading this book.
Most of you know by now the setting and story line of Water. But here's the thing....I don't even like circuses. Clowns, big tops, the sight of all those animals cooped up together in un-natural surroundings. No. This has never been a scene for me to seek out, let alone spend time in.
Yet the world of the traveling circus, circa 1930, opened up in such a way when I opened this book, that I was immediately pulled in and loving the life of a stowaway carny. I only had to read the prologue to be completely captivated. After that, I found it physically painful to have to set the book down whenever "real" life demanded that I tend to those pesky duties and responsibilities that kept piling up, while I whittled my days away reading.
I have Hannah to thank for my reading this book in the first place. Without her, Water would most likely have sat upon the living room bookshelf, totally overlooked, and gathering dust indefinitely. Neither the front cover nor the back, with its short description, ever intrigued me. The book had been a gift given over a year ago, and I for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.
But alas, my middle daughter pulled forth its spine from the collection gathered around it, one day during her spring break. She asked me what it was about, and I said, "I have no clue. I've never read it." Within an hour, she was gushing over the story that had been hidden within, and to my surprise, she had a hard time describing the beautiful prose she had unexpectedly uncovered....."Mom. The writing. The writing is so....so.....good."
Her breathlessness dumbfounded me. What was so powerful that it so completely captured the attention of my 17-year-old daughter? I found out two days later, when I too, picked up the book and cracked its cover. The author made us feel like we were the ones jumping on that circus train. I could feel the leathery skin of Rosie, and I swear I could feel the sting from August's cane. It was a ride I wasn't expecting--but when it was over, I realized I was better for the journey I took.
The best part was walking alongside Hannah through it all. We were able to share our experiences, our questions, our discoveries, and our disbelief over the turn of every page.
And when the story came to an end, it was better to have Hannah by my side, as I said goodbye to Jacob, Marlena, and Rosie.....and all the rest of our newly formed circus family. I will miss them terribly in the days ahead, but their memories will last forever.

Sew Alone

     I sit here in my quiet room, at the top of the stairs, inside a house that is equally quiet.  No one has come to move me; I am still nestled against the wall, directly beneath the window, whose shade was drawn many months ago. I miss the sunlight, the noonday rays, which used to warm my weathered and wooden exterior. Perfectly-cut squares of material rest upon my table, pieces of a well-patterned quilt waiting to be stitched. Together, we sit in our darkened state, wondering what is to become of us, confused by why we’ve been left alone for so long.

It wasn’t always like this—dark and quiet. Back when the curtain was raised, life was busy and so was I. For forty years I sewed inside this house, purposely stitching together pieces of fabric, large and small. Not by myself, of course. Her hands were there to lead and guide our work. Her fingers were steady and skilled. She also had a gift for color, texture, and pattern. In her mind's eye, she envisioned the endless possibilities a bolt of fabric could become, and together we created them all.
  In the early days we made clothes.  Dresses for the girls, vests for the boys. The house was alive, children were everywhere, and life moved faster than the whirl of my needle. Laughter bounced off the walls, as feet padded up and down the stairs. Those footsteps, I remember so well. They were timid and slow when the feet were young, but before long they grew solid and strong. Eventually, they became bold and brave enough to bound the steps two at a time. The house was happy. She was happy. I was happy.
  Time continued to pass, however, and one day the footsteps faded. All too soon, it was just her and me, spending quiet days inside the house, sewing uninterrupted as each day unfolded. She loved to sew, though. I could tell. For she sat with me in the morning, the afternoon, and sometimes late into night if the man of the house was still not home. Her fingers would fly with perfect precision, as she threaded two pieces of fabric together. With each dip and rise of my needle, we worked side by side--silent partners, weaving bits of material into masterpieces, day after day, year after year.
  Of course, there were times when the laughter returned and small (but grand!) feet once again pitter-pattered past me. When they were here, she didn’t have time to sew. But, that didn't matter. The joy that filled the house filled me as well. Their laughter was contagious, their energy rejuvenating. Besides, I was never over-looked completely. Small hands would eventually find me, and slowly skim across my wooden surface. Little fingers would carefully inspect the colorful spools of thread, tucked neatly inside my cabinet door. The hands were curious, but gentle. It was like they knew how important I was to her. But I also knew how important she was to them. They would call to her from the top of the stairs and she would come, to play a game or look through a box of old people in old pictures stored safely on a closet shelf.  At night she would climb the stairs to tuck them in or chase away an invisible monster, who had somehow come to hide beneath their bed. They were so young, and she was growing older, yet age never seemed to get in their way.
  It was then that we started making the quilts, and we became quite good. We sewed large quilts to cover beds, and small quilts to cover babies. Together, we made quilts of every color and pattern. There were three, however, that I will never forget, and I knew they were going to be different from that day she came upstairs. In her arms she carried not crisp and clean store-bought packages, but three brown grocery bags, with a hand-written name on the outside of each one. When she reached inside the paper caverns, it wasn't purchased folds of fabric that she pulled out, but the tiniest of clothes, instead. They were pink and white, soft green and sky blue. She looked them over carefully, fingering each one, as her eyes seemed lost in faraway places. Then she picked up the scissors, and as I caught my breath, she began to cut. The shapes that emerged were odd and mismatched. No two pieces were alike. And yet, when she began to shape them together, like one would do a puzzle, they fit perfectly. It was like they were meant to become something new all along. What’s more, each quilt seemed to tell a story, a story about the joys and possibilities of life from the very beginning, and the pages that had already been written. When we finished those three quilts, we didn’t say a word. We just sat in silent awe, staring at the mosaic of memories laid out before us.
  Those quilts were among our last pieces we created together. One day she went down the stairs, and just never came back. I think she meant to, for those squares of fabric are still here upon my table. But it’s been too long, too many days have passed. I have a list of growing questions, which I may find have no answers. Memories keep me company, now, as I sit here in the quietness of my room. There are pieces of her sewn inside me, stitched forever within my heart. I will never forget her. But I wonder if I will be. Yes, my days have darkened, but my hope remains, that someday, someone will come back. Perhaps the hands that pulled the shade so long ago, will return to lift it again.  And if so, then maybe, just maybe, I might be cast in a whole new light.

Intercession

I stand strong and tall, amidst an ocean of green. Yet I am weak, defenseless, against the waves of destruction you roll towards me.

My years upon this land are many. More than yours.  More even, than all those who came before you.

Yet you are the one holding the number of my days.

Preserve me, and I’ll preserve you.

Cut me, and the bonds that tie us will forever be severed.

For my roots run deep—as deep as your own.

Beneath our surfaces, they intertwine.  

That which nourishes me, nourishes you.

Can you really see where I end, and you begin?

Braided together, entangled, by the hand of the Great Designer--our connection has no beginning, but I fear its end.

Preserve me, and I’ll preserve you.

Protect me, and I’ll protect you.

Live with me, and I’ll live for you.

Honor me, and in return, You will find you have honored yourselves.

Taken for Granite

A Place of Peace--Blissfield, Michigan

     It’s been a long time since my last visit. There’s not much here for me, except a cold black marker reminding me of all that I have lost.  When I come to this place, I don’t hear her voice, speaking words of wisdom or sound advice.  When I step softly in front of her stone, I don’t have powerful memories break the surface of my mind.  And when I crouch to trail my fingers across her name carved in granite, I don’t feel her presence sweep up and settle in beside me.  Actually I don’t hear, see, or feel anything when I come to this place.  Yet, here I am, once again.  Is it out of duty that I stand before this sacred stone? Guilt? Or requirement? 

     No.  I’m here only because of a small, slowly dying, sliver of hope.  A hope that someday this place will have something more to offer me.   I hope to find answers to long-ago asked questions. I hope for messages that will soothe my broken heart.  And I hope for clues that will finally put an end to my endless cycle of pain. 

     Today the sky is overcast, adding nothing but further dullness to both my world and senses.  The only color I see is the painted plastic flowers flanking the hard reality that sits before me.  Why is it these store-bought floral stems always seem a tad too vibrant, a shade too bold?  Why can they never match the true color of their living, breathing counterparts?  Are their qualities overstated in a vain attempt to parallel the joy and beauty of a real bouquet?  The wind stirs, ruffling the uniform-shaped petals, and upon its breeze I am startled by the warm, whispering sound of a voice I had almost forgotten.  I catch my breath and strain to listen, leaning myself forward into the heavy air.  Her words sweep gently past my ears, and I find myself suspended if only for a moment.  “Be careful,” she says.  “Do not become like them.  Be not cold, plastic, rigid, or less than.  Your life has purpose—live it.  You have gifts—use them.  Your dreams are credible—don't deny them.  There is a world anxiously waiting for you.” 

     Her voice fades, and my eyes drift from the plastic flowers to her name etched in stone.  Dark, embedded letters identifying the woman who still pulls at my heart, yet whose passing has left it cold and empty.  My mind suddenly opens the vault of once-happy pictures, pictures of long-ago and put away.  I thought by locking them up, the pain of losing her would lessen.  I thought my world needed living pictures, walls filled with today’s snapshots, for me to heal.  I was wrong.  Closing the door to her memories, closed off a palate of hues my heart so desperately needed.  With her images now slipping back in, color begins to seep back into the grey-shadowed landscapes of my life.  Her memories bring beauty, give beauty, to all that I see.  They are gifts. Her pictures splash against the stark white canvass of my heart; I can see her eyes, her smile, her tender face.  She is here with me—in all her beauty—once again. 

     As my heart refills, the soil of my soul begins to stir.  The roots she planted there so long ago push downward, as tiny shoots of inner strength stretch upward.  I take a deep breath and tilt my head towards the heavens, praying for healing water to come.  The grey clouds above me, concede, break open and a soft rain begins to fall.  My face rejoices in the cool wet drops.  I have cried a thousand tears for my yesterdays, and today I find there are no more to give.  The rain, however, is willing to do the weeping for me.  I stand there open, exposed, the dryness of my soul soaking up the restoring graces of life-giving water.  My body shivers with the chill now dominating the air, but I feel a warm blanket wrap around my shoulders.  I feel the soft touch of the hand placing it there.  Her presence is strong, undeniable.  She is everywhere, enveloping me in a layering of her love.  She is doing what all mothers do best—she is comforting her hurting child. 

     Today I heard her voice.  I saw her face.  I felt her presence.  This place—which had been cold and lacking—finally released the one gift it knew I truly needed.  It wasn't an answer to a small human-size question, nor a clue to some long-standing mystery.  Instead, I was granted peace. True peace. Peace which will surpass all understanding—given in a place never to be taken for granite again.  

Are You Awake?

“You’re stalling your life change.”

These words were catapulted at me from across neutral ground today. They held no trace of malice, only intention.

To hit their target, dead-center.

My shield of self-denial, shattered with the unexpected blow. Exposing a fragile truth, which had been deep, down, dismissed.

Instantly, all air vanished from my lungs, and the earth quaked beneath my feet.

I fell, breathless.

But in the deafening silence that remained, I felt a new wind brush fresh upon my face.

With a fragrance strong enough to awaken the sleeping dream within my soul.

And as I bowed to push myself upright, I found my feet rooted in the soil of determination.

Yet fluid with forward motion.

Ready to move me, once again, towards the change that patiently waits to become my life.

A Day Well Spent

The family took a drive to Bath, MI yesterday, to spend the afternoon on Hazel Ridge Farm. This has become somewhat of a tradition for us each December......as HRF is the home of Robbyn and Giljsbert (Nick) van Frankenhuyzen. (He is the illustrator for several Sleeping Bear Press books, including the official Michigan Children's book, The Legend of Sleeping Bear.)
We picked up Cote and Eric along the way, and the six of us spent a laid-back three hours exploring the farm and the surrounding 40 acres (wooded trails and grassy meadows). We lingered over the painted originals hanging on the barn/studio walls, and drank hot apple cider while eating too many homemade buckeyes. We dared and dodged snowballs outside, using the trees and each other (and occasionally total strangers), as our protective shields. We laughed, and joked, and enjoyed our family, as we walked in wonder.
I have two favorite spots on this property......Nick's studio (especially the corner where his desk sits, with his paints, brushes, sketches all around), and the family's cabin which is nestled inside a cove of hefty pine trees, on the edge of a small frozen pond.







The studio inspires me to 
pursue my own 
passion.......writing. And the cabin inspires me to excavate and reveal and yes, even clutter up, my real life a bit.
The studio connection is easy to understand......seeing someone else use their God-given talents, and obviously loving what they do, encourages others to follow their own dreams.
But the cabin......this is a magical place that is almost too unique to describe in words. It is a one-room, rustic collage of a family's life lived out-loud.....rich with color, imagination, and no edge lines. They decorated the small space by their own rules, their own expectations, and the result is a place that vividly tells their story, without anyone having to utter a single word.....the cabin reads like a worn-out favorite book, of a family that has lived, breathed, and become in a tiny little space no bigger than most people's bathrooms.

Inside the cabin

 

If you ever get a chance to visit Hazel Ridge, go. Robbyn and Nick are warm and inviting, and as real as it gets. They host a Holiday Open House every year, usually the second weekend in December. The public is invited. But, I promise, you'll feel like family by the time you say goodbye.

Write of Passage - Day 14

August 15, 2009:  Juliet, IL - HOME 
(270 miles)

"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."  ~Dr. Seuss

Mementos of the Miles We Traveled

Our Rite of Passage ended today, not with a bang or a clanging cymbal, but more with just a quiet, reflective sigh. An almost inaudible release of breath. I'm not sure what I expected after two weeks on the road, how I thought this would all come to an end. Surely not as something so big and boisterous as a scene from a summer blockbuster movie. Or, on the flip side, a sugary-sweet moment from an after-school special. I wasn't thinking Cote and I needed to have one final gut-wrenching heart to heart, or climb one last metaphoric mountain in order to "properly" end to our 6,000 mile journey. Actually, neither of these dramatic conclusions even crossed my mind. 

Instead, the morning of our last day passed by with Cote and I driving along in a kind of enclosed and knowing atmosphere. Our time was spent exchanging a few tender smiles, a couple somber looks, and occasionally reaching across the space between us just to squeeze each other's hand. Simple mother, daughter stuff. Nothing earth-shattering. (Nothing to really write about.....so the fact is, I didn't that day.) At times, we sat in complete silence, cocooned within our own thoughts, imagining I suppose what our homecoming would be like, and how we'd feel when we finally set foot back upon familiar ground.

To be honest, because of the quiet manner in which our Rite of Passage ended, I have been anxious for days now trying to figure out how to write about it. With no "ah-ha" moment to report......with no grand, over-the-top moral to close out the final chapter of our story......what was I going to say here? Was there anything even left to be said? Could I simply write that we pulled into our driveway, and stepped into the waiting and welcoming arms of our family? Would it be enough to say, yes, we had come to the end of our journey, and we will now be forever changed because of what we did? Would this simple truth be enough, for you, my reader, or would you be left disappointed, dissatisfied? Could I really just say, "The End," and then walk away and let it be just that.....the end?

After several days of berating myself, I finally decided that I could......and that I will.
And when I do........everything will be ok.

Because after all, Cote's whole Rite of Passage came to be about the art of living. Day to day. Every second, every minute. It wasn't about focusing on one pinnacle moment, one heart-stopping revelation, but instead the journey came to exemplify how all the moments of life string together like a priceless strand of pearls. As Cote so eloquently stated back when all of this first got started.....
"It's not about just showing up and climbing a tree, Mom. It's about seeing everything there is to see along the way. It's about the journey...what it takes to get there. And I want to see it all. I don't want to miss a thing."

Thus, her Rite of Passage came to be about living, plain and simple. And seeing the beauty in the every day. About exploring life's possibilities, and uncovering the deep well of strength inside herself she didn't yet know existed. For two weeks, Cote learned to immerse herself wholly into life, to rely on all of her senses.....sight, smell, and touch.......to really experience her surroundings. She learned to recognize that quiet inner voice, the one that often gets blasted by the repetitive and pounding noise constantly perforating our world. Her journey became a lesson in what to do and what not to do in life......like, participate.....one should do it, fully, daily. As opposed to just sitting on the sidelines and warming the bench. Cote discovered the difference between taking a quick and easy route, in order to experience the unexpected joys and surprises along a more difficult and challenging one. She learned there is a time to Play. A time to Explore. And a time to take Risks. And she learned there are times to be mindful and walk gently with life. To not to be so fast to enforce her own will, but instead be willing to let patience and perseverance be her guiding forces. Cote's journey had her acknowledging and accepting that fear does exists, but that she could confidently step forward with the faith she already possessed. Faith in herself, in others, and in a Power greater than she could ever begin to imagine. She tested her instincts, and she slowed down long enough to hear the sound of her own beating heart. For that is where her dreams reside, she discovered, and if she learns how to listen carefully enough, she'll then be able to follow the path that will take her to them. Life isn't played out like in the movies......with one big bang, one long-awaited revelation, or one magical solution to one overwhelming problem......life is spent learning how to adjust, and reinvent, and reset your compass when you miss the mark or veer off course. And it's about waking up every morning, really waking up. And then noticing the quiet moments that take your breath away. And its about remembering to always, always, be thankful. Even when things don't turn out right. Because, chances are, eventually, they will.

Overall, we'd traveled far (both inward and outward), yet in the end, Cote and I were able to come home again. At noon on August 15, 2009, we set down our suitcases and embraced the love and safety that was there waiting for us. Home isn't always four walls and a roof, however. We realized it's the place where unconditional love resides, the place where the lights are kept well lit, even when you're too far away to see them.

My hope is that as Cote begins her next great adventure.......the one that she will now travel without an immediate family member by her side.......she will remember the lights of home will always be left burning........there will be a beacon of light on the horizon of even her darkest of days......to remind her of the  love that will always be waiting to embrace her and welcome her home.