If It's The Fourth of July, It Must Be Time For Flashback Fireworks. It. Must. Be.

Four years ago, in 2009, Mr. J was in the midst of a hellacious chemotherapy protocol and I wrote one of my favorite posts. It captured the essence of pre-cancer TeamWedding and, better yet, how Samuel L. Chemo not only couldn't ruin TW's spirits but also how they were strengthened.

Three years ago, I reposted it, full of post-chemo TW joy and all of the things that were right in 2010 Halfglassistan, particularly in TWHQ. Jamie with no signs of cancer, officially in observation. I was happily and productively working full-time in my chosen field. 

And I also stated I'd post it again the next year, and the year after that. And I'm quite certain I thought at the time, I'd post it the year after that.

Which brings us to now. I've looked back in the archives.

I didn't repost it in 2011. I didn't repost it in 2012. Because as right as every thing was in my world in July 2010, it ended on November 1 of that same year. Mr J died. And the biggest part of me did, too.

Two years ago I was still in such a state of denial I pretended to everyone else that I was okay. I was anything but okay. 

One year ago, I was so far from okay, I had to look up to see rock bottom.

After espousing hope, gratitude, living in the moment, embracing how short life might be and after being praised for so much strength and positivity, it was hard as hell -- no it was impossible -- to put out here what I was really feeling.  

Because there is another half of the glass, and I've been living there an awful lot of the time. Out of control. Lost. Failing. 

Yeah. A self-admitted, overachieving, control freak. Failing. And falling, deeper and deeper.

Yet, in a single moment, exactly 379 days ago, I realized I didn't want to drown there. I wanted to fight. I needed to fight. And I had no idea where the woman I once was--the woman MrJ fell in love with--had gone.

The past year has been a lot of hard work climbing out of the bottom of that glass. A lot of hard work. Glass is slippery. And just because I decided I was ready to re-enter the real world, the real world wasn't exactly waiting with for me with open arms. So I've had to work that much harder.

Right now the hardest thing is actually accepting that Mr J is dead. Never coming back. Life will never be the same as it was. Crazy, huh? He's been gone two and a half years -- of course he's not coming back. 

Cray. Zee. Maybe. But I'm fixing it. And one way I'm doing it is replacing the scary, obsessive, I'm-never-going-to-feel-normal-again feelings with memories. Joyful memories. 

Which brings us (if you're still with me, and I hope you are) to the flashback fireworks.

FROM JULY 4, 2009: 

Saturday. In The Yard. Think It Was The Fourth of July.

I am an Army brat. A proud one. And I love the Fourth of July.  

This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show. 

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress: 

A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.  

There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking,"Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.  

But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.  

When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.  

And ... BOOM! HISS! CRACKLE! SNAP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! SSSHHHHCCCCOWWWW-OW-OW-0W! (that's what it sounds like to me; feel free to suggest alternate spellings below ...)  

The finale!  

We cheer! The kids beside us cheer! The kids on the road cheer! 

Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.) and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know). 

Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why. 

Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn. 

I'd tell them:

"Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house  ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."

But they won't ask. And they wouldn't listen. I wouldn't have.

And I was right. There really was nothing better than just that. And as short as it was, I wouldn't trade a moment of it.

If anyone is still with me (and I really, really, really hope someone is), I hope you stick around. I have asked that before and have said before that I was ready to write again. The thing is, the things I truly needed to write, I couldn't. The things I thought I needed to write just weren't true--at least not much of the time.

I launched this blog when I was going through a significant life experience. By sharing it here, I was told, more than once, that it gave people hope. Even if just a few people. If I can share this subsequent experience, perhaps it can help someone else. Even if just one person.

Even if just one person is me.

You Call It Hero Worship. I Say, "And...So?"

Today, 74 years ago, the first man to hold my heart and never let go came into this world. 

He taught me to read as easily as I breathe, to seek and question knowledge, to see wonder in the ordinary and made it absolutely impossible to not share his love for all things Disney and "Muffets." 

I thank him for stepping in and hearing my daily download and ending it with "I love you, honey" for more than two years now; for giving the best, safest, loving, tightest(!) hugs a girl could ask for; and for always being my hero, in uniform or not. 

I love you, Daddy. 

Happy birthday.

We Really Are One Big Neighborhood. Act Like It.

#prayersforBoston

Words To Live By

Decisions. Decisions.

“The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson


So, asks Tilly, "Who ya gonna be, Mom?"

And I say... "Hm. I'm working on it. I really am."

And CatCon chimes in with: "Normally, I like to mock you in the midst of your navel-gazing ... What?! You didn't KNOW that?"

(Well. Yes. Yes, I did. I just never heard her actually admit it.)

"But," she continued. (Of course she continued.) "You've had your share of shit to wade through."

Uh, what?

"Seriously. You seriously think I ONLY think about ME?"

(It has been a lifelong desire of mine to be able to pull off a well timed one-eyebrow raise. Moments like these are why. A practically audible eye roll sufficed.)

"OK. Point taken. But I only exist in your imagination, so by default, thinking about me IS thinking about you."

Damn her and her logic.

Tilly concurred. Damn her and HER logic. (And damn if I'm not jealous of HER ability to raise a derisive eyebrow.)

"So?" In unison, no less.

"You're stronger than you think. And you're smarter than you know. And I think I stole that quote from Pooh, but he and I are tight. He'd be cool with it."

"Anyway," CatCon continued. "Life sure as hell may have shown you that it's not fair and it can be cut way too short way too quickly. And you sure as hell have done a damn good job of hiding from living these past two years. A damn good job. But — odds are pretty damn good that you're gonna be here for a while. So who are you going to be? And how are you going to live? Because. You. Are. Going. To. Live. And — what if you don't? What if life once again proves to be cut way too short way too fast? How do you want to be remembered? As you lived? Or that you chose not to? To just exist?"

At this point, we're past eyebrow raising. I'm in awe. Mouth agape. Ah-gape.

"Stop it," she said. "Stop being so shocked that serious thoughts actually roll around in my pretty little head."

That sounded more like the CatCon I knew.

"And stop being so hard on yourself. Yeah. I know what you think. You think you've already failed because it's still so hard. Guess what? It's always going to be hard. It will get easier. But it may never get EASY. But guess what else? You're still here. And you're moving forward. And shut your damn mouth before a bug flies in it."

I did.

And then I asked her what inspired this rare foray into adult thought.

She replied: "Because I'm stronger than you think. And I'm smarter than you know."

And Tilly nodded as CatCon slipped back into the persona with which I'm far more familiar and said, "Duh. I'm you."

Damn them and their logic.

Of Faith And Friendliness. Still. And Always.

Every year since the founding of Halfglassistan, we've run this post on this day. Today is no different. The sentiments (still and always) are the same. The words, because I can't improve upon them, are (still and always) the same.

From Friday, April 2, 2010:

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole "love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.

In Which We Realize We're Moving Forward

This was, is, and always will be a place where Mr. J lives. As is my heart.

And this has been a place where we've previously said we're turning a corner, making progress, dreaming new dreams (see pretty much all of spring 2011).

We were wrong. We were so wrong, we were deluded. We were so deluded, we didn't realize we weren't headed up, but down. We were headed so far down, we hit rock bottom.

And it was hard. And painful. And humbling. But yeah, hard. Really, really hard. So hard that it scarred. So hard that it still hurts. But that's a good thing. Scars remind us of mistakes. Aches remind us that we never want to revisit that dark, deep hole.

That was about eight months ago.

You haven't heard from us because we've been climbing and scraping our way up out of that hole. And we still are, but there's a whole hell of a lot more daylight now.

We're gainfully employed, doing the kind of work we're supposed to do. We're creating again, letting our mind do what it likes to do best. We're writing again, letting our brain do what it was born to do.

And we've finally figured something out. We may have never stopped loving (and never will) Mr. J. But we did stop loving ourselves. And, we've got to keep living. Not just the whole, inhalation/exhalation, blood-pumping-to-the-brain thing. Actually living. Living. Living a life with purpose. With hope. With honor. With respect.

And with love.

Because now we're living for two.

Well. Soon-ish ...

By order of HRH Princess Snarkerella, Halfglassistan is undergoing renovations. All of the populace are alive and accounted for, but undergoing their own various reconstructions. Any inquiries should be addressed to HRH and will thoroughly reviewed by the second assistant to HRH's third assistant and replied to at HRH's whim.

So, you know, you should feel damn lucky if you were to hear back from her. I guess that you would mean you were pretty flippin' special, huh?

Um. Well, yeah.

See you on the flip side, kids. Be careful out there.

A Special Burn On Sunsets

"There are days when solitude is a heady wine

 that intoxicates you with freedom, 

others when it is a bitter tonic, 

and still others when it is a poison that makes 

you beat your head against the wall." 

-Sidonie Gabrielle

I have not always been a loner. In fact, another quote describes quite well my emotional evolution into solitude. From Albert Einstein: "I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity."

In my youth, particularly adolescence, I feared nothing more than to be alone. While my sisters slammed their doors and sulked with typical teen angst, I chose to remain in the most populous rooms. Oh, there was angst aplenty, no doubt; in fact I was probably angsty enough for the two of them combined, and then some. (Credit that strike-through above to my typing fingers becoming possessed by one or both of my sisters. Or parents. Or our childhood dog.) I. Hated. To. Be. Alone.

It wasn't until post-college graduation, upon moving into my first solo apartment after a multitude of roommates (known and unknown; sibling and stranger), that I developed a passion for privacy that was as unexpected as it was unquenchable. But it was glorious. Everything was mine. Mine to do with what I wanted, how I wanted, when I wanted. Silly as it may sound, the first night I realized I could go to bed without doing the dishes, picking up the magazines or straightening throw pillows was a major turning point. I'm not kidding; we are talking a fucking life event.

At least five years passed before I ever contemplated sharing space with anyone. In fact, I was in an intimate relationship with someone for the better part of a year. He never once stepped foot in my home. Part of the reason was a devastating end to my all-through-college romance. I trusted no one. Part of the reason, especially at this point, no one had proven themselves worthy enough to share my space.

Until Jamie. It took less than a month for me to give him a key. My hands were shaking and he asked if I was certain I wanted him to have it. I replied that they were shaking because I'd never been more certain. By summer of that same year, we were planning a wedding and I was giving up my lease so we only had one rent to pay. And we were nervous as hell.

Both of us treasured our solo havens. Sleepovers, weekends, vacations together -- none can prepare you for this-is-it-we're-both-stuck-here-even-if-we-run-away-eventually-we-have-to-come-back-here. To you.

I hope none of you reading are looking for tips on how we made it work. I don't know how we made it work. But it did. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't always easy. It was sometimes ugly. But it worked. And it worked very, very well.

So well that my first voiced fear (The biggest ones went unsaid. They were obvious and unsolvable and not worth wasting the precious days and hours we had left.) when I knew for certain his death was imminent was, to my sisters, "Who am I going to talk to? Oh my God. Who am I going to talk to?"

They responded, as they held me, "Us. You'll always have us." I cried out,"No-o-o... who am I going to talk to about you?"

And that's the worst thing. The absolute worst. The one person on the planet who knew me better than anyone else, who knew just what every little look, tone of voice or lack of it meant, is gone.

And I have never felt more alone. It's unyielding. I have so many people who love me. I do. And I know well how very blessed I am to have them. But even in the most comforting, safe, loving moments -- I have never felt more alone.

It's been almost 18 months since Mr J died. There is no more coming-back-to-you.

I praise God for whatever strength with which he infused me that prepared me to be on my own. I also praise God for the beautiful gift of the 10+ years he gave me when I wasn't.

I praise God for my darling Jamie no longer being in pain, and I praise him for the strength, the love, the support and the many people with which he's blessed me thus far.

But I also raise my cracked voice, my wet eyes and my pained heart to the Lord and ask for more. 

For more strength when I feel I can't go on.

For the strength to speak up during the times I'm not okay with being alone and I'm too proud to admit it.

For the strength to understand why the people who have silently left my life have done so.

And for the strength to forgive those whom I never thought would leave, but have.

But mostly, to keep the strength of solitude with which He's blessed me more freeing than bitter, more comfortable than tormented, and more understanding than anguished.

And yet ...

"Loneliness adds beauty to life.

It puts a special burn on sunsets

and makes night air smell better." 

-Henry Rollins

... is still true, too.

Mommy

I am not ashamed to say that, at 43, I still call my father Daddy. Neither of my sisters, 40 and clinging-to-49, do. (And knowing the way we sisters are, they don't even make fun of me for it. That I know of ...) In fact, they probably can't remember the day when the two-syllable title that so easily rolls off my lips did the same for them. I'm not sure why I do it; it's certainly not a regional or cultural thing for me. There's just something about it that makes me feel safe. Maybe that extra "-dy" is a mental hug. God knows his actual hugs can provide soothing and a feeling of safety like none other I've known.

And that's good. That's what Daddies are for.

On the flip side, I can't remember at what age I made the transition from Mommy to Mom. I do know when I made the transition back. Not all the time, mind you. Just when I'm scared -- which has happened a lot in the past 14 months. Scared for me. Scared for her. Scared about the stress of her being scared for me. And scared because I'm feeling absolutely and utterly useless to she and my sisters right now.

At this moment, she is on a cardiac recovery unit after having a blessedly uneventful femoral heart cath. At this moment, I am on my back, feet propped up and feeling pelvic pain breaking through the prescribed narcotics I've ingested.

When I spoke with her this morning, I apologized for not being there physically, but that I was metaphorically holding her hand as tight as possible.

And when I spoke with her this morning, I told her "I love you, Mommy," and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I hope she could hear with every breath, every utterance, every crack in my voice how very much I cherish her, even when I don't show it enough.

I'm not even sure that she caught it; but for me, that extra "-my" has a lot of power in it, too.

I love you, Mommy.

Dream a Little Dream of We

So. I just posted last week that I do not often dream about Jamie. More to the point, I shared that if I do, I prefer the nightmares. Ghoulish as that may seem, my reasoning was that at least when I woke up from a bad dream in which my Mr. J was dead, it was no different than my reality — and easier to let go. The happy dreams? The ones in which he was still alive, we were happy and life was as it once was? Those I dreaded. To wake up from those was infinitely more painful, as I was reminded upon waking that nothing is the same. Reminded twofold, in fact, as I'm faced with the painful reality every morning when I awaken.

Until this past Saturday. I don't know why I was so drowsy. No drugs. No drink. No illness. No particular reason to be exhausted. Nonetheless, I found myself sleeping off and on all day long. I don't mean a snooze here and there. I mean a two-hour nap, a half-hour to an hour waking, then another two- or three-hour nap. Odder still? Every time I drifted off, I fell into REM sleep.

And Jamie was there. Waiting for me every time. I can't tell you what the plot of each — or any — dream was. Just that I was there, Jamie was there and it seemed blessedly normal. And I didn't feel sad when I awoke. I felt grateful.

Grateful because I'd not experienced this unconscious series of dates with my darling since his physical being left me. Grateful because his metaphysical self had chosen to spend the day with me in such a way that I could see, feel and smell him. And interact with him.

Don't misunderstand. I have felt his presence. But it's been ethereal. This? These Saturday afternoon drowsing dates with my deceased husband felt earthly and otherworldly at the same time. And I didn't awaken crying and with a tightening of my heart, a rapid pulse and short breaths.

No. I awoke — each time — calm, smiling and one time laughing.

And instead of self-pity that this is the only time this has happened, and — quite possibly — may be the only time it ever does, I will not mourn its absence.

Rather, I will rejoice in its happening. And if it happens again, I will praise it for the blessing it is.

The Little Things

This morning when I woke up, I picked up my iPhone and held it about 1.327 inches from my face so I could see the time. It was 8:32 EST. Meh. Too early on a Saturday to get up. Too late — more to the point, too awake — to go back to sleep. I picked up my glasses so my astigmatic eyes could focus a reasonable number of inches from the bridge of my nose. As is the case most mornings, there are those familiar red dots on both my e-mail and Facebook icons.


I click my e-mail to see if there's a message from the bank that all my money is gone. Or from my mortgage company to say they're foreclosing on my home. Or from my investment firm to say that my little egg has cracked and rotted all over its equally little nest. It's important that I point out — and quickly, given that right about now, every member of my immediate family has a racing heart and thinking "What the fuck?" (Yes. Even my mother is thinking "WTF." In fact, my mother is thinking it the loudest.) — I have no reason to be worried about any of those catastrophic scenarios. It's just that I've never had reason to worry about it. Mr. J did. I never even knew how much money I had in my account. I just knew there was enough. I didn't get degrees in Journalism and English to reconcile a checkbook. I got them so that one day I could do, well, this.


The daily deep breath of unreasonably paranoid poverty averted, I was ready to move on to the red dot hovering over the familiar lowercase "f" icon. I scrolled down my news feed and The State (South Carolina's largest newspaper and the one that I marketed for six years. You know, back in the days when newspapers had marketing departments. Or newsrooms, for that matter.) had posted a story of a man catching a catfish. Not just any catfish. A 136-pound catfish. That's a big ass fish. In fact, that's what the photo caption said: "Man catches big ass fish." (Not really. The newspaper industry hasn't gone that far south. Yet.) This is an eminently shareable story, though. It just cries out for a "Holy crap! Check out the big ass fish this guy caught." Doesn't it?


So I looked around. There's no one there to hear my "Holy crap!" I knew there wasn't. There hasn't been for more than a year. And it never gets easier to wake up and realize that all over again every morning. We'll see how tomorrow, day number 400-something, goes. I don't expect it will be any easier than today, yesterday or last week to awaken to this new reality. (Please notice I did not use the trite "new normal." I despise that term. There is nothing normal. I accept that it's not the reality I chose, but the one that I have; however, I will never acknowledge that anything about it is normal.) It becomes more bearable. Less crushing. Tolerable. But not easy. Every day I make a choice to be here. To be present. To strive to live the life I know I'm capable of living. The life he wanted me to live. 


At this point, it's 8:43 a.m. I scrolled to my contacts, knowing that it's about a 70-30 chance I'll hear a groggy hello as I awaken the person I'm calling. I hoped for the 30 percent odds that would deliver an alert, coffee-already-consumed "Hey. How are you doing?"


And it did. When I heard it, I asked my father, "Hey, you ever fish in Lake Moultrie?"


"No. Why?"


"'Cause some guy caught a big ass catfish."


"How big?"


"Guess."


"Oh ... about 110 pounds." (Which brought a fresh "holy crap!" to mind. Who knew?)


"Nope. One hundred and eighty-six pounds," I said, drawing it out for effect. (And now is where I admit that fact-checking lowers my declaration by 50 pounds. You can take the girl out of the newspaper ...)


We continued talking, Dad pointing out that such big catfish are known to inhabit that lake. I pointed out that it wasn't your standard fish picture with human hand in icky fish mouth. The big ass fish was, in fact, on the ground in front of the angler looking like a seal. And a big ass seal, at that.


Then Dad says, "Hey, is there an award they give for Off-Broadway plays? You know like the Tonys? But not?"


"Hm. Yeah. Yeah they do. The Obies. O-B for Off-Broadway."


"O-B-I-E-S? That fits."


"Huh?"


"Crossword."


"Ah. Yeah, that's it. The Obies. Okay. I just wanted to tell someone about this big ass catfish. I'll talk to you later."


"OK."


"I love you, Daddy."


"I love you, too, honey."


A choice. Every day I make a choice to be here. And I did today. I will tomorrow. And it's not really my bills or my bank balance that challenge me. (Even though I have to do math. Damn it — I really thought I'd figured a way out of that.) It's the little things. Like having no one next to me to ask why I'm saying "Holy crap!" first thing on a Saturday morning.


It's the little things. Which really aren't little at all.

The Wonder That's Keeping The Stars Apart

Every child of the military knows where home is. Our mothers taught us that "home is wherever Daddy is."


That's been true all of my life and luckily, still is today. The SGM has been retired for decades now but just as Mom did for 30 years all over the world, she has maintained that one constant security for her children.


I've also been blessed to have the comfort and love of many others whose doors are open to me, providing not only safe haven — but also that undefinable, yet instantly recognizable essence that is home. Sisters. Cousins. Aunts. Friends. Even the familiar voices of faces I'd not seen since adolescence — one in Memphis, one in Phoenix and one in Kentucky — can reach through a cell phone and wrap me in a cloak of solace as surely as if they were tucking a blanket around me as I curled up on their couch.


But as safe — and perhaps much more importantly, loved — each of these make me feel, none has erased a singular longing.


I want to go home. My father holds me and tells me in his living room, "You are home."


I lie with my head in my big sister's lap, as she strokes my hair while I weep and long for home.


My baby sister holds me tight, both of us crying in her driveway. "You have so many homes. So many people who love you."


"No. I want my home." She holds me tighter.


I look at my godmother, who 15 years ago was also widowed in her early 40's. "I want to go home," I sob. Her shining eyes mirror mine.


And she says: " I know."


On a quiet November afternoon, in the home we had made, I peacefully held my husband in my arms as I waited for the gentlemen in the dapper suits to arrive. I calmly walked outside with them as they prepared to take him for one last ride. I kissed his beautiful face and watched as they closed the heavy black door. I turned to walk back inside, still determined and head held high. I summoned the same posture of dignity I'd tried to maintain throughout every challenge of the previous years.


I stood straight and tall until I recrossed the threshold of what was now just walls and floors, windows and doors. Just a house. Mocking me. I have no idea how many steps I took before I hit the floor. I have no idea how quickly, or how many, arms wrapped around me. How many I reached for and clutched.


In the moment, I had no idea where the grotesque sounds I heard were coming from. Sounds I'd never heard and hoped I never would again. I soon realized they were coming from me, and all too soon, realized I would hear them again. And again. And again as the months passed. Even if only in my mind as my mouth formed silent screams. It could have been at 3 p.m. and I was locked in the restroom in my office, hoping the running water would mask any gasp that escaped. More often, it was 3 a.m. and I couldn't stop long enough to catch my breath, much less think — or care — about what my neighbors might have thought if they heard. 


More days than I care to admit, at the end of the day, I'd pull my phone out as I walked to my car and punched 2 to tell Mr. J that I was on my way home.


But there was no home.


Because my best friend, my confidante, my cheerleader, my protector whose eyes and arms could erase fears in an instant and my playmate who could make me laugh and sing just as quickly was no longer there.


Over the past year, it's taken me a long time to realize that the same metaphor that marked the first twenty-odd years of my life is still true.


Now Jamie's heart equals home. And home is, was, and always will be where he is.


"... and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart.)"


And as long as I can keep sight of that wonder, I'm safe at home.


excerpt from i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) ©1952 e.e. cummings 

F & F, Redux*

*AKA in which we revive the "Flashback Friday: Because I'm Lazy And I Like Alliteration" device. Although this has little to do with laziness and all to do with love. (Like how I slipped that one in there?)


From April 2, 2010
"Of Faith And Friendliness"

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole"love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.