Easy

Can't quite believe how quickly six months have flown past me, in a rush and a blur. Can't quite process all that's happened in the interim, both the large and the small, the wonderful and the awful. Sometimes I suspect that it might be easier to fall apart than pick it apart. 

So once again, I'll lean lazily upon the familiar: words from a song that simultaneously soothes and sears my psyche. I suppose that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

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I want my mind to pull me through;

Up until now, that's been hard to do.

But how could I know, how could I know 

It'd be easy?

I want my heart to stand alone,

To be the one that's made of stone.

How could I know, how could I know

It'd be easy? Easy as falling apart.

Woke from the sweetest dream,

Brought to the floor;

Robbed of the only thing

That I'm living for.

I want the sun to shine on me,

To show me the way and set me free...

How could I know, how could I know

That it'd be easy?

Easy as falling apart.

The farther I fall, the more I know

That I'm gonna have to let you go.

But how could I know, how could I know

That it'd be easy, easy...

Easy as falling apart.

Welcome mat

Why, hello. No, no; I'm glad you stopped by. It's good to see you here.

It's been a week of reunions on-line and off, with more on the horizon: old friends (including one really old friend, which: wow), the San Antonio clan, the forty acres, a host of familiar faces, young and old, from the kids' school...

... and everything autumn, even though I know that summer will linger 'round the edges for another month or two, at least.

Doesn't matter; I love this time of year. Spring gets all the credit for new beginnings, and not without reason, but autumn: that's a stack of new spiral notebooks just waiting to be filled with thoughts and hopes and dreams that have yet to be imagined.

Fresh-faced potential. Delicious possibility.

The truth is that I always feel nostalgic walking 'round my campus of choice, but last weekend was especially weighted with meaning and emotion and sweet, misty sentiment.

Twenty years, said the voice in my head at nearly every turn.

Twenty years ago, in what may have been the only truly independent decision of my life, I drove from Vicksburg to Austin to start anew. I had fallen head-over-heels in love with the town... and I had faith that the town would love me, too.

It didn't let me down.

I found love: the real deal. I found direction. I found illumination. I found myself. I found the path to my entire life within those forty idyllic acres, in that bright and shiny time.

Now I'm back in this town, just a little north. It's home and it's good, but I imagine that a part of me will always miss Austin, all of my days.

It's here, to this town, where my mom will come for a day this week, to have what we hope will be the doctor's visit that assuages all of our worst fears.

And a few days later, some of my dearest friends will gather in celebration and memory of the apple-cheeked baby girl who, improbably, brought us all together.

I welcome the reunions; I cherish the connections to my past. And I hold my arms open to whatever or whomever arrives on my front step next.

Interlude

The truth, of course, is that I love every one of her gorgeous songs, regardless of the meanings behind them. It just so happens that this particular selection speaks volumes to me.

And tonight, for me.

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What I deserve is comfort for my shaken soul;
The water on my hands are tears from long ago.
My skin lets it in; it's always been too thin,
Since I can't remember when.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.

There's solace in this dusty earth and rocky hills,
But even starry skies can't mend my broken will.
My blood doesn't pour; there's nothing to bleed for,
I don't believe, anymore.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...

Now, I have done the best I can.
Oh, but what I've done, it's not who I am:
And, oh: what I deserve...

Time has left me feeling old and losing hope;
Hell, I've walked a long way just to find the end of my rope.
You say that I should pray: well, I would, but my faith has strayed.
I don't believe I'll be saved.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.

Transparency

So, what happened was this.

Three weeks ago, I had a free minute, maybe two, so I called my mother. Just to say hello.

And what she said, in reasonably short order, was that she'd been to the opthalmologist for her annual check-up. He'd promptly referred her to a specialist.

She'd gone to the specialist the very next day, and learned that there was an inexplicable, heretofore unseen mass at the back of her retina.

No one could be sure what it meant, but the fear was that it meant something called ocular melanoma. Which didn't sound good. Sounded bad, actually.

It's a tricky diagnosis, apparently; no real avenue for biopsies and such. So the specialist told her: come back in three weeks, and we'll see if it's grown. How much, how fast.

Well, don't cry 'till you're hurt, my father-in-law said, when I explained the situation in a shaky voice. He meant well, I suppose, but it was utterly meaningless advice.

Because I cried. A lot. Fretted, worried, railed and wailed. Wrung my hands in therapy at the injustice of it all. Implored my friends to rally 'round, and fell clumsily into my husband's strong shoulders.

And then, set the timer for three weeks.

Three weeks later, we were at the beach, still playing chicken with a hurricane and grieving long-distance for a dear friend and her own unspeakable loss.

My father and his wife arrived; I was happy they'd come, but too anxious to emote anything cheerful. Couldn't stop checking the timer. Kept staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring.

Finally, finally, after an unbearably long wait: there was some news. Not much, though; in fact, it was really nothing at all. No change.

Thank God.

The nothing was something, in that it was the first glimmer of hope and optimism we'd stumbled across for three weeks.

But still, there were questions; still, there weren't answers. So: further tests, a trip north, sometime this week.

For now, though, we all remember how to breathe. And relax just a little. It feels good.

And that's what happened.

Black cat

You know, if I were the superstitious type, I might be fighting a bad case of nerves right about now.

To begin with, I just crossed that bridge a few hours ago, for the first time since the initial bolt of lightning that struck here exactly three months ago.

We're staying the night with my sister, the newlywed, before we press on to the same beach where I stared, stunned and depressed, at big blue waves that kept rolling in and swirling out, wholly undisturbed by the turn of events in my small world.

We'll spend a few days by the water, assuming that no actual lightning bolts from an encroaching hurricane attempt to knock us off-course.

If all goes well, my father will join us for a visit. He's unaware that, as we ignore his elephant in the room, I'll be anxiously awaiting word on my mother's health.

It's a small space that we'll be sharing. Not enough room, really, for two elephants.

So even though I'm not the superstitious type, as far as you know, surely you'll forgive me if I avoid walking under ladders, broken mirrors and the number thirteen.

At least for the next few days. And then, I hope, I'll be able to breathe again. Knock on wood.

The ties that bind

Forty years ago this fall, they married, having met cute on an air force base in the Philippines some time before.

Even as a child, poring over the pictures of them in a small ivory album, I thought they made an unlikely pair.

She was tall, graceful, with a blond shoulder-length flip and a dreamy look in her eyes. He was shorter, darker, with a military-issue haircut and heavy glasses.

After a year or two, they welcomed a daughter. Three years later, they welcomed another, which made me a big sister.

Were we a happy family? I don't remember. And ultimately, it didn't matter. Before five more years had passed, he'd moved on, and nothing was ever the same again.

They remarried: first him, then her. They divorced, again: first her, then him. In between, other children were born: two here, one there.

He married again, this time for good. She swore she was done with marriage, with love.

Now, they see each other for milestones: when daughters are married; when grandchildren are born. Only when it matters, and no more.

But still, they are bound by that ceremony forty years ago. What do they think about that? I can't help but wonder.

Invisible ink

With two exceptions, I've told no one about this side blog project of mine.

I'm not sure why, exactly. Maybe it's because I'm embarrassed by the emotions I'm spilling so clumsily here.

In trying to process what's happening in my life, I've somehow managed to generate this pulpy mess that's awkward, cryptic and nonsensical.

The temptation to delete it all is intermittent, but strong, born mostly of pride, or a lack thereof.

Of course, I could make it private, but there's something strangely liberating about releasing these thoughts into the blogosphere, like messages tucked into bottles, then set adrift.

And so, for now at least, I keep typing, curious to see what happens next.