Monday, December 30, 2013

I'm cornbread - Who are you? 12/30/13

Have you ever had a piece of really fine, Southern-cooked cornbread?  Bacon grease, buttermilk, and an iron skillet are all involved in creating the delectable treat.  Its rich, flavorful, crunchy-soft texture makes it perfect as a bread or a "sopper" - a side dish designed to mop up grave or juices so nothing of a delicious meal is wasted.

It's obvious, is it not, that I am a fan of cornbread.  But this story has nothing to do with actually eating cornbread.  There was no cornbread in either of the Christmas meals in which I participated.  Ham was the main dish at both sides of the family's gatherings. The breads of choice were potato rolls and yeast rolls.  No, cornbread just popped into my mind one day.  The sixth day of our holiday trip, I was sitting in the living room with many beloved family members, and the thought just occurred - "I feel like a piece of cornbread.".  I was in the overwhelming emotional state of love, grief, exhaustion, recovery from illness, desire to help, desire to sleep - and I pictured myself as a triangle of cornbread.  I don't mean that I had been stirred and baked at a high heat.  I mean that the consistency and purposes of the piece of cornbread as it sits on the dinner plate seemed to perfectly portray my perception of how I react to all overtures and approaches to me.

First things first - I feel loved. I feel loved by friends.  I feel loved at work.  I especially felt loved when visiting the families this past week.  It's so good to get to see the family.  I love seeing and spending time with everyone.  We're all different, yet all a part of the same group.  I think of it as a meal on a plate - all your different items, and I'm the piece of cornbread.  Nobody would not want the cornbread there - I belong.

I feel covered.  I feel as if everyone wants to spread a layer of protection over me like so much butter!  Thank you, by the way.  I have needed a lot of protection this year.   Sometimes, without that layer of people to step up to others and say "Do you know who this is?" or "Let me tell you what you're dealing with here...", I would have dried up and crumbled away.  Many family, friends, and even social media acquaintances have spread a layer of protection over me by coming to my defense in some matter or sympathizing with their own experience stories that make me laugh and feel as if I'm not alone.

A good cornbread is a little crumbly.  It's a coarse bread, so those pieces sometimes just crumble away. I can identify with the crumbly nature of cornbread.  Innocent things - tv commercials, e-mails, greeting cards, comments, questions, advice - all of those can crumble me in a second.  Just as the fork doesn't mean to hit the cornbread on its way to the vegetables, the world doesn't mean to stab me. My consistency right now makes it easy for little things to just stick in and knock a piece of me away.  If anyone can actually give me a real, factual system for not being too sensitive, I will listen and try it.  How do you change the way you are emotionally made?  The important part, though, is that even though I may get a bit crumbled, so many others are there for me to hold me together.

To know I'm not alone is such an advantage.  There are big chunks of time when I am now physically alone.  (There will be another post someday on the advantages of dogs and cats.)  But I am not alone in any way other than that. Just as all the servings of food on a plate bump into each other, and the juices roll around to be soaked up by the cornbread, I am surrounded, in spirit, with so many of you that drop everything to be there if I call, text,  make a comment, or cry out through a status.  You reach out and I soak it up.  Thank you.  Just as cornbread is made richer by soaking in some juice (I'm thinking good old-fashioned beans and cornbread, a little sausage with it....), I am made richer and stronger by your support.  I am trying to take steps on the road to recovery.  When I stop still and stare, it may be your simple smile or pat on the arm that gives me strength to pick up my foot and take another step.

So, here's to the new year. I can make an honest toast that says "May it be better than 2013."  Even thinking that hurts, though, because 2013 contained my last months of my "old" life.  The life I thought I'd live forever. Thank goodness for the love and ideas and wisdom out there that this little ol' piece of cornbread can soak up. I might sit and stare and act a little bland, but please know I gather in your wishes, hugs and love and convert them to the strength to go on.  Happy New Year.


Saturday, December 14, 2013

I Want to Run With the Hobbit! 12/14/13

I saw the second installation of "The Hobbit" last night.  Yes, I'm a fan.  A regular fan, not a Comic-con level fan (although I have attended Comic-con, go figure!) I have read the book quite a few times during my life, including one time OUT LOUD, completely through,  to my children. I love Bilbo, the dwarfs, their escapades, Gandalf, Gollum, even Smaug.  Orcs and dragons are bad.  Hobbits, dwarfs and elves are good.  What's not to love?

What I love best, though, is the way that the characters that are small in stature think that they are setting out (in the beginning) to accomplish a small task, for themselves.  The dwarfs want their homeland back.  Bilbo simply wants to experience a little adventure.  However, since they have to cross the paths of other species, travel strange lands and awaken old rivalries, they end up being elevated to little heroes whose somewhat selfish endeavors could actually save their world from evil!
(My own liberal summation, apologies to Mr. Tolkien and all the experts.)

I sat through the opening of the movie, wondering why I didn't feel sad.  Last Christmas, our family of four saw the first one together.  There aren't too many occasions on which an entire family can see a movie adaptation of a book they have all read and loved.  We even saw it at a restaurant/cinema place, similar to the one we were at last night. But I didn't feel sad.  I have the 'he should be here' thoughts, but the atmosphere, being with my girls, the food.....the sadness was not able to attack.  I'm glad it wasn't, because it enabled me to enjoy the movie from the very opening, where I was completely inspired by two scenes. 

Near the beginning, the dwarfs, Bilbo and Gandalf have to run from the Orcs.  The director, Peter Jackson, (who is extremely passionate about bring these books to film - I suspect he is part hobbit...) takes advantage of the beautiful New Zealand countryside and shows a long shot of the whole group just running across a beautiful field backed by gorgeous mountains.  They must have acted the hell out of that running, because it got me.  I sat there thinking "I want to run with the hobbits!!"  A few scenes later, they cross some similarly gorgeous landscape, only this time on Beorn's stately horses.  Once again, I could only think, "I want to ride with them! Go, you dwarfs and hobbit, go!"

The dwarfs and the hobbit were running and riding away from evil Orcs, but they were also running with a purpose to accomplish some good.  They don't realize at that point in the story just how much good, and at what a cost, but they were running! They were riding horses, fast!  I am inspired to run to do my small good things.  I am inspired that if I do some small good in my life, that it might fit together like a jigsaw puzzle with others who do small good in their lives......and greater good can happen!

Almost everyone I know strives to do their own good each day.  I have been fortunate in life to always be able to surround myself with positive people.  I do know that we live in the real world, not Middle Earth.  But I hope that the good that we all put out there every day can make a difference.  Our enemy is not an evil sorcerer/wizard.  We all use our good to counteract neglect, meanness, hunger, poverty, disease, all those "bad" things in the world.  I'm glad I saw the dwarfs and hobbit running.  It gave me joy.  It had me cheering for the good guys.  And it let me know that small good can work together for bigger purposes.

Sometimes, though, I approach my day, my golden opportunity to put more 'good' out there, with a sigh.  I've had some good reasons, but I think it's time to try and run.  One sigh or one deep breath can help, but then it's time to run.  Time to smile, time to look and listen and encourage. That won't be easy every day, but it's worth a try.  I want to run with the hobbit - but since that's impossible, I will try to "run" to make my own small difference for good.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

The Hardest Questions of All. Thanks, Santa. 12/12/13

Little ones ask so many questions.  Personal questions - "How old are you?"  Silly questions - "Can I have that bracelet?"  Blunt questions - "Are those real diamonds?"  But the two hardest questions of all occur this time of year:  "Mrs. Rush, is Santa real?"  followed by "Mrs. Rush, do you believe in Santa?"  Elementary teachers have to face the fact the there are as many levels of belief in their classroom as there are students.  We also have to face the fact that those students believe whatever we say.  We are the teachers.  We speak wisdom and truth!  I bill myself as a teacher that only tells the truth.  So, when I was asked these difficult questions today, as I have been so many years in a row, I gave an answer that has been many years in the making:

"Is Santa real?  Jailynn says he's not."  Oh boy, here we go.  Carefully worded truth. These were second graders.  I personally found out the truth from a kid in my class in third grade.  I was angry and disappointed.  Considering this little questioner was about the same age, I spoke very cautiously:

"Now, my little friends, you might be hearing all sorts of things about Santa from your friends here in your class at school. I think that Santa is very much alive in the spirit of giving.  Different families have different ways that they share that with their kids, so please believe whatever your parents tell you.  This season is about love and giving.  Sometimes we give gifts, sometimes we give a song, sometimes we give our time to help someone.  Santa is one of the leaders behind all that giving, but we are all involved in it.  I hope that you have the chance to give a little bit this season and see how it makes you happy.  Even if what you give is your best smile." (The room erupts into smiley faces.)

"But what about what Jailynn said?"  "Well, her family still believes in giving and being sweet.  Her parents just explain it in a different way from your parents.  But that's ok if the real purpose is being nice."

"Why doesn't Santa bring presents to grown-ups?"  "Well, it's not because all grown-ups are bad.  I'm certainly not bad!" (giggle eruption).  "I think it's because when you are very little you only know how to get stuff.  When you get older, you learn how to give yourself, so Santa doesn't have to give you things to teach you that anymore." (Can we please sing now?)

Then, the granddaddy of them all:  "Mrs. Rush, do you believe in Santa?"  Dead silence.  They think they've got me.  "I have to say yes, my friends.  I believe in Santa as he represents the spirit of giving.  I believe in Santa in the idea that if you are good, good things come to you.  I try to practice that all year long on you boys and girls by giving treasure box goodies to the well-behaved children.  I believe that once you really know Santa as a grown-up, you understand that giving is so much more than a present.  Giving can be a smile, saying someone looks nice, visiting someone, calling them, writing them a note, or singing them a song. This is the truth that Santa represents and in my heart I know it's true.  Believe what your mom and dad tell you. That will be different for everyone in here, but don't we celebrate differences at our school?" (Nodding heads) "Santa wants you to grow up to have a giving heart, so he sets the example."  (Quiet.....)  "Now let's sing - please give me some beautiful songs with beautiful voices today!"  Smiles - music - action.  Thanks, Santa.



Sunday, December 8, 2013

A Fingernail Fable 12/8/13

Friday morning hurry-up.  All my fault, because I just didn't want to get out of bed.  Have you ever been there?  Life is happening outside your bedroom, outside your house, people are driving, drinking coffee, already having meetings......and your bed is just so warm and cozy that it's an actual argument with yourself to throw back the covers and stand up.  We've all been there, I guess.  When I do that, I can adjust the getting ready and still make it to work on time, but I still hurry.  So during the hurry-up, I bent a fingernail backward trying to fasten my seat belt.  A small reminder to slow down, it's all going to be there, whether I hurry to fasten the belt or do it at normal speed!  Smoothing down the fingernail, I drove to work.  The school was still there.

I'm not used to having any sort of long fingernails.  A combination of weak nails and piano playing has always left me without nails as an accessory.  Except for the few years of fake nails, they have always just been short and.... there.  In the past eight months, they're stronger.  They grow.  I have to cut them and file them down.  It's very strange to me - did a chemical change happen in my body when I entered grief? Or was it due to happen anyway?  I don't know, but I do know that these knives that extend from my fingertips - and the care they require - is a new sensation.

Later Friday evening, the same backward-bent nail caught on something.  You know, that sensation when it brushes cloth and you feel that little drag?  I took a look.  There was a cut in the middle of the tip.  Not a big one, but like some tiny scissors just made one cut.  I went to the place where I now keep the clippers and newly-acquired file, trimmed it and filed it smooth.  It lost a little length, but it's still there.  I suppose that was the price of decorating the tree.  As Saturday came and went, more nails lost their way to the housework/decoration activities.  They were shorter, but they were still there.

Today, Sunday, makes eight months since he's been gone.  I don't really put much stock in anniversaries, but having made this portion of the grief journey personally, I see a truth.  I slowly file away my old life.  It's still there, it's just shorter.  I can buy the low-fat eggnog now, there's nobody left to complain about it.  When it's just me home, I have music playing.  When it was just us, it was always the television.  Still the same machine, just different.  When a situation changes, I adapt.  Humans adapt.  The situation is still there, but we carry on and find ways to make it. 

Adaptation isn't easy.  Sometimes it even hurts!  I took all the lights off the fifty-foot long stair garland yesterday.  Those lights have been wound around that garland for so many years that they were caught in the little wires in certain places.  As I separated the lights from the thin little wire inside the garland, I felt the thin wire slice right under my fingernail.  OUCH!  Who says decorating for Christmas is fun!  After I finished the garland experience, (a new garland is now required....) I checked the fingernail damage.  Sure enough, trim it, file it, it's still there.  Only I think the cut might leave a little scar.  And so it goes - the old life is still there, it's just been adapted, filed away, had its shape changed......with a few scars to show for the hurt along the way.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

My (burned out) light bulb moment 12/1/13

I have been shoring up the defenses.  "The holidays are hard...".  Every friend that has recent experience with loss, everyone with one ounce of common sense even, will share that information with me.  Not to be mean, just a way of saying they understand, they commiserate, they're there for me.  So I prepared.  I have stayed busy.  I had company.  I had the kids around.  I cooked.  We shopped.  Busy, busy, busy.  The holiday, Thanksgiving day itself, was great.  We had fun.  It wasn't until today, with everybody gone again, that the reality, and the realization of what "The holidays are hard" really means. 

Dropping nephew Zach at the airport on Saturday was bittersweet.  We love that kid. (Not really a kid, but a kid to me!)  We'll see him at Christmas, so we said goodbye, and headed on to more busy-ness.  The girls crammed in last minute shopping and nails, then spent the last night with their respective friends.  The quiet was relaxing.  I watched a little TV with kitten Isis on my lap, then went to sleep knowing it was the last night of a full house.  Still, I thought I was prepared.  The holiday was past, I made it, no breakdowns.  I had answered everyone that checked on me.  I held my head up, I held grief at bay. 

Unfortunately, all my shields can't stop the slow tide of sadness that creeps around the edges and invades my mind and my heart.  I noticed the feeling before the girls even woke up.  I did the usual, and hid it away.  Even my own mom says "she hides it very well....".  I can't help it, it's natural.  We got the girls fed, packed and ready.  Little Isis got in the car, and they were off down the road.  One or two tears rolled, but I found things to do. 

After I finished a few regular chores, I decided I could at least put up the Christmas tree.  We didn't get to that.  No decorating, just put together the three pieces of the pre-lit tree.  Easy, and a start.  I love this tree.  I've only had it two years, it's ten feet tall, pre-lit and beautiful.  I brought it in, got started, and when I got to the top, the third piece, one whole section of lights was burned out.  I unplugged and re-plugged.  I changed the fuse.  I changed three bulbs and said forget it - I'm going to get a new string of lights and just put it on top of those. 

I threw on a decent shirt, put on my shoes and drove to Walgreen's.  Two strings of clear lights were left, and one of them was mine.  I paid, got in the car and wham - it hit me.  I sobbed so hard on the way home I'm surprised I could drive.  I kept thinking "This is what everybody told me - the holidays are hard!"  It wasn't putting up the tree, it wasn't even the burned-out lights. He would not have fixed the lights - the tree was my domain. The big sadness was having to face and deal with the problem in silence.  I would have been able to complain to him.  Those burned-out lights actually gave me a bright "light bulb moment" of my own.  A huge part of our married life and any family life is that we can complain to each other.  And, being married, or being family, you support that other person.  I miss the person I could "bitch to".  I miss him making fun of me when I complained about silly things.  That's why I think the holidays are hard - there are more very happy and very stressful moments than at other times.  And sharing those moments is a habit.  I had to have a good cry about missing my sounding board.  The expected holiday breakdown had arrived, uninvited and unwelcome.  It passed when my super-friend made me get up and walk, as we do most nights.

After the walk, I put the new lights around the dark area of the tree.  It looks perfect now.  What's dark can be made light again.  The burned-out bulbs are still underneath the new ones, though.  Hopefully they "hide them very well".  Bring on Christmas.  I'm carrying my tissues.