What of life, anyway

When live gives you lemons, make lemonade. How often I have heard that refrain, but for me -- a glass is half empty girl -- I just can't seem to get those lemons to make anything drinkable. Caustic, I can do, but not drinkable. So ponder this, if you will -- how does one change from caustic lemonade to the sweet/slightly tartness that we long for as we are squeezing the heck out of those lemons?

I surely do not pretend to even be in the same ball park as one who would succeed at the task. My whole life, I have been carrying around those lemons and my half empty glass of sourness. I have seem the effects on those that love and care about me. I see it daily in my own son.

As I long for the ability to change my life -- and perhaps my lifestyle -- I cringe at the same bitterness that I have passed onto my son. At his tender age of manchild, he fights the same demons that have possessed my body time and again. He thinks of death as a welcoming blanket of relief; it being the only beacon of hope that sometimes glimmers in the pit of darkness that overtakes us.

I all too frequently visit that pit. I wonder if I will ever be able to traverse a road without falling into that same pit. I know it is there, and I do my best to avoid it. Sometimes I can take another route altogether, but, most often, I am pulled along until it looms before me as some ugly monster, and in fighting, I fall back into the pit.

I fight and claw my way back to the edge, only to be called back by the piteous cries of a manchild. I try to make myself forge ahead, if only I could get a leg over the edge -- but the cries from below make me stop -- the sound is so familiar. It oozes of desperation, of a helplessness only a child can have. I loosen my grip on the edge, and stop fighting for that leg up and allow my self to free fall backwards into the pit, not being able to full myself free from the cries, nay, the demands for help that I hear beneath.

The bright light of day begins to fade away as the blackness begins again to engulf me. Once reaching the bottom, I can no longer see, so I feel with my hands, being pulled ever closer to the cries that prevented my escape of the darkness that now I wear like a cloak. I reach forward -- I am ever so close -- and finally a hand touches mine. The voice asks for me to come closer, to provide the comfort that will sooth the now tired manchild. I wrap my cloak around him and pat him, just as I did when he was but a baby. It is then that I realize I can choose to either leave the pit on my own, or stay and teach the manchild to make his way to the single ray of light that looms ahead.

He talks ever so softly, and begins to tell me of an even larger pit, one that he has been promised will envelop him forever. He asks if this other pit wouldn't be the best choice for him -- and perhaps even me. I tell him that I am aware of the other pit, and I have sought it out before, only to be yanked away from the edge by caring hands. I tell him of things that are available only if the ray of light is followed. He can't make up his mind -- there are so many thoughts tangled, and he can only be in this moment, not even capable of thinking of the next.

I push aside my own desire to reach the light and wrap myself around him, much as I have done so many times before, and whisper that I will never leave him, even if it means that we survive, because one can never experience a full life in the pit -- it only allows moment to moment events. Thus bound together, we sit in the darkness. I am thankful that he is not alone, but wonder if together we will ever make it to the light and out of the pit. My only hope is that the transformation from manchild to man gives him the strength and the courage to try. But for now, we huddle together, one wishing for the strength to climb out, but tied in the darkness to her own flesh, while the other wishes for the strength to pull away and fall into the pit of nevermore.

Sunday, March 15

I have been wondering what would this place be like if we were no longer here. You know, the Ebeneezer Scrooge kind of look at things. Perhaps we would live our lives differently if we knew with certainty the impact that we make on those around us, or whether we make an impact at all. Do we just float around randomly interacting with others all be happenstance, or is there some preordained direction that our lives take. How much is free will involved?

My Mark

Mark is in Georgia. He spent the evening at the funeral home taking one last time to spend the evening with our beloved Mamaw. While I don't begrudge Mark this chance in the least, I am sad that I didn't get to go as I love Mamaw too. What has taken me by surprise is how much I miss Mark and how incomplete I feel with him gone. Perhaps it is that I am also missing Mamaw and am unable to bring closure at this moment to her passing, I miss Mark at my side. I can't wait for him to come home.

Death of a Matriarch

Mamaw is gone. For almost 70 years of her 80something years of life, she has been the tie that linked the Bradley family together. Now she is gone. On Tuesday, she will be placed into the ground beside Papaw, her partner in life nor almost 70 years, and now her partner in death. I wonder, did she pass because she no longer felt useful? She certainly seemed to be loving her new life in Jacksonville, but I wonder if that was all a pretense for her family. Regardless of the reason, she will be missed. Each time I talked to her, she would impart some piece of wisdom, whether it be how to care for children, how to keep a marriage together, or how to live life to it's fullest. I feel regret at her plaintive, "When are you going to make time to come to see me again?" -- and never making it.

I will miss you Mamaw. Your journey home leaves a small hole in my heart that no other can fill.

Dream for this day

Just where do our dreams get us? How are they realized? How many people leave this life with dreams unfulfilled?

I wonder how many people follow their dreams and fall flat on their face. Or better yet, allow their fear to paralyze them so that dreams go unrealized, falling to the way-side like some sort of confetti sprinkled haphazardly and missing it's target. Life all around goes onward -- without a thought, and someone, perhaps the dream maker himself sweeps the confetti out with the trash.

Define yourself and your dreams. Don't allow the spark of uncertainty or the paralysis of fear to take hold, leaving you with a life unfulfilled and dreams pushed to the wayside. Continue to dream, not only for this day, but for all days -- now and forever.

I wonder ...

I wonder if Valentine's day is only for the hoplessly romantic. Valentine's day typically passes me by unnoticed. Neither my husband nor I are romantics, so a warm hug is our idea of being romantic. Perhaps secretly my husband is more romatic than I am.

Mel's Mind, February 2,

I realized today that I haven't blogged here in over a week. I don't know where my time has gone, and I am very surprised that this much time has passed.

I haven't been feeling well. My hips have been hurting terribly, and I have been so tired. I am guessing it is a fibromyalgia flares. I have been irritable and just plain cranky.

Patrick had a tough week also. He was talking about dropping out of school when he turns 16 and not even beeing alive by age 20. Scary stuff for my family.