Tag Archives: hope

the word hope with different fonts and colors for each letter

Hope is like Weird Barbie

Cancer, mental health, On Life,

What does Barbie do in response to her feet changing? She climbs the hill to visit Weird Barbie in search of answers. After introductions, Weird Barbie begins questioning  the events preceding this seemingly catastrophic incident. 

Weird Barbie asks, “What proceeded this?” Stereotypical Barbie shares she played a “fun” game of volleyball, then lowers her voice to add, “…and thoughts of death”. 

“What?” Weird Barbie leans in closer, awkwardly putting her ear near S-Barbie’s mouth (for ease of typing and reading). 

“Maybe some thoughts of death,” S-Barbie repeats, barely audible still, eyes fixed ahead.

“Thoughts of death?!” Weird Barbie shouts.

Weird Barbie proceeds to explain S-Barbie has opened a portal. In a sort of blue-pill, red-pill, Matrix reference, S-Barbie can choose the high heal shoe, return to “normal”, and forget anything happened; or, she can choose the Birkenstock, discover the “truth about the universe”, go into the real world to visit her child, and fix the issue. 

S-Barbie choses the heal, closes her eyes and says, “I’m ready to forget”.  

Weird Barbie admonishes her, “You’re supposed to want to know…You’re doing this one (as she shoves the Birkenstock into S-Barbie’s face)… I just gave you a choice so you could feel some sense of control!”

Hope is like Weird Barbie

In a previous post, I shared how grief and cancer are like doors. They invite you into a room, rarely of your choosing, to confront the truth, in all its forms. In these rooms, we often rendezvous with thoughts of death, the meaning of life, will we have a chance to become the best versions of ourselves…you know, the easy questions. 

But if grief and cancer are doors, I think it’s quite likely those are the rooms where we find hope, masquerading as Weird Barbie. We would rather close our eyes and pretend we aren’t in the scary room, but Weird Barbie, aka Hope,  presents a beautiful, albeit random opportunity to confront our fears, acknowledge our firmly held yet limiting beliefs, and move forward. 

Hope is like Weird Barbie

I cannot claim this simile. It was birthed out of a therapy session I had with an amazing practitioner ( who you will get to meet in a minute). Through this journey of being diagnosed with cancer (I’m trying to avoid saying I “have” cancer. To insinuate I “have” cancer seems to create a type of reciprocal relationship in which cancer can also have me. That is a world I refuse to live in, hence the careful word choice – can’t get enough of word association!!) Anyway, this cancer journey has provided space, or better stated, forced me to explore what self-care looks like and to ask, what does it look like to really take care of myself – all of me, body, soul, and spirit? 

I have gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing those aspects, and care of body is at the bottom of the list. I try to be cognizant of what I eat, and then I push my body into submission. Seems like a fair trade. But one day, in the throes of chemo fatigue, I realized I was angry at my body and feeling betrayed. It didn’t feel like my body was being a team player. So I started looking for ways to figure out how to get my body to step up.

Through the recommendation of a close friend, I contacted Sonya, who is a “message therapist”. You’ll see why that’s in quotes because she is so much more. In my world, she’s a practitioner of healing.  But maybe it’s best to let her explain. She’s lovely and I can’t wait for you to meet her. (Anyone who can compare hope to Weird Barbie should be a celebrity in my book!) Below is a brief interview so you can get to know her and get a glimpse into her beautiful person and practice.

Please let me introduce an amazing woman and a faithful partner on this journey with me, Sonya Weiser Souza…(hold for applause). 

Me: Let’s jump right in. Can you give us a bit of your background?

Sonya: This is one of those long story short answers 🙂 so maybe we’ll get into the depths later… I was walking along just minding my own business as a successful science and sport focused massage therapist, full of injury and performance protocols, just whistling Aloha Oē, and along came another massage therapist friend who said “hey, I tried this modality called Barnes Myofascial Release wanna try?” And I was like sure! I love trying new things… and then my world was blown apart with the softest of touch, like a whisper that blows a house down… I was hit in the feels by a dancing dandelion and I’ve never seen bodywork the same since…

Me: You mentioned moving or adding onto message with a study in Barnes Myofascial Release. How would you explain the difference between Barnes Myofascial Release and typical massage?

Sonya: Traditional massage feels amazing and boosts circulation, muscle tone, and relief—though it’s temporary, like a dream vacation. Sports massage, however, aims for performance and injury prevention with intense techniques like deep tissue and cupping, causing “beneficial damage” to heal tissues, like a volunteer vacation, where you work for your room and board. Both effectively treat symptoms and make you feel and work better. Myofascial release (MFR), especially the John F. Barnes method, is next-level! From the MFR perspective the body is viewed as a whole, treating symptoms while looking elsewhere for the cause with gentle, sustained pressure on fascial adhesions for 5+ minutes. This nurtures and hydrates tissues at a cellular level, allowing your consciousness to address those issues underneath the tissues without causing harm. Unlike the temporary vacation feeling massage gives you, MFR is like taking a road trip with a good friend – where the adventures are guaranteed, instructions are not included, and you’ll have a whole new perspective on life when you get back… if you decide to even come back 😉

Barnes MFR feels more like an art form than a treatment protocol. In fact, every Barnes MFR practitioner has John’s voice in our head, repeating over and over, “Let go of the outcome… find the barrier and wait”, because we know that when we let ourselves let go of the labels and the outcome we, as the therapist, can hold space for our clients to heal from within… and sometimes the healing doesn’t feel better, but it feels like what the client didn’t get to feel during a time when they were scared, or hurt, or afraid, and those feelings have been tucked away for however long, still need tending. Emotions don’t kill people, but storing them in your tissues, and never tending to them will. 

[Side note: Sonya is not kidding! Because my lymph nodes have been affected and my body has been trying to cope with some pretty serious medical treatment protocols, we avoided massage and I got the “extra light” package. But even an extremely slow and safe approach created some intense moments where I had the space to discern where I’ve stored or stuffed emotion in my body. But also, recognizing my body hasn’t betrayed me. It has been doing the best it could. The appointments with Sonya have provided a space to acknowledge all that my corporal shell does for me and how much of the weight it carries, literally and figuratively.]

ME: You made the following statement in a recent appointment with me, “Hope is like weird Barbie?” Do you care to elaborate?

Sonya: Hope is what we need when we are actually in the fire… hope can’t be pretty… she’s too busy helping us get out of trouble… and get into it too. So, in my opinion Hope be lookin’ pretty wild about now.

See? Hope is totally like Weird Barbie! 

Sonya’s practice has helped me find a safe space to learn to address care of my whole being. This type of treatment might not appeal to you. That’s okay. My wish is for you to think about ways you may be neglecting yourself. I get it might sound selfish. But “you cannot give what you don’t have”. Profound insight from an argument with a three year old about gum, but nonetheless true. If you are curious, have any questions for Sonya, or are interested in learning more about Barnes Myofascial Release, I’ve linked her website here. Trust me, she would love to engage with you on this topic! But for now…

May you look for Hope and find her in all her wacky and unexpected presentations! 

P.S. Quick update – I’m officially done with treatment and have been declared, “in remission”! Woohoo! But spoiler alert, there are a couple more blog posts coming about the journey. The feeling of wanting to write is catching up with the stuff to write about. Now go out and find Hope! I promise she will greet you with a smile. 

Another Bitch

Cancer, On Faith,
Photo by Dmitry Ratushny on Unsplash

It has become common practice as of late to attempt a description of my current landscape. Metaphors such as dance partners and professors fall a bit short in portraying the fullness of this “new normal” (quotes added to denote the derision imposed by this phrase). Honestly, I’ve been struggling to garner the courage to paint a broader and encompassing picture. So, after some therapy sessions, I sat down last week and wrote a few paragraphs to viscerally illustrate what it feels like to be me in this moment. I quickly discovered why I had been avoiding this practice. The product was authentic but startling – graphic, and so bleak, depressing, and dark. The premise or metaphor employed was to wake up in a room, pitch dark, disoriented, and terrified. Upon realizing I had possibly written a scene for a “Saw” movie, I had to get up and walk away. (If you are not familiar with the “Saw” movie franchise, please do not research. Preserve your soul and trust me when I say they are yucky.)

The extreme images, though accurately depicting my current state of emotion, hung around me like the lingering smell when your toaster self-actualizes and burns the toast regardless of the low setting selected. I felt overwhelmed by the darkness, exhausted at fighting what I could not see. I had looked into the face of my reality and while I held a degree of gratitude (I tend to think you can’t fully deal with things you cannot name), the aftermath was vile, unwelcome, and debilitating. But keep reading, it gets better.

Karma showed up. And not in the bitchy way one might assume (which would make her the third bitch in this succession of blog posts). She has another side. My dad often used to tell us how the unseen world, or spiritual world, has been ordained under the same physical laws that govern the universe. “One reaps what one sows” is not just the first lesson in horticulture. It is a basic tenant of the universe. You plant a peach tree and expect to find peaches one day. Similarly, you sow seeds of greed and jealousy, and the hope of humanity is Karma will eventually repay such things in kind. But, using that same logic, one could be repaid for kindness and generosity of spirit. And such a repayment found its way to me in a very unexpected way. The following was forwarded to me recently.

“…it’s one thing to tell someone you’re sending positive thoughts or praying and it’s another entirely to let them hear or read exactly what that message is. So below is my prayer for you today…

Divine spark, Sustainer of all energy, and Giver of life…surround Anne with your presence. As she tries to breathe deeply to release stress, I pray the inhaling breaths are full of peace, like breathing in an intoxicating and calming fragrance. Infuse her breath with Peace while she waits for life to unfold and the path to be made clear. Right now, she is standing in a dark tunnel with only a couple doors. I pray that upcoming events burst through the tunnel, letting light in so she can see the other doors…”

As I read this, my daughter was sitting next to me and happened to be the one who sent it. As tears streamed down my face, she said, “You wrote this.” She reminded me how Anne, a few years ago, reached out and asked if I would send positive thoughts and pray for her. The above was my response to the request from Ann “with an e”. (For the record, I’ve changed her name – the friend, not my daughter.)

This was a message I needed. Kindness returned, ironically in my own words, and reminded me what hope looks like.

I hope you will go back and reread the prayer as needed, as I am doing and have done (I’ve reread it a lot). Bravely insert your name, hopefully finding a glimpse of light, a few seconds of relief, and give yourself a moment to acknowledge the beautiful incense of hope. Also, I am painfully aware the syntax and grammar are far from perfect, and am fighting the urge to edit the crap out of it. In its current state, it seems real and raw and perhaps more human. Hmm, maybe that’s the best representation of my current state after all – finitely human and infinitely hopeful. 

I’m about halfway through the sentence of this dark place. I’m diligently trying not to sit in resignation and/or hold my breath until it’s over; but instead, to somehow find the strength to keep looking for clues, or lessons, and ways to help me deal with the symptoms – physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. To figure out how not to isolate entirely, but fight to be present with my family, with my friends, with myself, through these new and deepening shades of exhaustion and compromised immunity.

Finitely human and infinitely hopeful.

P.S. I truly feel all your prayers and positive thoughts. I relish the check ins, and I know you are with me in spirit – like a great cloud of witnesses, cheering me on.

Resistance, meet my friend Possibility

On Life, , , , ,

Redding Air Show

 

“Ever quit a diet, a course of yoga, a meditation practice? Have you ever bailed out on a call to embark on a spiritual practice, to dedicate yourself to a humanitarian calling, commit your life to the service of others?…Late at night have you experienced a vision of the person you might become, the work you could accomplish, the realized being you were meant to be? Are you a writer who doesn’t write, a painter who doesn’t paint, an entrepreneur who never starts a venture? Then you know what Resistance is.”  -The War of Art by Steven Pressfield

Two weekends ago, we accepted a gracious invitation to attend the Redding Air Show. A chance to have a weekend away with my husband and children. No sports. No sleepovers. And our first air show.

As my heart rattled in my chest and my ear drums nearly split open, I couldn’t help but think about the remarkable advancements and the even more remarkable people responsible for those advancements. Generations have been fighting Resistance, pushing the envelope, flying faster and farther.

Personally, I’m no stranger to Resistance-the gale force wind encountered when turning in a new direction. But, an afternoon spent craning my neck to the heavens reacquainted me with an old friend. Possibility announced it’s presence with the blast of a jet engine thundering across the tarmac.

Resistance, meet my friend Possibility.

The demonstration of sheer power through jet propulsion has been reverberating in my heart. The strongest weapon I have found against Resistance is the gravity defying hope of Possibility. Since covering my ears to the chest pounding cacophony of jet engines, I have dusted off my treadmill, laced up my running shoes and pressed the start button. I have sat down to write and overcome the nagging silence as I stare at a blank computer screen. And I have opened my eyes to the truth that I am not the only one fighting Resistance. A good friend of mine has launched a crowd-funding campaign to crush Resistance and pursue Possibility.

Resistance stands in the middle of the room and tells us all the ways we might fail, or all the times we have failed. But there’s another voice. A low rumbling, like a distant jet engine, that stands in the corner, holds out a jetpack and says, “Wanna try again?”

Resistance, meet my friend Possibility.

 “Our greatest weakness lies in giving up.

The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.”

-Thomas Edison

A Colorful Epiphany

On Life, , ,

 

Hot air balloon races
Hot Air Balloon Races, Reno, NV

Garnered with large doses of coffee and hot chocolate, and an unnatural enthusiasm for being awake at such an hour, we left our sleepy little town at 3:30 a.m. for what I was told, is the largest hot air balloon launch in the country.

We joined the masses at pre-dawn on a large grassy field dotted with tarps and giant picnic baskets. Several high-powered gas burners ignited a few feet behind us, and although the heat was welcome in the cool air of a high desert morning, the sound momentarily stopped our hearts. Extreme heat and noise brought life to a field of colors and the magnitude of it all caused me to stand in awe.

Hot Air Balloon Races
Early morning ascension.

The heat and noise needed to launch these massive balloons and provide amazing views, looked and sounded a great deal like conflict. I realized, the greatest vantage points in my own life have come on the heels of the greatest heat and the loudest chaos.

Conflict is hot and loud, but like the balloons, it is full of potential. It provides the prospect of reaching heights we never thought possible. We learn more about ourselves and more about the amazing people we get to share life with. Without the fire, the balloons would lie lifeless on the damp grass never realizing their full potential. Without conflict, I propose our relationships too, would lie lifeless, never allowing the realizations of who we truly are, or the beauty of the deepest, most tender places in the hearts of those around us, to come to light.

I don’t suggest the creation of conflict. It is organic. It will inevitably show up and it will leave, but maybe it’s possible to recognize it for the auspicious potential it contains and not just the momentary pain it causes.

 

Remnants of an ongoing battle with the past – Dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

On Law Enforcement, On Life, , , , ,

PTSD
Bookcase in the secret room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flashbacks.

Last weekend David and I were sitting on the couch watching the 49‘s game. One minute our team is winning, the next minute an innocent commercial rips through the comfort of our home.

The commercial depicts a boy with tire tread running the length of his body, meant to invoke laugher and jollity. Instead the images unleash distress and horror.

Next to me, I feel David’s body tense. The steady rhythm of his breathing is replaced with a shortness of breath and in his eyes, tears pool around the edges, vying for freedom.

David sees something different.

The Secret Room.

Heat and light in the secret room.
Heat and light in the secret room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To deal with and control these memories David goes to a secret place. A room designed specifically by him to provide safety and comfort. At one end sits a well used, worn brown leather chair. A coffee table stands in front of the chair and beyond the table, on the opposite wall, a fire in the hearth burns bright and warm. A focal point where light and heat bring  tranquility and a feeling of security.

Both adjacent walls are lined with bookshelves containing volumes, magic anthologies, a documentation of events. Not just words but images, emotions, sounds and smells.

A Flashback.

Without warning, a book appears on the coffee table. And into the quiet room, the memory of a young boy with tire tread across his chest invades the safety and tranquility. Sights, a pool of blood puddles under his small head like a pillow. Sounds, the mournful shriek of a heartbroken mother who lost a piece of her heart in an instant. Smells, fresh blood creeping across black hot asphalt.

Unannounced and unavoidable, the unwanted remembrances float out of the open book and invade the secure, hidden space. Like rogue enemies, they launch poisonous arrows into the warm air and pierce the serenity.

David’s body tenses. His breath suspended in constricted lungs begging for escape, guarding a prayerful hope that the book will disappear.

But these are memories that will never go away. To contain and control them David has placed each one into a book. The memory of the little boy killed by a drunk driver is just one of many. David leans forward and closes the book.  With a deep breath, he rises from his chair, picks up the book and places it back on the shelf in its rightful place. Tucked away, surrounded by a myriad of other memories, both fond and equally horrifying.

While flashbacks cannot be anticipated or avoided, they can be controlled. David’s use of a room full of his memories has worked for him. Memories are impervious to destruction but they can be coerced. Forced back into storage. Driven back into the past, leaving room for the light and warmth to occupy the present and bring peace again to the secret room.

Healing and tomorrow.

Our connection to the events of our past is a two way street. We may mosey down the avenue and revisit joyful occasions. And, just as easily, the past can barrel down the road and crash into our present, bringing remembrances we would care to forget.

But we are not left powerless. David learned this technique at a retreat for first responders. The West Coast Post-Trauma Retreat Center. (www.wcpr2001.org) The past cannot be changed. But for those suffering under the weight of bygone memories there is hope. And hope is the fire burning in the secret room, giving warmth and security and a chance to live fully in the present.

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Check out Rebecca’s debut novel, DISTRESSED, on Amazon.

The here and why

On Law Enforcement, On Writing, , , , , ,

*** It’s here!!! ***

Check it out on Amazon.com
Check it out on Amazon.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A month ago, I wrote a blog post that detailed my reason for writing. Why do I write?

But why did I write this story?

First, I have to say, it is a novel. It is a work of fiction. And yet, it was birthed out of a period of time in our lives. Painful experiences worth sharing.

When I married my husband, I had no idea what it meant to become a part of the “law enforcement family.” I was aware that there would be holiday craziness on those days he had to work, but beyond that? I didn’t get it.

We got married. I changed my name. But so much more changed. And of course, marriage is an adjustment. And without trying to sound over the top, marriage in the world of first responders is an even bigger adjustment.

There is a reason they call themselves a family. They get each other. They understand the stress and the expectations. They rely upon each other day in and day out, for camaraderie and for safety. They will always have each other’s backs. Like family.

It’s difficult to describe or explain a dynamic like that. They are knit together by a thin, often blue, line. A line invisible to those who don’t walk it everyday. A line that becomes increasingly recognizable in the course of every day life with a first responder.

Case in point, there have been nights, dinner is minutes away from ready, the kids have worn mommy’s patience down to a mere nub and the phone would ring. Don’t wait to have dinner because of…an accident, a fatal, a shooting, a car chase, or at the hospital with another officer.

You answer the phone and hold your breath until you hear their voice. And then you hold your breath again until you can determine that they are okay. It isn’t the phone calls that are difficult. It’s the stress they create. And stress like that is next to impossible to translate. But it is nothing compared to the stress of death and destruction bombarding every one of your five senses. It’s one thing to see death on TV or in movies. It’s an entirely different thing to see it, smell it, hear it, feel it and even taste it.

After phone calls like that, I would serve dinner and get the kids into the bath. I would pray for David’s safety and my sanity. But all the while, something had been set in motion that I didn’t recognize. An invisible force that had far more power in my home than I could ever have imagined. The past.

Memories are tremendous. They connect us to happier moments and remind us of people and events. They link us to those we love. But their power doesn’t end there. They also hold the potential to forever tie you to tragedy and trauma. To haunt and torment and link you to a past event that is nothing short of horrific.

As a country, we have come a long way in understanding and treating PTSD as it relates to our military. But it would appear to me that we are decades behind in our treatment and recognition of PTSD in our first responders.

So why did I write Distressed?

Two reasons. 1. To authentically show the world of the first responder and those closest to him and 2. To bring awareness to the realities of PTSD as it pertains to first responders.

It is our story in part. But it had to be more than just our story. It has to be bigger than that. Because I know, there are a number of other first responders and their families who are currently suffering in silence.

It has to be about them too.

 

Two Sides

On Life, , , , , , , , ,

The two faces of theater.

At some point or other, we all experience change. But change wears many masks. Like the two faces of the theatre.

Comedy and tragedy.

There’s the category we call good. Falling in love. Winning the lottery. And then there’s the bad. Sickness. Losing money in the stock market. We grow up believing that the two are juxtaposed to each other. One can cause spontaneous fits of laughter and good cheer. But seldom does the side we call “bad” cause bursts of the giggles.

Comedy and tragedy.

Two sides to the coin we call life. There are good days and there are bad days. And I for one, have learned not to cheat tragedy out of it’s just rewards. When I’m down, I feel it only right to be very much down.

I can remember the stereotype super hero who laughs in the face of danger. So what does it look like to laugh in the face of tragedy? It sounds a bit sacrilegious.

But I have experienced such irreverence. Only a few days ago, my mother-in-law had a stroke. And in the midst of a high-stress, potentially tragic moment, laughter could be heard emanating through the thin veil of her ICU cubicle. And on more than one occasion.

Comedy meets tragedy.

At first I thought it just a coping mechanism. And perhaps that’s part of it. But as I watched and listened, I realized it was deeper than that. A room full of people, who love each other, did what came naturally. The conversation did not change because of the surroundings.

And as the days unfolded, the jokes kept coming. The doctor came in to check and asked my mother-in-law to open her eyes. She had been very groggy and dizzy and didn’t want to. The first time she ignored the request. The second time he asked she responded, “I’m paying a lot of money for this.” And the room broke out in chuckles.

Laugher didn’t change the circumstance. She still had a stroke. But in the last few days I have learned a valuable lesson. The greatest tragedy is the loss of levity. Having a stroke isn’t funny. But the ability to find some small piece of humor in the midst of calamity makes the darkness feel not so oppressive. It’s like taking the reins of a run-away horse.

We cannot control our circumstances but we can control how we respond.

And maybe it comes down to Mary Poppins.

A little bit of sugar  helps the medicine go down. 

 

 

 

Today’s news in Connecticut

On Law Enforcement, , , , ,

Yesterday, I started to write this blog. It was totally different. I was going to take a break. Let you know that I would be back after the holidays.

And then I saw the news today.

That in itself is a miracle. Since I live in the middle of nowhere we have no television. But today was a town day. We stopped for lunch and watched the events in play-back on the television above our table.

Horrific. Nauseating. Overwhelming.

Then, during one of the news clips of various shots of the scene, I saw a uniform. Several in fact.

Another day at work.

And my heart broke again.

They will write their reports. Possibly have a debriefing about the horror they saw. And they will go home. Their wives could possibly have also had a stressful day. Sick children. Broken appliances. The stress of knowing her husband was on scene.

But regardless of what it may look like on the outside. Life does not just go back to normal.

Being married to a law enforcement officer is like being handed a bucket. Every incident and trauma that your spouse witnesses becomes a brick in your bucket. Even if they don’t tell you about it. There is something you can see in their eyes. In the way they hug their children. In the way they bark security measures. What changes them, changes you.

The bucket gets heavier. 

I refuse to use the word burden. It’s not that kind of bucket. But whatever name you give it, it’s presence is unavoidable.

I’ve carried that bucket. In some ways I still do. Life changes us. There is no going back.  But I want to share a secret I’ve learned. A message to the wives of those officers from Connecticut. And to anyone else who carries the bucket.

You love your husband. You gladly carry the bucket. A sign of solidarity. You think you are alone in that. Your friends can’t see the bucket and sometimes your family can’t either.

But you are not alone. 

If nothing else, you have sisters who also stand behind the Thin Blue Line. We see your bucket and we are praying for you and your family. We pray too for the families of those who lost someone, but we don’t forget the one’s called to serve and protect and the one’s who love them.

You are in our prayers. You are in our hearts. We see your bucket.

May our prayers lift your load and may we all look to the day when Peace rules.

Platform 9 and 3/4

On Faith, On Life, , , ,

“The Sorcerer’s Stone” Platform 9 and 3/4

Oscar Wilde once said, “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” I think that might be one of those chicken versus egg kind of questions. You know, which came first? But in this instance, I believe Oscar is right.

The other night we were watching the first Harry Potter movie (The Sorcerer’s Stone.) I think it’s safe to say that we view art through current circumstances. And in this case, I couldn’t help but feel as though that movie was imitating our life. Or our life is currently imitating that movie? Was it the chicken or the egg?

Anyway, we had grown quite used to living under the stairs. We were accustomed to meeting the expectations put upon us by ourselves and others. We followed the rules. And then something changed. An invitation of sorts.

We accepted the invitation. It meant David retiring and us moving out to the country. We made our way to the train station and stood perplexed at our ticket. There is no Platform nine and three quarters. Now what?

Oh! We run full speed ahead straight at a brick wall! Of course! Why didn’t we think of that?

Leaving behind all that we know, full speed and unlimited internet, the camaraderie of the department, and the security of a schedule, to name a few, has left us running at a brick wall. But we are running. Full speed ahead. Uprooting or making a change of any kind feels like running straight at a brick wall somewhere between platform nine and platform ten and hoping not to splat.

And it isn’t the first time we’ve done this. I remember  when David was diagnosed with PTSD and it felt like we were running straight toward  a brick wall. No idea what was on the other side or even if we would make it to the other side. But we ran. We ran toward help.

We made it through the brick wall and found help. And that helps us believe. It helps us believe that this time, what lies on the other side, is a magical place beyond our wildest dreams.

Reality check. Perhaps we won’t see that this side of heaven but maybe we will find an adventure. At the very least.

Are you running at a brick wall too? What do you hope to find on the other side?

Thanksgiving Memory

On Law Enforcement, , , , , ,

“Are you ready?” He smiled at me as I climbed in and he shut the door.

“Uh-huh!” I glanced at him so that he wouldn’t see the terror in my eyes. Calm down! He’s not taking you to jail.

And he pulled the patrol car out of the driveway.

“I’m probably not going to write any tickets today. It’s Thanksgiving.”

My terror turned to disappointment. Reinforcing an underlying belief that I thought myself crazy. Apparently, I felt someone should go to jail. Just not me. A shining humanitarian moment.

“Oh. Okay.” Attempting to mask my neurosis.

He pointed the car toward his beat. That stretch of road that he was assigned to cover for the day. He parked on the shoulder of the freeway. Giving himself a view. And then he started a conversation.

It was challenging to follow. An unfamiliar female voice kept chanting all manner of numbers and letters and random words. She vied for attention but he continued to talk. Zebra and Mary and King. What is she trying to say?

“Um, feel free to stop and listen.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m listening.”

To who? Her or me?

But the conversation continued. My senses were a bit maxed but I tried to hang in there. Nodding where appropriate and still trying to act natural. The profuse sweating of my hands distracted me from the issue of what position to put them in.

“Darn it.” And the conversation stopped. He started the car and pulled out.

Remember Clark Kent? He would duck into a phone booth? (Remember phone booths?) Anyway, he would rip the front of his shirt and in seconds be transformed from journalist to superhero. I’ve seen something similar. David went from normal conversation to police officer in a fraction of a second.

I sat rigid in the passenger seat as he pursued an SUV barreling down the freeway. Lights flashing. An electricity charged the air. The conversation was gone. He was focused. Alert. And I was no longer a companion. I was a spectator.

I watched in amazement at this man I thought I knew. His composure and calm was mind boggling as he confronted the unknown. I became acutely aware of my lack. My lack of knowledge. My lack of authority. My lack of courage.

What would I do if the driver shot him right in front of me? Could I ever marry a man whose job required him to put himself in such a precarious position?

And then an amazing thing happened. I saw it. The razor sharp edge of the thin blue line. Sending him off to work meant endangering a part of my soul. He had my heart.

There would always be a part of him that I could not follow. I could give him my heart but I could never control where he took it. Or the possible dangerous positions he would put it in. That was just going to be part of the deal.

That was over fourteen years ago. (Difficult to believe based on the above photo. That’s not really me by the way and that’s not the really the car. Just in case there is any confusion.) My first and I think only ride along. A lot has changed since then. Children, moving, and now retirement. Oh, and moving out of state. That’s a rather big change. But one thing is the same.

He still has my heart. And on this Thanksgiving, I’m truly thankful.

What are you thankful for?