I was planning a trip to Ethiopia to visit my friends at Drawn from Water. Everything was ready. I’ve been needing to take some time away, I wanted to visit good friends who I haven’t seen in a long time, and I wanted to find out about ways that we can help them.

I had my tickets. I was set to leave on the 19th.

And then I found out that India has changed its visa regulations completely.  If I leave now, I won’t be allowed back into the country for two months, even though I am on a five year visa. It has never been this way before, and Chinua has been in and out to Amsterdam, Turkey, and Israel since we’ve been here. But, everything has changed, and the timing wasn’t the greatest.

It goes without saying that I can’t take a two month vacation from my family. So I won’t leave until we are ready to be gone from here for two months or more; probably not until this summer.

I’m adjusting and getting over it.  I only cried a little. I will still be going away for a little rest, probably somewhere close by, but not getting a whiff of another place, which is what I felt I needed. I’m sad that I’m not going to see my friends.  I really, really was looking forward to it.

Anyways.

I just watched this about the earthquake Haiti and my heart broke. It is an important part of being human to be able to put yourself in the place of someone else and imagine what it must be like to be them. In a time of loss my troubles begin to reveal themselves as very small, very normal troubles.

You can give to the relief effort here, and find a larger list of possible places to donate here. It is a beautiful thing when people around the world can get behind their brothers and sisters in a time of tragedy.

She called and she asked, Did I leave my mobile phone there yesterday? I can’t seem to find it.

She said, That’s alright. I’m sure it will turn up.

She ran into the house and she said, Guess what, Chin! It was stuck behind the seat of the car.

She said, I need some pomegranates, some oranges, some bananas and some spinach.

She said, I know you can finish your work, Kid A. I’ve seen you do it before. Just focus and keep trying.

She said, Leave it on my desktop for me, Cate, and I’ll try to proofread it for you.

She said, No climbing on the windows, Leafy.

She said to herself, On 56 different occasions yesterday, I was so homesick that I could have cried. Today is better. Today home is here. It’s the business of moving, this back and forth dance.

She said, Sure, you can take this sheet into your fort. Just try not to drag it through the dirt.

She said, Don’t go over to the neighbors’ house again without telling me. Otherwise you’ll have to stay in the house tomorrow.

She said, Goodbye my love. Have fun in Amsterdam. I’ll miss you. I love you. If you see anything nice, get me one!

She said, Only a few days now until UNCLE MATTY gets here, kids!

She said to Renee, Sure, you can borrow the scooter. Oh- actually- where are the keys?

She said, Chinua took the keys but he’s going to send them back with the taxi driver.

She said, Should we turn on some music, Leafy? Do you want to dance?

She said, Sure she can walk to the veggie stall with you, Renee.

She said, The cat liked you, YaYa? Really? Did he follow you home?

She said, Will you get me a dozen eggs and two packets of milk, Kid A? Here’s 100 Rupees. You should get 29 back.

She said, He laughed for the first time, today.

She said, Oh beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful baby.

She said, PLEASE GO TO SLEEP.

She said, Can I call you back?

She said, Dinner’s going to be a little late, kids. I have to help Solo get to sleep.

She said, What day is her birthday again? Is there anywhere here that we can buy a cake?

She said, Yes, you’re singing. Oh yes you are. Oh yes you ARE. Oh you are a GOOD singer, singie wingie singer yesyouare.

She said, There’s lots of soup if you want any.

She said, This question might be a little pointed, but do you feel like walking to the store to get yourself a lime soda? Because if you do, I wouldn’t mind having one too.

She said, No, I’m not mad at you. But I want you to know that you cannot take anything of ours and decide to throw it away, okay? That’s a rule. No throwing stuff out.

She said to her Russian neighbors, Can I borrow your bottle opener? My son threw mine off into a trash pile.

She said, That man bathing at the well is completely stark naked, Renee.

She said (about twenty times) Get back in your bed, Leafy.

At night, just before she went to sleep, she said, Oh thank You thank You thank You. Thank You for all of them and for peace and for grace like the sea.

There is a wild pain that wakes you up in the night gasping for breath, a panic that makes your heart skip a beat.  There are dreams that leave you weeping into your pillow.  There can be screaming, anger and striking and tearing.  It is the grief for the untimely, for ones who shouldn’t have left the earth so quickly.
I’ve never felt this kind of grief, but I’ve seen it and I’ve cried along with those who wake up in those nights with the darkness sitting heavy on them.

There is grief that has you lying in your bed, curled in a ball.  Your tears leak into your pillow, you don’t want to eat.  Food seems pointless.  You don’t know what to do with the days that stretch on ahead, but you know that you need to be brave, sometime, somewhere.  Soon.  But now you will just curl up into yourself and cry into the softness.  You miss your dear brother, or your husband.  You weren’t ready to let him go.
I haven’t been there, either.

And then there is grief that takes you gently.  It is the longing for someone who will never be there again, but who led a long and full life, who had many days, many memories.  It is a sharp pang when you look in the mirror and see your curly, curly hair- the hair that didn’t come from nowhere, the annoying ringlets that you inherited.  It is when you remember your special nickname, the one that your grandma used for you; “Pet Lamb.”  It is when you think, “Oh please can she come back?  Just so I can hug her and smell her one more time?  So I can hear her singing while she washed the dishes?  So I can write down her stories?”

It is when you stop in your tracks on the way to walking somewhere, stop dead midway, stand staring off.  You wait for your heart to feel okay again and then keep going the way you were, toward your kids who are waiting for you.  This is the kind that is mine.

But she would get really tired if her white blood corpuscle count was particularly low, and often she would need blood transfusions to help her. My grandmother was possibly one of the most energetic people on earth, and hearing her sounding weak and tired made me feel as though the sun had petulantly decided not to rise.
We would talk about all sorts of things. Mostly the kids. At a time in my life when Grandma and I were in danger of running out of common ground, I started having kids. And from then on there was no shortage of things to talk about. It’s nice to have someone who could hear you tell stories about your kids ad infinitum, without getting sick of it. My parents and grandparents can always be counted on for this.

But we would talk. I told her about my knitting, and quilting, since she was an avid sewer and knitter. And she of course expressed alarm about my plans to move to India.

And then, always, when we talked about her sickness, I would always say, “I really don’t like this Grandma. I just don’t like it.”

And she would say, “I know you don’t, dear. I know.”

I don’t know how to say how much I’ll miss her.  She was a force in my life that was grounding and true.  She loved me fiercely.

I know my Grandpa will miss her beyond words (they just celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary) and my parents and all our other family.  She is an incredible woman, with a red-headed temper and the most loving arms.  She loved them all just as fiercely.  You could feel her love, from way, way off.

I wouldn’t want her to come back and be sick again.  I just wish sometimes that everything could stay like it was before.

Well, no, not really. But don’t you wish sometimes that you could just say, “See ya,” and then find yourself a nice cozy world where it is not storming and there are no assassinations and nobody is asking you for anything?

I think it’s the kind of day I’m having. It’s a day when every movement makes me even more nauseous. It’s a day when suddenly being pregnant and expecting my fourth child, who will be born before my oldest turns six, seems overwhelming. When nine months seems vast. When I can’t get comfortable. Already.

A day to be a whiny child. Along with my whiny, not-quite-feeling-well children.

Today is a day when my to-do list is slapping me in the face like a wet fish, when I am ignoring it and procrastinating, lying on the floor trying to feel better. (Have I ever mentioned just how much I love lying on the floor? Sometimes I wonder if I’ll still be lying on the floor when I’m sixty-five. Probably.)

Today is the kind of day that reminds me of days in the past when I used to hole up in my room with a book and a large bag of chips. Or maybe a cake. I would love to do that now, minus the food. But now I am a mom, and I’d better get used to it. And now I have work to do.

I’m trying to lay down some of my working roles, and in doing so, I seem to accumulate even more work- things that need to be done before I can fully lay them aside. It’s killing me. I feel like my life is one big deadline. For example, right now I somehow need to magically open up a high-interest bank account. I have no idea how to do this. I need to get tax receipts out. I need to get my computer fixed. I need to send out some communications. I need to work on updating a website.

I feel like I’m having a panic attack.

Maybe what I really need is to pray.

Breathe into me. I’m lost and lonely. I’m growing to hate numbers. I want nothing to do with this.

It’s you that I serve. This is not for nothing. You are not harsh. You bend me but don’t break me. You made life and we are glad. We are safe. The storm hasn’t killed us. We have so much.

I’m tired. Please make me free again.

(Here’s a photo of me in my sister-in-law’s room, wondering why my belly looks like I’m three months pregnant. Photo credit for both photos belongs to Chinua the great, otherwise known as the beautiful man with the great-smelling face who brought home steak tacos tonight.)

Please please please please please please please please please please please please

Everything you work for erupts underneath your feet

I didn’t mean to I didn’t mean to I didn’t mean to I didn’t mean to I didn’t mean to

You leave your beloved home- you have to say goodbye

I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved you

You reach out for support and find anger. You will never make it. You will never be enough. You have a fatal flaw.

I am done I am done I am done I am done I am done I am done I am done I am done

Things will never be like they were.  You need to close that door.

I am sorry.

It’s not that ice cream is bad.  It’s not.  It’s not even that I’m unhealthy, because I’m not.  I eat well.  I drink mostly water.  My vices are usually too much pasta, brown sugar in my coffee, coffee.  I don’t smoke anymore, unless I’m with an old smoking friend in Canada and just have to light up for old times sake. 

But sometimes eating ice cream feels like the smoking in the alley behind my house that I used to do, late at night, when everyone was sleeping and I felt that teenaged hollow feeling, the hurting that I just couldn’t understand.  I loved that house.  We had just moved from the suburbs, where we were homeowners, to a rental in urban Edmonton.  For my parents it might have been a sad move, but for fifteen-year-old me, it was heaven.  Thanks to an understanding landlord, I painted my room a green called “Ireland’s Pride.”  You can imagine the shade.  I also ragged it off, giving my walls the texture of a ferny rainforest. 

It was the beginning of my love affair with old houses and gardens and lit windows.  At night I’d sit on my couch in front of my long, tall window, and gaze at the enormous house that I could see on the next block.  I’d watch their windows with the lights pouring from within, thinking about towers and nooks and little rooms, and I’d dream of the people who lived in that large red house.  They loved books and cats.  They ate yogurt for breakfast.  They were professors. And then that ache would get to be too much and out I’d go to sit in the alley with a cigarette.

Last night I found out that my grandmother is very sick.  I knew she was struggling with her health, but none of us had received any real diagnosis, yet, and the truth suckerpunched me in the gut.  I sat on the couch.  I called her.  I cried.  I called my husband.  I prayed for a while, my hands on my stomach.  I wrote a little.  I turned on the television, then turned it off.  I picked up my knitting, put it back down and then went for the food. 

What is that?  Once again, it’s not that food is bad, it’s just that it’s not all that comforting.  You’re all shovel and chomp and then you end up burping.  Baking is comforting, measuring out ingredients.  Cleaning, reading the beautiful words of God.  But nothing calls like the siren song of junk food.  I believe this is called bingeing. 

I did only end up eating about a third of a pint, hardly a binge.  But there was some Pirate’s Booty involved, and some peanut butter cups, also.  Not many, but still.  All designed to distract. 

My grandmother is one of the strongest women that I have ever met, strong in that incredibly refined way, like the Queen of England.  Except that she’s Scottish, Scottish-Canadian, the kind of woman who enjoyed her childbirthing, the kind of woman who gets tears in her eyes every time she thinks of my baby brother, who died, and yet was the only member of my family I could bring myself to ask for the full details about him and several of the other family tragedies, because she processes grief by remembering, by talking about it.  She is a woman of detail, the kind who remembers every single birthday of every person she’s ever met, who sewed all of her own clothes and her children’s clothes, the kind who retired at seventy-eight. 

I can’t think of her sick. 

This troubling tendency toward distraction in myself is something that I’m working on.  I bet we all are, to some extent.  I’ve been coming up with a group of practises, harvested from different Christian traditions, different homesteading and artistic traditions, which I am using to reconstruct my life.  I know what I believe, I feel rock solid in my faith. But what do I practise?  How do I live this life, how do I reap the most out of it?

Probably not by eating ice cream and channel surfing.  I don’t want to be too hard on myself, and if you could see my little heart right now you’d see that it is tender towards nine-year-old me gazing glassy-eyed at the t.v. that she had previously ignored on this writing retreat. 

These practises that I’m working on are almost like bookmarks, like things I can return to again and again.  I hope to come to a place where I reach for the things that will truly comfort, even in times of great need.  Even when someone I love so deeply is sick, when the idea of too much change threatens to rock me a little too hard and tip me over.

I will pray for my grandmother and keep calling her, keep telling her I love her and hear her trying to reassure me as she says, “I know you do, dear.”

 

YaYa on the playground, originally uploaded by journeymama.

 

Our van is kind of funny, with its no heat function, so when rain happens we have to open the vents and the windows to keep the windshield from fogging up.  Choosing between no sight and being cold is easy, we choose being cold.  Choosing between the $1000 needed to fix it and being cold is easy too.  Blankets for everyone!  (I’m going to look into it before winter hits, though, to see if there are any less expensive options.  There is nothing quite like deciding not to go somewhere  because you don’t want to be cold.)  But then the rain stopped and it was sunny in California, and we hit the beach and fed some ground squirrels. 

When we got home, I opened our front door and looked inside, and wow!  I fell in love.  Again.  With my house.  It was so beautiful, the warm wood everywhere, and Renee had cleaned it up for us (she was housesitting) and I felt so, so sad to be leaving.  I went to bed happy to be home.

And then, yesterday. 

I think it took me about two minutes to become stressed out.  So much to do, finances out of control, (I say to myself, I am about to have a heart attack) weeds in the garden (despite Renee’s valiant weeding while we were gone). 

I have not yet complained much about living at the Land.  But right now the burden of these ten acres is pressing down on me.  We handle our finances with the combined contributions of the people who live together.  Right now, as we leave, we have so few people living together that this isn’t working.  Neither is a shared work force, maintaining and improving, since it turns into Chinua and I, and a handful of people, running around the Land in circles.

It’s like a bad dream.  I run and I run and I can’t get it all done.   

I’ve never wanted to simultaneously leave and stay so badly before.  This is my home in a way that no other place has ever been a home to me.  Driving back into the Redwoods was like driving into the womb, or something.  (Bear with me.)  But the situation has become unsustainable, and it is time for the next step.  And this is breaking me, a little more, when I thought I had done all the breaking I can.  There are so many other people who have history here, too, and our leaving has become symbolic to them of the end of something. 

Selfishly I feel like I can’t carry their sadness along with my own.

There is no way to escape this, no other home I can go to, no possibility of getting away from doing what I hoped I’d never do, dealing with the end of ten years of being here, hurting with it.  Leaving the river. 

The only way over this is through it, we have to put things in boxes.  We have to stretch farther than we’ve ever been stretched before, and this is no small thing.  I fret about money and I fret about mess and it has no result. 

And yet, God is here.  He is calling us forward and we look for small miracles in the journey.  I hear Him in the rush of the river and think of being swept over, again and again.  Once more, I am being combed through, and I pray that I will emerge a little more free of burrs, of the stinky me that sometimes seems to refuse to lay down.  I pray for grace, for the ability to be more than me, more than what I am, because what I am doesn’t seem to be enough.