This morning we woke up at the farm. We arrived at Busy Bee last night and settled in for a week of Thanksgiving holiday. The children are always beyond excited when we arrive and eager to get reacquainted with the farm house. In the mayhem, it was nearly 11 o’clock when we climbed in bed.

I like the morning here. It’s quiet. Morning at the farm seems more quiet than when we wake up at home, but I’m not sure it actually is. It helps that we are almost always here to relax. So, perhaps it’s my thinking that’s quieter. We don’t have a central heating unit in our farm house, so wintertime means simple gas heaters in our rooms. It’s a quiet heat without the on-and-off hum of air blowing. I think we wake up more slowly here because it’s quiet. The light slowly filters in with the rising sun. It coaxes us back to consciousness without the buzz of alarms. We are urged awake by the promise of a day filled going just where our whims tell us to follow.

We all need those times, whether in a farm house or other parts unknown. Times apart from our routine and schedule and daily surroundings to regroup.

I feel like I’ve been in a year of regrouping. When I think about last Thanksgiving spent here at the farm, I remember so much numbness. It had been two months since Mike died and I was still dumbfounded by the changes. I was numb to most of the people around me except for this hyper sensitivity to my children and their well-being.

Joining my extended family for Thanksgiving lunch today, I noticed a change in myself — or maybe a return to myself. I was able to visit and talk and interact, to take an interest in people around me. A year ago, I couldn’t do it. It just seemed completely overwhelming, like I was watching everything from a distant corner of the room even though I was sitting right there. Today I was there.

This morning was quiet. Quieter than a year ago. And even in the twilight of my sleep, I was more awake.

12 Days of Thanksgiving

This week I talked to a dear friend I hadn’t visited with in a while. It was just a random encounter using Facebook chat — not ideal, but one of those conversations I think must have been some kind of divine appointment. She told me she was glad I was writing again, saying the 12 days series was giving her a glimpse of how I’m doing. And she made one of those observations I love her for…

“Writing seems to be one of the best processing tools for you.”

Yep, I could probably write a whole essay on those friends who seem to know me through and through regardless of how long it’s been since we’ve talked, but that’s for another time. I’ve been struggling with writing this year, as evidenced by the lack of posting here. Fewer posts mean there are even fewer personal journal entries.

I love to write. It helps me know my own soul. I know this about myself. But, I’ve had trouble finding the motivation this year. I even considered letting go of EyeJunkie altogether. But I couldn’t. Somehow this writing space feels like it’s tethered to my heart. Right now, even after almost no essays this year, I still feel like discontinuing this blog would be like cutting part of myself out of my life.

Before I decided to write this Thanksgiving series again, I had not posted an essay since May. In my last one, I wrote about having taken a break — right before I took ANOTHER long break. At the time, I had been looking for a way to write beyond my experiences with my husband’s death, a way to write from life and joy rather than death. I thought I was ready, and then promptly lost the will to do it. It’s funny how a favored activity can be such a double-edged sword sometimes.

I remember measuring my documentation of the grieving process as if it had surely become tiresome to everyone and simultaneously feeling compelled to give an account of coming through this process to the other side. That double-edged sword. I loved being open about what had happened and how I was dealing with it. I also wanted to suck back all the words as soon as they were out there. I was torn between writing for Mike’s sake, for the world’s sake and for my own sanity. Sometimes I felt this odd need and obligation to simply let my world know we were moving forward. Moving in some way. So that the experiences of grief and confusion weren’t left just hanging there.

This week’s conversation with my friend made me trace back through all those reasonings and obligations. To think and remember and question. And learn from myself about why this act of written processing matters. To question why I’m NOT writing. My answer brought me back to one more encouragement…

“Give yourself some grace and write for the good of your heart.”

There it is. For the good of my heart. Not out of some strange sense of obligation. Or some arbitrary schedule. Or some need to finish what’s been started. For the good of my heart. I lost that somehow. I lost sight that this process is part of helping my heart move forward. Thinking through it and writing through it may be a slow, slow journey, but joy and healing and change come through each step.

Grieving and letting go and moving and changing. It all takes work. Hard work. And courage. The courage to look at difficult things. Confusing things. Unknowable things. It takes work to make sense of what can be understood and let go of what can’t. It takes courage to figure out the difference. It takes work to figure out myself in this new situation. It requires courage to take it all in as part of myself.

I want to be that hard-working and courageous person. I want to show my children that person. I want to see it all the way through — no matter how challenging the view — so that my children know it can be done. So that when they ask the next round of questions, I can say I don’t know. But, let’s look it squarely in the eye — together.

I’m so thankful for these reminders and for one more shift in perspective. I’m thankful for discerning friends and technology that can bring them into my living room. I’m thankful for the seed of courage waiting to be nurtured again. I’m thankful for the grace to accept Mike’s death as part of the fabric of my life — not the defining thread. I’m thankful for the step by step process that is bringing us forward.

12 Days of Thanksgiving

“Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean. But much gain comes from the strength of the ox.” Proverbs 14:4

Some days you can’t see the ox for the straw covering the barn. Today I missed Thanksgiving lunch with my kindergartener and first grader. I had it in my calendar for this morning. I had already purchased my ticket. I’d scheduled meetings around it. I was ready to go.

Only this morning I woke up very early before the sun was up. I couldn’t go back to sleep because I was listing in my mind the things I needed to do before our Thanksgiving holiday begins on Friday evening. Birthday presents for Bug, Book Fair purchases for Little Drummer Boy, several emails scheduled to send for a client, a website concept design, packing clothes, finding books for school, a Reading Fair project, meetings, that letter I wanted to write. So many things to do. In my early morning thinking, I made a plan for how to mark some things off the list this morning.

It was a great plan taking advantage of the dead zone that Walmart becomes at the beginning of the work day. It included an unexpected peek at Little Drummer Boy while picking up his book requests. I was able to get some emails schedules and web pages set up. But, around 1:30 I glanced carefully at my calendar and saw the two blocks marked for Thanksgiving lunch. At 9:50 and 10:40 this morning.

Fail. And there is no fail to the spirit like a mommy fail on Thanksgiving, no less.

So, the afternoon has included a few tears for me. And a much needed shift in perspective. So many times I think I get so caught up in being the best mommy, in doing the best work, that I stress myself out of experiencing the true joy of mothering or creating. I get so caught up in doing that I lose sight of being, of experiencing, of giving attention to the basics. And I forfeit the full value those core treasures bring. I forget that the errands and projects and creating ideas or special days all serve to SERVE my treasures. They aren’t the treasure. So, I can accept the untidiness of a schedule perpetually half-fulfilled. As long as I can focus on the strength those treasures bring to every single day. And, when the duties and activities cease to contribute to that strength, I can give myself permission to let them go.

Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean. Thank God he’s given me such a mess.

12 Days of Thanksgiving

Today marks the 150th anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. This short speech delivered in 1863 at the dedication of a cemetery is one of the most remembered orations in American history. I imagine every person reading this can quote at least a portion of the speech. The words have endured as a profoundly succinct and moving account of our country’s ideals. But, the words were also delivered as a comfort.

The wounds were fresh. Thousands gathered at the dedication to honor their sons and fathers and husbands who were buried just a few months earlier. Over 50,000 men died in the Battle of Gettysburg in July 1863. The battle was one of the largest and bloodiest of the Civil War. The community of Gettysburg was, no doubt, in devastation even four months later.

Facing the forever-changed outlook of that community, the President stood and asked the people to live. To live out the core of what they believed, of what was right. Beyond their devastation and the impact of such loss.

It’s interesting to me that some six weeks earlier, Abraham Lincoln had given another speech. It is less recognized, but we celebrate its impact every year — on Thanksgiving Day. On October 3, 1863 Lincoln delivered the first national proclamation of Thanksgiving, establishing the national holiday…

“The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God…

~ Abraham Lincoln, October 3, 1863

Somewhere centered between some of the bloodiest and conflicting times in our history and the need to commemorate the loss resulting from those conflicts, Lincoln was compelled to proclaim a day of thanksgiving. In the midst of sorrow and struggle and conflict, whether inward or outward, Lincoln seemed to see the value of shifting our gaze upward. The value of offering thanks. The value of doing it together. The value of laying bare a grateful heart, taking inventory of the bounty that remains. When we need it most.

As my children and I continue to walk through the stages of our own grief, I’m continually reminded of what a comfort thanksgiving can be. On days when loss or sorrow or hopelessness seem to take hold, the impact of recognizing just one blessing can be so powerful. But, gratitude has just as much of an impact on the normal days that are becoming more and more consistent for us. On days when I look at my children flourishing and vibrant with life, thanksgiving helps me hold those moments closer and extend the hope and joy to the next moment. Thanksgiving helps us string the moments together. Thanksgiving helps me know we are moving on. It helps me acknowledge that we are alive. And growing. And we can say with confidence that we a blessed. We have lost. But, we are blessed. There is no greater shift in perspective than that.