Mail-Order Forgiveness

One of my happiest times of day is when the mailman delivers my post. You'd think he were delivering gold or cold hard cash instead of random bills and the occasional letter. I savor the moment right before I open the mailbox and discover what's inside because in that moment, anything's possible. My optimism always gets the best of me, and I admit, I do get more personalized mail and handwritten cards and letters than the average person. Well, Saturday was no different, so when the postman delivered my mail I was happy to see and handwritten addressed envelope...until I saw the "W" logo on the upper left hand corner and realized it was from my dad's wife.

I won't go into it all, but suffice to say she is not my favorite personality. I've tried, really tried with her, but to no avail. I've finally set up some boundaries around mistreatment and contact, but I recently sent her a letter with the simple intent of sharing poetry and moving past the past. She and my dad lost their two dogs earlier this year in a tragic accident; both drowned in the Milwaukee River after falling through the melting ice. The pup fell through the ice and Ike, the bulldog, jumped in to save him, promptly sinking to the bottom from his weight. My heart truly softened towards her since that time imagining the pain of losing such beloved companions--softened to the point of risking being vulnerable enough to attempt contact again, which is no small feat, given the history between us, but I wanted to extend an olive branch, however puny it may seem.

Turns out, she wasn't interested. Keep in mind she is in her sixties and a "spiritual" psychotherapist who tauts her practice of "radical forgiveness" and has been to every myster school, retreat, yoga school, sweat, delved in every religion and even became a "Doctor of Divinity." My point--she should know better. But actions speak louder than words, but I digress...When I mustered up the courage to open the letter, it turns out all that was inside the envelope was the very letter I sent to her a few days ago, returned to me. It was not in its original envelope, which leads me to believe it was opened and possibly read, but who knows.

My first response was anger. What a b**** I thought to myself when I saw she returned the letter I sent with goodwill. I let myself stew for a while before deciding it was really a blessing disguised as a slap in the face. All this time I felt like I hadn't given our "relationship" my all, that I could've reached out and tried to mend things--y'know, be the bigger person, taking on the adult or parental role which I've had to do so often with my parents.

Role reversal is nothing new to me, yet now in my thirties, I resisted. I had tried in the past, but was tired of putting my energy into a situation, relationsihp and person that brings me no joy, nothing but agitation, judgment and stress. So I've kept my distance. The letter was a way to reach out, my way to say "no hard feelings," but now that it was rejected and returned to me, I feel as though I'm liberated from any guilt I may have felt about not trying "enough" to "be nice." It she is playing small, unable to accept a kindness, who can force it? I'm done with that now.

In truth, I now feel as though it was the best gift she could've given me in these circumstances--it was as though I could finally let my self off the hook. If she won't receive my kindness, my letter, my attempts, then I need not continue to go to a dry well--no longer going to the hardware store for milk, so to speak. A simple shift in attitude or perception has taught me that things are not always what they seem or how we habitually and rather instinctively perceive them to be, rather, they are as we make them. As Anais Nin says, "We see things not as they are, but as we are."Now that I'm growing and changing my mindset, I can see myself not as a victim of cruelty or an evil step-mother, but as the recipient of a great gift--a chance to really let myself off the hook. I feel free.

I share my short but sweet letter with you now, so I can share it with a receptive audience. My dad's wife may have rejected reading it, but nothing is stopping me from sharing a beautiful poem with y'all, so here's my letter that was so kindly returned to me yesterday.

* * *
Dear S,
I recently rediscovered this poem and thought it was lovely. May you enjoy it as I have.

"Is the life we are living the same as the life that wants to live in us?"

excerpt from Listening to Life

Some time when the river
is ice ask me mistakes
I have made. Ask me
whether what I have
done is my life.
Others have come
in their slow way
into my thought,
and some have tried
to help or to hurt:
ask me what the difference
their strongest love or hate
has made. I will listen
to what you say. You and I
can turn to look at the silent
river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden;
and there are comings
and goings from miles
away that hold the stillness
exactly before us.
What the river says,
that is what I say.

-William Stafford,
"Ask Me"


Love,
A.G.

***

I hadn't copied that down for myself, so I'm glad it came back to me. I find it so, so lovely. I hope you do, too.

Going to the Hardware Store for Milk

It starts like this: a bright cheery May morning, the warm whiffs of wind full of lilacs from the yard and the fresh scent of my neighbor's prized roses. The same familiar birds here on the long branches of our oak trees suddenly seem to synchronize their a capella harmonies, the sound of their united tunes combine with the chatter of the little boys next door and the echoes of grandparents playing catch with their grandsons, like a symphony almost. Everything is lush and green and vibrantly alive. The earth seems to vibrate with energy and I am not tired though it is only 6am on a Saturday, and I have just four hours of sleep in me. I pulled a muscle in my neck from positioning my body in odd contortions while sharing my double bed with my sister and two cats last night. But none of that much matters because my sister is here from the hills of North Carolina and I'm happy to be awake and with her. I feel at home, really at home with her here.

And then I am violently awoken from this dream (which was my reality until just now), startled into position by some strong force of will that is not altogether benign. The moment is gone. Passed on, not to come along again. The air fills with negativity from the malcontent who was was my sister once; who she is now I do not know exactly, I just know sister doesn't convey the habitual and almost involuntary abuse and control she tries to wield over me.

"You're so selfish. It's not all about you, y'know? You're such an ass! Why do you have this stupid thing? Who wears black with brown anyway? What's wrong with you? What are you doing? I can't believe you don't want to see Shannyn's baby. Go get the soda for me. You better not be buying the cheap toilet paper. I can't believe you took such a big bite. I'd never do that to you (digs nails into the skin of my arm). Let's go! I didn't get up at 6:30 to be late! Why are you going this way? This is a stupid way to go. I hate cinnamon gum! Is that all you have? Why is it so hot in here? I can't believe you don't have a vent in your bathroom. Turn on the A/C! I'm hot. I don't care, my hormones are still out of wack from the pregnancy, remember? God, you don't have any money. What are we going to do all weekend? You only have one can of diet Pepsi? That's hilarious. I'm glad I asked. We have to stop at the store. You only have soy milk? Eew, your concoctions look disgusting. Gross! Your cats are so annoying. How do you put up with them? They kept me up all night. Where did you get this comforter? It's so Little House on the Prairie! God, you paid $50 for it? Why are your lights on so low? You can turn this up, y'know! I can't believe you didn't know what that was for! God, what are you going to do with a Master's degree in English anyway? What do you have to be stressed about? What do you have to keep track of anyway, you don't have a family or even a job!...."

On and on it goes (and my sister has been here for eighteen hours). My sister is so hostile towards me. It hurts to be rejected and so disapproved of by the one soul I'd have hoped would have my back when no one else did--my twin sister. It seems the perfect match down to the same DNA, doesn't it stand to reason that we'd be made for each other, of each other? And yet it is simply not so. Intellectually I know I needn't take her abuse personally, but in my heart I know no other way to take it. It hurts. I don't know how to stop it from hurting except by not caring and I'm not there yet. Apathy, not rage is the opposite of love.

So here I stand, between rage and love, wanting apathy instead of this. Today (and every day) any mark of dissent is vehemently opposed by violent outbursts and uncontrollable rage. I don't know what to do with myself nor with this puddle of anger drawing higher and higher up around my ankles, my face overcome with pallidness, my heart heavy from the weight of expectation and resentment. My arms seem to cross as if by themselves, a protective stance assumes its place in my body. I feel not unlike myself, yet only moments ago after my acupuncture treatment I was literally abuzz with an energetic calmness, my spirit pulsing through me in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. One whiff of "sisterly love" washes over me and I can no longer feel my center.

Poof! So soon does it flee from me that it seems unlikely it was ever there to begin with. We are in the car again, driving to my brother's house and the mood is not good despite our chipper circumstances: balmy Saturday morning, the world spread out before us, coming off of a 90 minute deep tissue massage and a leisurely breakfast in the sun on the terrace at Einstein bagels. I know my sister will be here for only the briefest while, yet I cannot endure it. I don't know how to be--how to put my ego aside long enough to not react. I can't pretend this is okay any longer. This is not okay. It's not okay to be constantly berated in little and small ways. It's not okay to have a cell phone chucked at my head at full speed because the person on the other line isn't doing what my sister wants her to do, isn't saying the "right" thing to appease her and diffuse the rage that has taken over my sister's mind, body and soul and seriously seems to be controlling her from the inside out. No, none of this is okay anymore.

I cannot delude myself one second longer. This is not friendship. This is not love. There is no support. There is no sisterly compassion or understanding. There is no room for compromise or negotiation. There is only a hurt little girl so buried under rage and anger that the joy that is her middle name doesn't stand a chance at emerging over such muck and grime. There is no chance for a healthy relationship between sisters to be nurtured or reignited when it must first be borne of such rage and resentment and in such an unfortunate environment.

I love my sister. I will always have a connection to her, my monozygotic other half. But I am finally standing up for myself and what is right for me. I no longer accept relationships with people who abuse me verbally, physically, emotionally or otherwise. Period. End of story. There is no more room for excuses or second or third or hundredth chances. I love my sister, it's true. But I love myself, too. And it's time for me to love myself enough to not endure that which is unendurable. The pain is simply too deep and the let down too damning. Why give disappointment full reign and resentment more room to fester? Why cry the same old sad song into the same tired ears of those who love me? Why?

I no longer know the answer.

And that is why it's time to stop this messiness with my sister. This is not love. This is not even the opposite of love. This is just anger and abuse and dysfunction clouding the vision of two people who love each other but are clearly not in a place to respond to the love that is buried under the mire of sadness, hurt and rage.

I forgive, but I have not forgotten. And forgiveness does not mean condoning bad behavior or purposefully putting oneself in the line of fire. To me, forgiveness is an opening in one's heart, a letting go of premeditated resentments and expectations of the other person. Forgiveness is a gift I give to myself--to let go of the weight of past resentments and past hurts and to begin to practice the art of acceptance and creative avoidance. I no longer go to the hardware store for milk. And that makes me feel a lot better because I no longer curse the fact that I can't get what I need there. I choose another place to get what I want and it's place I know always has an abundance of what I need in stock. There is no doubt there. And that makes life a lot simpler, and makes me a much healthier woman. The sad thing is that I still miss my sister, or perhaps it's more apt to say I miss the version of my sister I always imagine her to be. And even though that sister isn't exactly real, the pain of losing her or never actually having had her in the first place feels quite real, indeed. And that's the part of me that wants to sneak back into the hardware store to see, just one last time, if there isn't some milk there hidden between the hammers and the nails or tucked in between the light bulbs and extension cords. Just in case.

The Dimming of the Light

Freezing rain and treacherous conditions outside have kept me cozied indoors today. I didn't want us to go stir crazy so I visited my grandparents all morning. I brought down a handful of white tulips for grandma, made a second pot of Maxwell House coffee for grandpa, and we were good to go for a morning's worth of "schnuttering," as my grandma calls it. I heard many old stories about their childhoods and even a refreshing new one, and my grandpa, though at times confused, tried his best to keep up with our schnuttering. When I joked with him about the noisy chatter that often fills the house house, he simply said "Why don't you join in?" Mostly though, I just listened.

After his breakfast of oatmeal and a cocktail of pills and vitamins, I had a few moments alone with my grandfather, who suffers from Alzheimer's/dementia, which has changed the way in which I interact with him. As his granddaughter, I sometimes experience feelings of loss and frustration that inevitably come when my grandpa, whom I love so dearly, doesn't remember me and can no longer truly share in my recent life events. It is teaching me not to be so attached to my story and my past, rooting me firmly and graciously in the present moment, in the now.

During our talk, my grandpa was embarrassed to ask where I was living now, as he forgot. When I told him (yet again) that I live upstairs, in the apartment above him, something seemed to click a little bit. "Ooh, that's a nice apartment he said, Do you have your own furniture?" Then he asked, worriedly, "But you don't live alone, do you?" When I admitted that yes, indeed I do live alone, he questioned me. "But don't you have a sister?" When I said that yes, I have a sister, Rachel, who is married, he seemed to have no recollection of this. I tried to spur on his memory by mentioning how her husband is in the Army, and Rachel and I are identical twins, and finally he nodded knowingly, though it's hard to say if he really remembered them or not.

My time with him today brings forth in my mind the lyrics from a song about Alzheimer's called "The Dimming of the Light," by Damian Morgan & Mark Doyle, a pair of Manchester musicians. They sing,

Speak my name, remember me
One more time, remember me
But your memories are broken
And no words can be spoken

Say my name, remember me
One more time, remember me
But I know now you will never
Your rooms are dark forever

This isn't night, this can't be right
The slow and painful dimming
of the light.

The song makes tangible the pain and sadness caused by "the slow and painful dimming of the light" that steals chunks of memory and one's functioning mind, bit by bit. My grandpa has lost a lot, but has frequent glimpses of what appears to be recovery, at least for the moment.

For example, today when prompted he remembered a single vocabulary word (describing Hillary Clinton), which my grandma and his health care worker forgot---vindictive. Funny how he, a staunch Republican, remembered how a politician who supported Bill called Hillary "dangerous and vindictive." Interesting. So I pressed on. I asked him his thoughts on Hillary, whom he always said he so disliked. Today he said "Oooh, I like her." When I told him that she was running for President of the United States he seemed quite surprised and said "Hmmmm. I'm not sure I like her that much!" To which I laughed, and actually agreed. It was the first time my grandfather and I have ever agreed on anything political.

I thought the day would never come.

Love in Action

I will call them my people,
which are not my people;
and her beloved,
which was not beloved.
And it shall come to pass
in the place where it was said to them,
"You are not My people,"
there they shall be called
children of the living God.

(Romans 9:25-26)


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I signed up for a writing group the other day and as the woman took my information over the phone she paused when I told her my first name was Amylia (pronounced Amelia).

"Oh, you must be named after somebody," she proclaimed.

"No, I said, I named myself."

"Oooohhh," she said, her tone rising and falling like a see-saw. It begged for explanation, so I went on.

"My mom named me Amy Lynn, but there were always too many Amy's in my class and at work, so when my colleague called me Amylia, it stuck."

Of course, there was more to the story, but I didn't want to bore the poor lady with drawn out explanations of my legal name change, and often hesitate to share the origin of my name because it's personal and some people won't "get it," and will think I'm a fruit. So, I give out a lame little story about how there are too many Amy's in the world, or omit the truth entirely, though there is a kernel of truth to the version I usually share.

Ever since second grade, I was known at Roosevelt Elementary school as AmyB4 (since we had four Amy B's and two Amy Lynn's). Years later, as a university student I worked in an office where Amy's would abound as well, so my colleague turned friend, Ryan, nicknamed me "Amylia" to differentiate. Long story short, I loved it. At the time, I was taking flying lessons and very much enamored with Amelia Earhart. I was also attending a Unity Church regularly, and feeling very much aligned with Spirit. Whenever I was called Amylia, I felt the connotation resonate within me, always making me smile. The new vibrational energy behind the name made me feel I could fly, I could soar, I could do anything I put my mind, too, which is, of course, the truth of each of us.

My friends and family thought it was a phase, and that I'd get over it. After all, in this day and age, outside of marriage, how many people do you know who actually change their names? Even my forefathers held tight to their original names when making the difficult voyage from the Old Country to the New: Bergholz, Hansen, Hoehne, Miller--they all remained unchanged. Yet here I was, a century later, itching to replace their family histories with my own. Somehow though, I knew my ancestors would've likely understood better than my own parents the desire to go against the grain, symbolically setting my own terms, beginning anew and somehow altering my own fate. It was a family tradition. Was I not just following in their footsteps?

A year later, I went through the arduous legal process of an official name change, having to pay a hefty sum to the state, endure months of bureaucracy and red tape, finally appearing before a judge with all my notarized documents, to explain to the state of Wisconsin why I wanted to change my name. The reason I listed on the paperwork was succinct; I simply put "spiritual name change." During the hearing, I nervously made some half-witted joked about there being too many Amy's in my life, and the venerable Judge D. Moroney didn't really question it; the only stipulation that I quickly update my Wisconsin teaching license to reflect my new name.

Unlike my Mutterland of Germany, where you must request legal permission from the government to name a child something other than the usual names (Gustav, Gunther, Wolfgang, Stefan, Sabine, Claudia, Annette), in America, we are free to name our children (or ourselves) anything our hearts desire. I've had students with the most unusual names: Quintessa, Chandelier, Chiquita, Ebay, and altogether too many troublesome Precious's, Angel's and Princess's. So, though my family and childhood friends will always call me Amy, on October 10th, 2004, I suddenly and legally became known to the myself and the world as Amylia Grace.

It felt strange but also liberating when Judge Moroney legally proclaimed me "Amylia Grace." It didn't quite feel like mine yet, but I liked it all the same. Many thoughts crossed my mind in an instant that felt like an eternity: Was I a traitor for giving up my birth name--the name my parents so lovingly picked for me? Why again did I choose to omit my middle name "Lynn," a name I shared with my mother? And what about my family name, which means "Mountain-Wood," did I not as a young teen visit the very town in Germany which boasts my family's name? Does this make me an imposter? C'mon, am I really Amylia?

After all, I always liked the name Amy. The etymology reveals that my name, from the Old French "Aimee," in use since the twelfth century, derives from the Latin amatus (loved), and literally means "beloved." Amy seems a lovely choice for a first born daughter. Amelia, on the other hand, means "industrious, striving; work," from the Old German and Latin Amalia, meaning "work." Hmph! Beloved certainly sounds more endearing than "industrious work!" And yet....and yet...

To me, Amylia means something else entirely. I didn't abandon "Amy," instead choosing to add three little letters, L, I, A. High-minded as it may sound, the additional L, I, and A have a big job. They stand for Love In Action. After all, I've thought a lot about my purpose and my life--why was I born into my particular family with my unique set of circumstances, at this specific time in history, and in a country as complex and wonderful as America? Why is it that teaching doesn't call out to me as it once had in the past? What is my job here on earth? And then it simply and easily dawned on me from that place deep within me that is both a part of me and something more: I am here to love and be loved. What better mission in life is there than that? To live my best life, trying to always come from a place of love. I may not cure diabetes or end poverty and war, but I can be an instrument of God's love. What higher purpose do I have here on earth than simply choosing, in each moment I have, to be Love in Action? I admittedly fall short of this lofty goal, time and time again, but it is forever a part of me now, and I do believe I am a little better person because of it.


Care to share the story of your name?

Jogging My Memory

It was -10 degrees today, but my I still met my maniacal brother at 9:30am for a quick Sunday morning jog around his neighborhood near Lake Michigan. Everything was frozen.
We only went about a mile because of the severe cold and nasty blowing wind, plus the icy sidewalks and snow covered drives made any real running virtually impossible, and dangerous! It it weren't for my brother's coaxing, I wouldn't have made it. I was sore and tired and cold, but when all was said and done, really happy to be with my "little" brother. It woke me up! We stopped at Starbucks for a warm-up after our jog and had a really nice sister-brother chat. It was the perfect way to spend a Sunday morning and I'd do it again, despite the bitter cold. I like that we're creating a healthy weekend ritual together.
P.S. When I came home this evening after dinner at my cousins, I printed out Saturday night's blog post for my grandparents to read and we had a really touching chat about my grandfather and his letters. He said he thinks he spent about half his Saturday nights writing letters to his kids and grandkids, and when I told him that I wrote my blog entry about him last night (Saturday eve), we both laughed at the coincidence. I got teary eyed as he kissed my hand and thanked me for my kind words (he said he forgave me for telling everyone he was a poor speller, but only because it's the truth!). I printed your comments for them to read and they liked that. My grandmother read an excerpt aloud to him, and we were all touched, not just by my words, but by the memories they evoked. It provided us a chance to share a sweet moment together, and tell one another we love each other. I'll always remember tonight, and it goes down as one of my best memories with my grandparents in recent history. I'm so happy I'm able to tell my grandparents how I feel about them and how much I love and appreciate them while they're still here. What a gift that is, truly!

To the Letter

Letter writing has long been an important part of my life. In the days before email, Twitter, Facebook, instant and text messaging, writing letters kept me connected to those I loved and cared about. The art of a handwritten letter has been lost on most, but to me, there has always been something magical about a handwritten letter. It’s a labor of love. I imagine the sender carefully choosing the paper and favorite pen, or perhaps stealing away a moment during class, like my sister did in college, jotting the note on a piece of scrap paper and tucking it safely into a folded up envelope later on. With handwritten letters, they’re sending a piece of themselves to you—a moment in time that is captured permanently, not unlike a photograph, but much more intimately made. Even at thirty, I have a penpal, whom I adore!

I still marvel at the fact that you can take a piece of paper, compose a letter from anywhere in the world, and with an envelope and an eighty cent stamp that piece of paper will arrive in the hands of the recipient in a few short days or weeks as the case may be. It’s not as instantly gratifying as receiving and email or instant message, but the anticipation is a joy in and of itself, and a handwritten letter is a treasure, and a gift for both the sender and the recipient. I’ve come across many letters I’ve written in my childhood that various friends and family members have saved, and it is a gift to be able to go over old memories that seemed lost, but with an old letter come flooding back as if it were yesterday.

As a fifteen year old exchange student to Germany during the summer of 1992, I wrote a lot. Every day I would fill my Mead notebook with my teenage thoughts and perceptions of everything around me and most days I would also write letters to my family and friends. During my time in Germany I developed a special bond with my grandfather. My grandparents and I lived, up until that summer, in the same town so there was no particular need for writing each other aside from the yearly birthday and Christmas card. However, the summer I spent in Germany allowed for a type of communication between us that had not existed previously.

My grandfather and I wrote to each other regularly. Despite the week delay in receiving letters, we wrote fervently, fueled by the distance between us to say things that we had, perhaps, been unable to say while living in such close proximity. My grandfather is not a particularly good speller and spent most of his adult life having his thoughts transcribed by his secretary, at least in the business world, so for him to hunker down on his rusty old typewriter and compose a letter to his granddaughter was no small feat.

My grandfather would write with advice and observations on life and I, at the young age of fifteen, appreciated the sentiment even if I didn’t fully grasp the depth of his thoughts. He would always sign his letters with his signature phrase: “The Grandfather Who Writes.” I loved that phrase because it made me feel special, knowing he would always write to me, and it made me think my grandpa was special, too, because I knew that not all grandchildren had grandfathers who took the time to write such long letters. His signature is a thing of beauty, too, and I've often tried to mimic his flouncy letters, but like his writing style, they're distinctly his, and such things cannot be copied.

In later years I found out that my grandfather wrote letters to my cousins and siblings, as well, truly earning the title "The Grandfather who writes." My grandmother, spelling whiz and former editor of her high school newspaper would often scan my grandfather’s work for spelling mistakes and typos, encouraging him to white out the mistakes or start again. This was a humbling experience for my grandfather, founder and President of his successful business, who was used to giving orders. The fact that he asked his wife to proofread his letters makes me realize, years later, how important it was that he set things right. He was willing to sacrifice some pride in order to make sure his writing, and his life, were free of unnecessary mistakes and errors. I find this so endearing now, holding the lesson close to my heart, as I look back over the letters he wrote me and remembering the early years.

I don’t remember what my younger self wrote to him, but I know I answered every letter he wrote me, and he did the same. It was our unspoken rule. In fact, I'll never forget how, as an exchange student, my rather frugal grandfather spent $20 to expedite his last letter to me so I’d receive it before I left Germany. I remember being amazed when he told me he had overnighted it to the small town I was living in on the outskirts of Eastern Berlin. I vividly recall receiving his last letter before I returned home, and feeling the twinges of anticipation and excitement upon opening it. It was better than gold. For me, it was validation that grandpa loved me and that I was important enough to him to spend a whole twenty dollars on sending me his letter. My grandpa knew the importance of the written word, and the value of establishing a bond with his loved ones through his words. And while I can’t quite recall what his last letter said, I know that it was special to me, and insisted on keeping it with me in my carry-on, to ensure the airlines didn’t lose it somewhere between Europe and the States.

Fifteen years have passed since that first summer in Germany, and our letters have crossed many oceans and continents. My grandfather was my constant writing companion during my senior year in Europe, my summer in India, my years in Maine and Canada, as well as my four years of college in Minneapolis. In fact, since I’ve finally moved back home I miss the letters my grandfather would write so regularly while I was away. I have been able to spend quality time with my grandfather and hear many stories in person, but the act of him writing letters has vanished with his sight. Now blind and in ill health, my grandfather cannot see well enough to plunk at the old typewriter keys nor can he sit very comfortably at his desk. In fact, though I live above him now, I still miss that certain closeness that came with knowing that “the Grandfather Who Always Writes” had a letter on the way. While we still chat about life, we shared pieces of ourselves in our letters that are harder to share in person.

But we have a new routine that my dad started while I was in Taiwan, and it works just fine. My father now prints off my blog posts each week or two for my grandmother to read; she combs through them first, later reading each entry aloud to my grandpa. In some ways, this blog has become my letter writing outlet, as I’m able to continue sharing of myself through a medium I’m comfortable with; and so I continue to write, despite the frequent lack of written response because I, too, now know the value of establishing a bond with my loved ones through the written word. It is a lesson my grandfather taught me early on in life, and for that, and so much more, I am grateful to my Granfather Who Writes, and hope he is proud of me for still being his Granddaughter Who Writes, too. It's one label I continue to wear proudly.

Day 123+ More

These are a few of my dad's guitars. He's an accomplished musician and plays out with his band, The The Feral Catz when he's not working at his company.

Unlike his firstborn daughter (moi) who has traversed the globe and had freedom in location and jobs, my father hasn't had that chance. He and my mother married young and a handful of years later had his twin girls, both of whom developed type 1 diabetes at tender young ages. Four year later he added a healthy son to the mix.

There was no room for a full-time musician gig, and his responsibilities to his new and growing family (with tangled webs of chronic illnesses) won out against fully indulging his ultimate passions (music, writing, teaching, traveling to Africa). Diabetes is a family disease that affects everyone, and the diabetic's beta cells are most certainly not the only casualty.

Luckily for me, my father has been working in the company my grandfather started since childhood, and through the company's medical plan, designed to fully cover family, he has always provided critical coverage for us, reimbursing 100% of any out-of-pocket medical expenses. Even at thirty years of age the policy stands; should we ever need it, it will be there. It brings me peace of mind. What a gift!

Having spent the last year in Taiwan but not wanting my US insurance to lapse, I have been on COBRA from my former job for the last year, and the high cost of the monthly COBRA payments have been paid in full through this plan. Without this generous support, my life would be drastically different. My dad's hard work, generosity and sacrifice have made it possible for me to live the life I've always wanted, without my diabetes or the confines of medical expenses and burdened finances getting in the way. Isn't that what all parents want for their children?

What a blessing this has been, and continues to be for me. I am one lucky lady. This I know for sure.

Thank you, Papa Woody. I love you!

Loss and Gain

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

P.S. I am exceedingly happy with my own loss (of 3.2 pounds this week) and more importantly, a surprising gain.

...And They Lived Happily Ever After

Well, my little brother is married and still beaming with sheer joy. My walk down the aisle was without trips or spills, and everything was beautiful and as it should be. The world outside was dusted with snow, and inside the church loved ones from near and far gathered in celebration of a new defintion of family--with two families becoming one. There was no drama, no unwelcomed family dynamics involved in the affair. There were big sloppy kisses all around, heartfelt teary eyed speeches, delicious food (oh, that Suzie's cheesecake was to die for), an endless supply of good wine and beer, and I can't forget the dancing. My brother is an amazing dancer and our family is blessed with a good sense of rhythm. It was so much fun. Yudi was snapping photos of everyone and dancing to JT, Usher and Rascal Flats. Everyone in my big extended family met him, and it was nice to see everyone again, and not at a funeral!

L-R My dad's wife, Rachel (my twin), My Father, Me, My Mother

Yudi and I pose for a quick photo before the ceremony.

Just married--The Mr. and Mrs. (I love my sister-in-law's wedding dress!)

This is the look of a man in pure bliss: My little brother, Andrew

The ladies getting ready to dance

Yudi met everyone in my family at my brother's wedding, but was partial to my nephews. Here he is with 18 month old Elliott
The two hams: Yudi and Maxwell at the reception

Above is my tipsy look of "Why did my brother's crazy college buds in the wedding party make us all do shots in the van after the ceremony and then take us out for beer at County Clare? My friend of 24 years, Jill, is next to me ready to party.

The morning after--gift opening at my brother's new house

It has been a busy but wonderful few days and I couldn't be happier for my brother and his new bride. Today is Yudi's last day before heading back to Taiwan on a 6am flight out of O'Hare tomorrow morning, so my joy is tempered with sadness, but what a blessing it has been to have him here.

Another post soon, sans Yudi. Happy New Year to You! 2008 promises great things. I can feel it!

Rehearsal

It is now a winter wonderland here in Milwaukee. It snowed and snowed yesterday. Yudi had his first experience driving in the snow, and he did amazingly well. It was tough on the side streets and going up hill, but he navigated it with ease. Outside looks like a snowglobe, with the trees painted white with fresh snow. It is cold, but not overly so, and I feel so blessed to be in such beautiful surrounding with those I love.

Yudi and I took a trip to the grocery store and Target yesterday, and he was amazed by the self-check out and the big aisles filled with countless selections of drinks and food. He snapped a bunch of photos, and it made me realize how much of the little luxuries of American life I have taken for granted.
My little brother is getting married today. It's 4:30 am and maybe it's nerves or jetlag, but I can't sleep. We had our rehearsal at the church last night followed by dinner at Oakland Trattoria. It was a great night. My brother remarked that he wished he could bottle up the night--the feeling in the air, and take it with him always. There were heartfelt speeches and gratitude and love permeated the air. It was as it should be. Here we are all lined up in plain clothes. I'm in trouble--I even cried at the rehearsal when my brother said his vows. I am buying waterproof mascara. My brother is now Catholic, and the cathedral is stunning--a beautiful place to be married.
As you can see, the aisle is extremely long. Gulp. And I have to be the very first to walk down it (and the last). Double gulp. Did I mention I have a penchant for falling and general clutziness? And I'm wearing heels?
Say a little prayer for me, and all of us, that we are filled with grace and composure, and most of all, a deep feeling of contentment and love during the day today. The family dynamics are often tricky, but my little brother is one of my most favorite people, and I am so proud of him. I love him beyond measure, and am thankful he has found someone who brings him such happiness.

The Good Stuff

My sweet nephew, Elliott

My mom hugging me

With my college roomie who just found out she's pregnant with her 2nd baby!

Pajama Jam Fest: Dad on guitar, sis and nephew "singing"

My paternal grandparents and my "little" brother

My cat, Poes

My nephew, Maxwell

Beloved Newlyweds, Jill and Scott

My sister and nephews with their daddy--home safely from the war

My brother and his bride-to-be in front of their new home!

What's Up, Doc?

This is a picture of me as a little girl (with stethoscope), twin sis with shades on my left. My dad is holding me and we're both giving the camera the "evil" eye. My mom has my twin on her lap, and we're all staring down the cameraman, except my sister who is holding her dolly and looking at me. My parents are both younger than I am now. Fisher Price medical supplies are strewn about from an afternoon on the porch spent playing "doctor." Little did we both know that a few precious years later Rachel would be diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, and three years after that, I'd follow suit. We'd end up "playing doctor" for the rest of our lives, giving insulin injections and fingerpricks and testing each other to make sure the other was okay. We'd be monitoring bloodsugars and insulin dosages, carb content, cholesterol levels, kidney functioning, thyroid levels and all the rest. I've never been to a doctor who's known more about me or my body than myself, of course, so my friend's words ring true when he says "If you're looking for a good doctor for your diabetes, try looking in the mirror." I don't dispute the value of Endocrinologist visits, A1C tests, ohthalmologists, podiatrists and a good G.P., but the daily and long term monitoring of my diabetes and my life is my job, and my responsibility.

Having type 1 diabetes has helped me learn how to reach out, to ask for help, to seek the support I need. It's made me a stronger person. But it's also made me feel more vulnerable, surely invincible. Last night my bloodsugar refused to rise. I keep treating my hypoglycemia over several hours, including snacks that would usually overtreat a low, but it never budged above 82. I went to bed at 82, had several strange dreams and woke up in the morning at 65. I don't know why last night was different. I'm not sure what to attribute it to, and I doubt any doctor would be able to hazard a guess better than my own.

I hate the feelings that accompany hypoglycemia. When my bloodsugar is low and I feel shaky and sweaty and scared, I feel weak, not strong. I yell sometimes. I get gnarly, snarky, angry. I fight. With myself, with whomever is around me. I'm an alternate version of myself. I'm mad at my body, mad at myself, mad that I have to consume a sometimes insane amount of sugar and carbs and calories when I'm not hungry and don't want to. I'm scared and angry and mad that I could die, if left untreated. I'm mad that I'm so vulnerable, so imperfect, so alone with my feelings in that moment. It's a bad place to be, and even though it's the next day and I am fine and the typhoon is gone, low bloodsugar vanquished, I can't help but still feel a bit vulnerable and sad. My sugar spiked this afternoon after lunch and I just felt so damn defeated. And mad. And sad. Afraid to eat. Afraid not to eat. Afraid to exercise. Afraid not to exercise. Afraid to know. Afraid not to know. Afraid to die. Afraid to live with complications. In my moments of weakness, of hypoglycemia, of alternate reality, I feel all those fearful things that I refuse to think too much about during my days. Life feels tender, tenuous, fleeting. It's all there, under the surface of my days, hidden in the lows of my life. I do just fine for myself, but I know that with the joy, comes sadness, with the highs, come lows, and that though often well balanced, I can also come unglued.

Sometimes I just want to reach out and hug the two little girls in that photo--hug them and protect them from all that is in front of them. I want to kiss their noses and tickle their bellies, and make them laugh extra long, extra hard, and spend all morning reading them the Sunday funnies and watching "The Wizard of Oz" under the covers. I want to give them the carefree childhood that diabetes and divorce and alcoholism will steal from them. I want to take them into my arms and hold them forever, never letting them go, making sure they won't hurt, won't ache, won't suffer too much. I wish I could protect them, but I know I can't. And despite that, I know they're going to be fine. More than fine, really. They're going to be strong, lovely, intelligent, healthy women with full lives and people who love them--with adventures and successes, with joys and sorrows, and most of all, with each other. They're fiercely independent, yet very loyal, and despite the years and the distance and all the rest, I'm glad they always lived their own lives and weren't sheltered from the world. I know they've found their way, and are living well.

Hugs still welcome.

Love Lives Forever.

On this mournful day, I remember the tragedy, but also the outpouring of love from around the world in the moments and days following 9/11/01.

This picture drawn by eight year old New Yorker, Kevin Wang, speaks volumes more than any brittle words I may write today.

I will, however, borrow a few that come to mind from the end of Thornton Wilder's lovely book, The Bridge of San Luis Rey,

"But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning."

* * *

I had originally planned to fly today, but decided against it and postponed my return home until tomorrow. I didn't want to fly on today of all days. I wanted to be with my sister and her boys, whose daddy is doing his second tour of duty (since becoming a daddy) with the Army. As a military dad on active duty, he missed most of Max's first year of life. He missed Elliott's first steps, the first time he said "Dada," Max's first day of school, Father's Day, and all the precious moments in between. The other day Max said "But I don't have a daddy." When I gently reminded him that yes, he did, he said, "Yeah, but he's really, really far away. I blow him stars every night. When is he coming home?" Poor little guy. How to you respond to that?

Being near Fort Bragg today, I saw many servicemen and women in uniform, the lucky ones working hard on American soil, reminding me of the sacrifices the families and military make every day. Maya Angelou's poem, Extravagent Spirits captures the essence of it so beautifully and succinctly,

Without their fierce devotion

We are fragile and forlorn,

Stumbling briefly, among the stars.

We and our futures belong to them

Exquisitely, our beliefs and our

Breaths are made tangible in their love.

I thank you.
I love you.
And I will never forget.

MYRTLE BEACH: The Week in Pictures

The morning sunrise as seen from our balcony

"Trouble" with Papa Woody, Max, Elliott & the Pop-o-matic bubble!

The soon to be married Andy and Megan (Kay) Bergholz join the madness!

My dad, "Papa Woody," and Elliott Andrew enjoying the salt water

Reminds me of the song "Big Sky"

On the car ride from NC to SC with my new 'do

Rachel Joy and Maxwell Ross on the way to the beach

Abstract Art: Max and I take a walk on the beach

Rachel and Elliott : Breakfast at the beach

"Uncle Andy" and Max, passed out! My sister, Rachel, in utter amazement at the Dixie Stampede.

My family and I at the Myrtle Beach Pelicans baseball game

Those eyes melt my heart!

Uncle Andy on the Atlantic (dad, sis, E in background)

Elliott "Oh brutha!" and "Uncle Amy" at the Waffle House.

I'll miss the beautiful view from our condo.

* * *

I'm likin' my newly browned skin and smattering of freckles. The ocean always gives me strength as well as humbles me. Amazingly, though I now live on an island (Taiwan), I rarely see the ocean, so this was a lovely place for me to be for ten days before heading back to my "real" life now in Taipei.