Blue Skies and Gray Skies

In my line of work, we operate in both "blue sky" and "gray sky" environments.  Gray skies typically get the most coverage - tornadoes, floods, earthquakes.  It's always a challenge to get the blue sky activities noticed in the public - our preparedness programs, our services to the armed forces. Gray skies make better stories, and they dominate our attention, but as the communications director, it's my job to market both.

Often times my blog is dominated by gray skies, because it's in the gray skies that I feel the need to explore and purge my negative feelings. This leads to the impression that I'm living my whole life under gray skies, when the reality is I'm happy most of the time.

Getting divorced is the grayest my skies have ever been. Scott and I would both agree though that at the bottom of this, we feel we are doing the right thing for us. On the worst days, when my thoughts are their darkest, I want to write, I need to cry. Yet on my best days, and even my normal days, I'm too busy enjoying my kids, enjoying my friends, enjoying my job, enjoying life to make time to write. The need to write isn't so great on those days; and those days are the norm.

So today, I want to write about my blue skies.

The kids and I had a good day yesterday. Sure they were kind of awful in the morning when I told they had one hour to get their rooms clean or I was coming in with a garbage bag and throwing away anything left on the floor. But I spent that hour getting the rest of the house clean and then helped all the kids finish up their rooms before the hour was out. We watched a movie together on the couch then ran errands. (Haircuts and new shoes!) We had beans and toast for dinner - easy and certain to please! We put on our jammies and watched Harry Potter. Jaguar fell asleep curled up in my lap; it was sweet. The girls went to bed with no complaining. I then stayed up until 2am watching Switched At Birth on Netflix while finishing up all the laundry. I had a great day!

Last weekend was my first weekend away from the kids. I spent the first night - Friday - in Oklahoma City, eating pizza from Sauced on Paseo and watching hours of CNN. I spent Saturday with my high school bff Devon and one of her friends, grilling out, drinking gin and gossiping around a campfire until all hours of the night. I went to a play the following day with another friend. I had a great weekend! There were sad moments as we three newly single women talked about the disappointments, the regrets and the losses that come with divorce, but we had a lot of laughs and a lot of perfectly bad ideas regarding how to keep the campfire going in our somewhat inebriated state.

I talked a few days ago about my fear of being alone and the negativity that I can heap on myself while alone. I honestly feel that way some days. What I don't get around to saying though is on other days, I look forward to getting to know myself, spending some alone time learning to appreciate the quiet solitude. Last weekend after spending all that time with friends, I took myself to a movie I've been dying to see and loved going by myself. It was a movie based on a book that dramatically impacted my life and was a movie I didn't want to see with anyone else. Watching it in the cinema alone is exactly how I wanted to see it. This morning, I've even gone so far as to allow my kids to go to church with my mom (shock! horror!), so that I could revel in the silence of an empty, clean house, writing this blog and appreciating the me-time.

I recognize that I've never been very good at being alone and I've never really been good at knowing what *I* want. Before Scott, I had a very serious boyfriend that I spent way too much time trying to please, trying to be what he wanted me to be. Before him, I had a boyfriend that liked me so much just as I was, but I felt the relationship wasn't what God wanted me to be in so I ended it. Scott always allowed me to be me - he's incredible that way and this point needs to be reiterated loud and clear because he NEVER asked me to be anything other than who I am - but the moment after we married, I moved to another country and became "Scott's wife" to everyone else, and a few short years later, Fifi's mum. I did everything for the kids, was everything they needed me to be, and I don't regret that for one single second. But they are older now and don't need me like that so much, and Scott and I are splitting up, and I am back in America where people remember me as just Lori Arnold, the girl who had an obsession with mooning everyone and an equal obsession with Tripping Daisy, and you know what? I look forward to just remembering what I like and who I am all on my own.

A few weeks ago I had a night all to myself. I almost felt afraid to leave the house and go out on my own, because I had no idea what I wanted to do. I had a few options, but all the options included me going alone. I was supposed to be meeting friends, but they all canceled for one reason or another. I drove around aimlessly for a while realizing I don't know what I even want for myself, what I even like to do, what choices I should make for myself. I'm generally happy to go with whatever everyone else wants to do; I'm not picky, I just like to hang out. Left with making decisions for myself, though, I was at a loss. I picked a restaurant I wasn't terribly excited about and ate dinner by myself with a book. I texted my friend. She encouraged me to just "do me" that night, whatever the hell that might look like. And you know what? I decided to follow my gut and do exactly what I really wanted to do, even if it meant doing it alone, and I did. And I had a fantastic time! I realized I AM capable of going places alone and having fun and making friends wherever I go, and that excites me.

Scott and I as a broken couple also have our mix of gray and blue skies. But it's the blue skies we're focusing on. It's the days when we can just talk about what we're going through and what we want for the future and how we can best love and care for our kids and still be a family. It's the days we can hug each other and know that deep down, we will always want the best for each other and root for each other's happiness. It's the times we can still laugh about things and roll our eyes at the things that annoy us both and quote Scrubs and know that the other person knows we're quoting Scrubs. We will always be in each other's lives no matter what, so why dwell on the gray skies when there are blue ones to smile through?

I have a lot of blue sky days. A LOT. I have gray ones too. The gray ones get the limelight, but as a blogger, I'm making it my job to share about both. I may not love being alone, but I know I am strong enough to make it work. I'm an extrovert. I need people. That won't change. But I don't need to be codependent. I want to learn the difference between needing to do things with people and being able to do things alongside people. I can face the fact that I'll never be the kind of person who chooses to hike the Pacific Crest Trail to find herself, but I can and will be the kind of person who will travel to another city by myself and hang out in bars and meet the locals and see the sights and take photos to post on Instagram and text with friends while I'm off doing my own thing. I can't do complete solitude, but I can just "do me". I'm going to be okay. I'm going to be happy. :)

Bathos, Stolen Corpses and Rock n' Roll

One of the coolest, most interesting classes I took in college, the kind of class that colleges should offer more of, the kind of class that is quintessentially “college”, was Folk and Pop Music Traditions. It was in the English curriculum, since we studied the lyrics as much as the history and the music itself, and was taught by a really hipster older guy professor, Dr Bob Cochran.  

Dr Cochran introduced us to all kinds of music I'd never have listened to myself, from the Carter Family to Merle Haggard to Gram Parsons. It is Gram Parsons though who's music and story has stuck with me all these years. 

He introduced us to Parsons by playing "Love Hurts" for us in class. His intent was to differentiate for us the difference between pathos and bathos.  (Pathos is the quality of evoking sympathy and sadness in someone. Bathos is when the attempt at pathos goes overboard into ludicrousy or gross sentimentalism.)  The class silently took in this song, a duet between Parsons and Emmylou Harris, whose voices blend together more beautifully than any two voices I've ever heard. When the song was over, the class sat silently, reverently. Dr Cochran laughed.

"I see you guys were taken in by that song. I was trying to show you bathos, but you all bought right in to the sentiment."

He may have forgotten that while he had all the wisdom of his 50 plus years, we were all still children living and breathing the raw truth that love hurts. 

The story of Gram Parsons is just as enticing as his music. Or maybe just the story of his death. His life was that of a typical 1960s rock star - nudie suits, tours, drugs. But his death - what a story!

He was found dead in his hotel room during a tour; the official report was drug overdose. Not uncommon. But his step-father, who had very little to do with him, requested that his body be returned to Louisiana, allegedly due to a family estate issue, and arranged a small funeral for him, excluding all of Gram's actual friends in the music industry. Gram had recently expressed wishes to be cremated when he died and have his ashes spread in Joshua Tree National Park, his favorite place on earth. So what did his loyal friends do?

They stole his dead body from the airport, of course, borrowed a hearse and drove Gram's coffin to Joshua Tree.  Unsure of how to actually cremate a body, they just poured gallons of gasoline on the coffin and lit a match, while drinking beer and sharing stories of their deceased friend. It didn't result in the small, funereal fire they expected, however, and the raging fireball resulted in a police chase. Gram's friends couldn't be arrested though, because there was no law on the books against stealing a dead body. They were fined for stealing a coffin, and that's about as much the law could muster against them. Gram's wishes were - sort of - granted.

That's friendship. That's rock n' roll. That's - bathos?

Yesterday in a coffee shop, I heard "Brass Buttons" playing in the background, another Parsons' tune that tows the line between pathos and bathos. It reminded me it's been too long since I listened to Grievous Angel, my favorite Gram Parsons album. That would be due to my CD snapping a few years ago in our move from Scotland to Arkansas. But Amazon Prime Music came to the rescue, and I was able to download Grievous Angel and listen to it three times in a row back to back. Honestly, could Emmlylou and Gram's voices weave any better?

(Apparently, Emmylou hated touring with Gram. Apparently, he was a bit of an asshole.)

Anyway, thank you, Starbucks, for reminding me of the fantastic rock fairy tale that is Gram Parsons, of the most interesting college class I've ever taken, and that love doesn't really hurt so bad in the end, once you find the good kind.

Hate and Fear and Death and Anger

With all the hate and fear and death and anger in the world right now, I am finding it hard to breathe lightly. Deep in my gut I feel sickened and exhausted and helpless. The American political climate is volatile, at its eruption point. Fear is being shoveled down our throats, and animosity is poisoning our veins. People are being shot by police, and police are being shot in return. Racism is killing black people, and white people are fighting over who's fault that is. Transgender people are being harassed over bathrooms. Whole religions are taking the blame for the acts of a belligerent few. Personal freedoms of who to love or who to worship are being yanked from some to assuage others. From Baltimore to San Bernardino to Baton Rouge to Falcon Heights to Nice to Munich to Orlando to Dallas, people are being murdered on the regular, sometimes en masse and each time unprovoked.

I believe in optimism. I believe in goodness, and I believe in love. But the hurricane of hate and fear and death and anger twisting all around me is suffocating.  How can I possibly see an American future where racism is obliterated from the bottom to the top, and from the top to the bottom, when half the country still refuses to see it exists? How can I believe that love will conquer hate when hate has become so palatable and carefree that it is openly preached from podiums and pulpits? How can I teach my children to be the change they want to see in the world when the world doesn't want to be changed or even see a need for it?

I recognize that I am a middle-class, married-to-a-man white woman. I cannot pretend to understand the daily concerns and experiences of black people, Muslims, gay and transgender people, undocumented immigrants, asylum seekers or police officers. As an atheist and a woman, I can relate to certain levels of the discrimination but nothing comparable to those who are being threatened with banishment and deportation, who wake up wondering if they will be attacked in a bathroom today, who say "I love you" every time they leave the house in case it is the last time. I cannot relate to that enough to insist "I know what it's like". I don't.

I may not personally experience the hate and fear and anger and death meted upon so many of my fellow mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, but I see it. Not all of it, but I catch glimpses and glimmers. And they knock the breath out of me. Too often I am a silent observer. I am an observer who does not want to be silent but does not have the words or the platform to say anything or make a difference. I open my mouth to speak, but my own personal fear, my own survival instincts, catch the words in my throat and choke them out. My guilt and ignorance hold my frustration with the world's injustice against me, accusing me of being a part of the problem, and I am rendered silent again. Then I'm reminded that silence is a privilege, and I am hurled back into frustration.

I believe there is good in the world, and I believe in being the change I want to see in the world, but truth be told, both of these beliefs are ephemeral. They are American apple pies in the sky. They are nebulous puffy clouds that shade me from the glaring reality that I do not actually know if there really is good in the world, and I do not believe I can change anything.

This weekend I finished reading two books I've been working on for months. Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay is a wonderful book, mixing humor and critical thought into multiple essays surrounding topics of oppression and inequality for women, for people of color, for people who are not thin, for anyone who does not fit the perfect standards American society holds us to. While I was able to laugh during some chapters, I had to pause and remember to breathe during others. I had to look square in the eye many truths about my perceptions as a white woman that I had not realized needed challenging. I was reminded that the inequality I face as a woman can be frustrating but not as frustrating as the challenges for women who heap inequality upon inequality. Inequality is not binary. The more disadvantages bestowed upon a person for his or her gender or gender identity, sexual orientation, race, religion, hometown, education level - the list goes on - the more discrimination a person is bound to suffer. Sexism isn't experienced by me the same way it is experienced by a black woman or a lesbian woman or a black lesbian woman. The book opened my eyes to the sexism experienced by all types of women, not just women who look like me. I too am a bad feminist.

I also finished Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates. I started this book back in February but only finished it today, because it was the hardest book I have ever read. Reading it was like loading concrete blocks onto my chest, one page after another. It is one thing to "know" that black parents have to teach their black sons and daughters how to behave extra good during certain encounters; it is an entirely different thing to read the intensely honest and intimate letter written by a father to his son about the struggle to preserve the black body from destruction. No other book I've read that openly or begrudgingly let me observe a black experience, not Disgruntled or God Help the Child or Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria, though each of those affected me in profound ways, changed me the way this one did. The hate and anger and death and fear twisting all around us are real dangers to our brothers and sisters of color. Yet we continue to tell them they are either imagining things or they need to sort themselves out by themselves, as if we as a country and a history and a society never did a thing to cause this peril to their bodies.

I am crushed under the inevitability of all the hate and anger and death and fear in our world. It feels like change is not going to come. I do not know what to do about it or how to help. I cannot change the minds of those around me who refuse to see the problems. I am such a small, insignificant fish in a fathomless ocean.

I want to believe in optimism, goodness and love. I want to believe that I can be the change. I want to believe in the story of the starfish, that it matters to walk along the shore and throw starfish back into the ocean, one at a time. I need to believe that the small tangible things I do might matter in the long run - the donations to charities, the volunteer hours, the lessons taught to my children. So small though. Too small.

I also want to know more. I want to be educated in areas I know little or nothing about. I want to read books that tell me truths it hurts to hear.  I want to be challenged and humbled and pushed into action. I want to understand. I don't want to be silent, but I do want to listen. I want to implore others to listen. I want all of us to close our mouths, open our eyes and lean in close to hear what our Muslim neighbors, our gay and transgender neighbors, our black, Hispanic and Native American neighbors, our uniformed neighbors have to say about their experiences and believe them. No "but what about"s or "but I"s or "but you"s.

I want all this hate and death and anger and fear to stop. I know I cannot stop it. I know I cannot escape it. I cannot simply turn off the radio, shut down Facebook, walk away from conversations, and slip under my covers just to make myself more comfortable again. If my fellow mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters do not get the luxury of switching off the TV to find comfort, I will not exercise my ability to do so. I will never fully understand what it feels like to be the target of all this hate and fear and death and anger, but I will continue to face these every day with them. I will continue to immerse myself as much as I can into their worlds through books and relationships and news stories and causes. I will listen when I ought to listen and try to speak when I ought to speak. I will push myself to continue believing in goodness and love, for my children and for my world, however small my influence on it may be. I cannot, I must not let the hate and fear and death and anger win.

Hopelessness in the Wake of the Deadliest Mass Shooting In US History

I usually try to stay pretty positive here. Even when discussing controversial topics, I try to stay away from undo negativity. I want to be a voice of hope and optimism.

But today I feel no hope and no optimism.

As you are probably aware, last night America suffered it's most deadliest mass shooting in US history. I was surprised, actually, that this was the worst mass shooting. After Aurora and Sandy Hook and San Bernardino, you start to lose track of the numbers. Along side other massacres, like the Boston Marathon and Oklahoma City, the death toll just adds up and eventually, you don't know how many people died in the latest mass murder incident.

That is unspeakably depressing.

What is even more depressing is this is just another massacre in a long, seemingly never-ending line of US mass murders. Nothing is ever going to change, is it? If the mass shooting of Christians in a prayer meeting doesn't change anything, do you think the mass shooting of gay people will? If the mass shooting of children in an elementary school doesn't change anything, do you think the mass shooting of gay people will?

I don't even know where to start. There are so many things to say about this latest incident. All kinds of incoherent thoughts are running through my head that don't add up to any real point, just more depression and loss of hope.

I predict the only thing to come of this will be more religious intolerance. There will be right wing rhetoric about combating terrorism and left wing rhetoric about stricter gun laws. It's what we do in the wake of a mass killing, we shout out buzzwords passionately but briefly - RACISM!  MENTAL HEALTH! TERRORISM! MUSLIMS! GUN CONTROL! and then move on without changing a single damn thing.

In this instance, the LGBTQ community (my community) was targeted in the middle of National Pride Month. For a few days, there will be brief conversation about LGBTQ intolerance. Not much, though, since the shooter was allegedly an ISIS sympathizer, so the bigger conversation will be about terrorism. If we're lucky, we'll hear some lip service paid to loving the gay community (but in many cases this lip service will be ruined by a call to pray for their lost souls as well).  People will shut up momentarily about the transgender bathroom issue. But nothing will change in the long run. People will change their Facebook profile pictures, politicians will argue about the root problem and how to fix it, tragedies around the world will be brought up to show that none of us really care about human rights issues unless they are on our doorstep, and then we will move on and forget about this most deadliest mass shooting in US history until the next one occurs. Then we will rinse and repeat.

This can only happen so many times with no fundamental change in our laws or attitudes before we lose any hope that America will ever come together and agree on a plan to stop these senseless killings. Nothing ever changes, and this time won't be any different.

For Paula For Robert

The Infinite Moment of Creation

Star collides with star
thrust from the infinite black hole
blasts explodes
swirls twists tumbles
confused
collects grows collects spins
collects

disperses

Sun gathers chaos
pulls bits into her orbit
swirls of stardust she sets in circles
keeps
heats cools heats cools

nurtures

Life sparks from within
long lost memories of life
spark within
the stardust
life erupts tumbles forms
evolves grows swims
crawls out of water

blinks

Learns to cry
walk sing love.


And the form made from stardust fell
in love with the most beautiful
form and they gave birth to
more
like the debris that formed and bore
them
and together they learned
laughter
fury
compromise
peace
how to smile.

And time ticked throughout the
universe
ticked swirled ticked tumbled
lulled quieted
ticked
and they learned
patience
and urgency
and how to love
infinitely.

Until the stardust flickered
whispered goodbye
quieted lulled stilled tick
tock

and the other
learns
pain
infinite black pain
an infinite black hole of pain
sadness emptiness
swirling twisting spiraling bleeding
in her heart
into
an impossibly
tiny
point
of
time-
skewing
void


lasting
eons


until


Out of the infinite black hole
a future universe bursts
swirls twists collides collects
spins collects

disperses

remembers life in its debris
long lost memories of life
nurtures evolves grows swims

crawls out of the water

blinks.






Dear Paula,
When I cannot be there with you, when I cannot take a single ounce of your broken heart away from you, when I cannot hug you while you cry or wash your growing piles of laundry or listen to you tell stories or talk through the pain, know that even from far away I am here for you, shedding tears for you, loving you, caring about you.
Your friend forever,
Lori

No Fear In Love

Once upon a time, my Papaw and Mamaw took me to their Assembly of God church’s production of Heaven’s Gates Hell’s Flames©. This is a play that Christian production companies take on tour to churches all over the world, using the members of the local congregations as the actors, which tells the stories of various people in their last moments of life and their subsequent first moments of eternity. Will they end up at Heaven’s Gates or will they succumb to Hell’s Flames?

The good people, and perhaps one bad person who at the end of his life begged for salvation, all met a meek, white-robbed, shaggy- haired Jesus who graciously and lovingly drew them to the shining bright light on Stage Left where they would spend eternity in peace, comfort and eternal bliss. The bad people, however, and maybe one person who “thought” he was good, were dragged kicking and screaming by demons to the red satin streamers flapping onto the stage by the fan of the flickering red lights of Hell’s Flames, Stage Right. The moral of the story: You never know when your last moment will be (car crash, falling to your death from work scaffolding, gunshot, or if you’re simply lucky, old age), so get prepared now. Ask Jesus into your heart now (there will be an altar call at the end of this production to assist you as you make your lifelong commitment now) or risk dying on the way home and being dragged to your eternal doom by the scariest red Spandex-wearing, black goatee-sporting Satan you could ever imagine.

At the end of that production, when the pastor asked the non-believers in the crowd to raise their hands to be saved – and requested the rest of the audience bow their heads so they wouldn’t see whose hands were raised – I nervously lifted my hand. I had already asked Jesus into my heart a couple of times before, but now I had to be sure, doubly sure, triply sure that I was saved, just in case. I did not want to be dragged Stage Right. I was terrified of being dragged Stage Right, for all of forever, never to be released. My Mamaw next to me gently tugged my arm back down. I was so confused. Was she ashamed that I wasn’t already saved? I was afraid of disappointing her so I put my hand down and stayed in my seat. I remembered that I could just as easily get saved from my seat as from the altar, so there in my chair, I begged God to please save me from going to hell, but I was still afraid that by not actually getting out of my seat and going forward, that my pride had kept me from actually being heard by God.

I was eight years old.

Image courtesy of Photorack.net

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” (1 John 4:18, NIV) This is what we are taught. We are told that it is God’s love that draws us to him, not fear. Yet at the very end of it all, the threat of hell dangles ahead of us, always warning us, always keeping us in check. When we doubt our faith, when we doubt God, when we are tempted to do wrong or go our own way, images of hell flicker in our minds. Eternal separation from God, misery, agony, death that never lets you die, the arrogant, maniacal laughter of Satan – though he too is burning – drives us from taking steps too far from God. The closer we tiptoe to the edge, the more real hell becomes. The flames lick our feet, the smoke singes our hair, and we run full force back into the arms of Jesus. Once we are there, we claim it was Jesus’ love that brought us back, but really, it was the proximity to hell that drove us home.

Fear is a motivator. Parents, teachers, police officers, judges and madmen use it all the time.

Do that again and you’ll get a spanking.
Study harder or you will fail.
Break the law and you will go to prison.
Use protection or you will get pregnant or an STD.
If you ever turn gay, boy, I will beat your ass.
Scream, bitch, and I’ll kill you.

Consequences are directly linked to fear, for better or for worse, and we use consequences and fear constantly to assure cooperation. Some consequences are logical, natural consequences: throw that toy out of anger and it will break, rob that liquor store and you will get arrested, cheat on your spouse and you could lose your marriage. Others, however, are illogical and unnatural: hit your sister and you will get spanked (e.g., hit by me), forget your homework once and fail the class, talk back to an officer and get shot. Fear is a factor anytime consequences are considered, and some fear is helpful in making positive decisions. But when fear is taken to an unnatural extreme, it can be abused as manipulation.

I know already what the Christian wants to say: “But hell IS a natural, real consequence, and the worst consequence, and it would be wrong of us not to warn you!” Putting aside, for just a moment, the fact that there is no actual evidence that hell is a real, natural consequence other than an ancient book sort of, kind of, if you read it a certain way, says so, I have to wonder just what kind of all loving, Heavenly Father would actually choose eternal torture as a reasonable punishment.

Parents discipline their kids in various ways. Time-outs, loss of privileges, rectification, smacks. The purpose of discipline is supposed to be character building. We teach children about natural consequences so they will understand how to make better decisions in the future. We explain right from wrong. We try to show them how wrong decisions affect and hurt others, and why right decisions are always right, even when they are hard. We fill our box of parenting tools with the tools we believe will be best suited to these purposes. In general, we all try to do our best to reach the same common goal of bringing up children who are good. This is what God the Father is supposed to be doing too. Teaching us lessons that will make us stronger, better, more righteous people.

When we hear of parents who have beat their children to a pulp or who have kicked their children onto the streets, very few of us agree these parents have done right. A boy who is beaten by his father for being gay or the girl who is kicked out on the streets for getting pregnant are examples to us all of how not to parent our kids. Yet even in the worst possible way, those parents are in some dim, misguided, heartless way trying to teach their kids a lesson. Trying to “improve” them, in most cruel and irrational ways. These are what we call “bad parents”. Yet when we look at hell, we see something crueller than even that.

We see a loving Heavenly Father who gives his children hardships to strengthen them, who allows horrible things to happen to them to bring them even closer to him. Abusive relationship parallels aside, the most innocent and well-intentioned view of this is that God just wants us to be the best we can be, making us more like his Son Jesus, which is the goal. But that is only one side of him. The other side looks at those who are not his children (even though they are his creation) with total disregard, or worse, with vengeance. He gives salvation freely but not to these people. And for his creation that he disregarded, he has a plan for ultimate punishment – eternal torture in a fiery furnace of misery, agony, complete separation from all good things like love and companionship and holiness, forever and ever and ever with no chance for redemption. No chance of redemption. No chance to learn from their mistakes and become better.

Even the worst parent who beats his child does it with some kind of sick belief it will do the child some good.

Unless God the Father is like the father who beats his child for his own sick pleasure and nothing else, God is no Father at all. The God of the Bible that Christians taut as all-loving, who Christians insist to your face loves you has designed a place for you where you will suffer for eternity for absolutely no reason other than not believing in him. He withholds his grace from you (remember, faith is a gift that only God can give) and will punish you for it. Unless you want to spend your eternal afterlife in this miserable place, you better get yourself right with this all-loving, all-compassionate Heavenly Father who has the power to make you burn. Fear of hell is the ultimate motivator.


A few weeks ago I went back to see a production of Heaven’s Gates Hell’s Flames©; I wanted to know if it was really as frightening as I remembered. It was. Everything was exactly as I remembered it, except Satan wasn’t wearing red Spandex as he did in my mind’s eye, but instead a black cloak, a menacing white and black mask with evil facial features and had reverb in his loud, booming voice. Hell was still Stage Right, with smoke and satin flames and flickering red lights. He still dragged both bad and good (though all of course always pre-warned, because that’s how the world really works) people into his lair, begging and screaming their bloodcurdling pleas for forgiveness all too late. Even as a thirty-something year old post-Christian, I watched in horror, as my chest tightened with memories of that childhood terror, the childhood dreams of demons dragging me to hell, the fear I was never really saved and would one day die to hear my supposed Savior shout, “Depart from me, I never knew you!” Unchecked, I myself would’ve been swayed by the naked fear it instilled in me; that primal fear of hell may never go away.

It was a sad realization. The trauma we go through as children will always be with us. It will always be there, hidden in somewhere in our psyches, long after rationalization and logic take over our conscious thoughts.

There were several children in the audience, some who looked too young to even be in school. To their credit, the production staff did warn at the start that the program was not suitable for children under ten and encouraged parents to send their kids to a children’s program located elsewhere in the building. Many kids went to that, but many stayed. I wondered how many parents who kept their kids with them had actually seen the play themselves previously. I wondered if they had, if they would still insist on keeping their children in to watch teen suicides, domestic violence, murders, car and plane crashes, school shootings and of course the Devil Himself unfold right before their baby eyes.

My heart ached when I saw a tiny little girl, no older than six, lift her own skinny arm at the altar call at the end, seeing myself in her tiny blond bob, seeing her future before her, one of fear, even if also mixed with love. Fear will be with her as she grows into a woman.

After the final scene, where a screaming unsaved mother is dragged away from her screaming, begging Christian teenage daughter by the billowy, echoey hooded Satan and his demons at the gates of heaven, and the girl is hugged by Jesus then sent on her own to enter the pearly gates looking forlorn but okay, the production director came on stage and began the obligatory altar call. At first, he asked that all would bow their heads and close their eyes, just as the director did twenty-five years ago. He asked that anyone who wanted to invite Jesus into their lives slip a hand in the air. He then asked them to stand, and anyone else who was too afraid to lift their hands the first time to also stand. Then he requested that all the backslidden Christians also stand. Even with my head bowed, I could sense all the bodies around me standing. He then invited them to come forward to the altar at the front. Bodies filed past me, many crying, many looking guilt-ridden, a few looking relieved. As the director kept insisting there were more backsliders who hadn’t yet come forward, and more “backsliders” filed past me to the front, I felt the same familiar rage build inside of me. These are good people! You are all good people! I wanted to scream. I was burdened and angry at the guilt heaped upon guilt being laid on thick on all the spiritual masochists in the room – and all the normal people too – who were all searching their hearts and determining that he – no, God – was speaking to them. I waited. I wanted to stay to the end if I could.

Then he said, “Christians, I want you to turn to the person next to you, even if you don’t know them. Maybe put your arm around them. I want you to ask them, ‘Do you know Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?’"

I couldn’t take any more.

Before the sweet looking teenager next to me whose friend had just gone forward could turn to me, I turned to the aisle and marched not forward to the altar but backwards to the back of the room and out the back door. Eyes followed me, but I did not care. I had no intention of making a scene, but I’d seen and heard enough. Frustrated, I knew that many people interpreted that in their own Christianese as me hardening my heart to the Spirit, but it was far from being that. It was like having to leave a scene of abuse that you have no way of stopping. Like having to walk away from something that is so wrong and out of your control that you cannot bear witnessing it any longer. Like turning your head away from a car crash on the freeway instead of rubbernecking. I had seen enough of my past and these strangers’ futures to watch any longer. The anger bubbling up inside me was too explosive. I’m afraid of what I would’ve said to that sweet teen next to me. Afraid of what would have come out of my mouth. My purpose in life is not to insult other people’s sincerely held faiths. But it is also not my purpose to condone psychological abuse.

Luckily no one followed me outside, though I was worried someone might.


Reflecting later that night, one more sad realization struck me. Fear is the overarching theme of this play. The scenes of people going to hell dominate not only my recollections of last night, but my memories of the play from twenty-five years ago. I remembered so distinctly the damned being dragged to hell Stage Right. But how is it that I did not remember that the saved walked up a huge flight of stairs center stage to enter heaven through a shiny curtain at the top where they were greeted by Jesus? I realized, I only concluded that the Christians went to heaven Stage Left because actually, I couldn’t remember at all what happened to the saved. That was never the point of the play. How did I recall every detail of hell in the wings twenty-five years later but forgot that the entire stage was decorated in gold and silver, with sparkling steps running up the center, surrounded by angels who stood on stage the entire time, with a humble Jesus waiting at top, arms outstretched?

Jesus is not the point of this play, that’s why.

Jesus never speaks a word. Not one word throughout the whole production. He never makes a single active motion aside from hugs to the people who climb the steps towards him. In only one scene does he seem to intervene in a situation, the one in which a troubled teen commits (accidental) suicide. Both Jesus and Satan approach her silently, then Satan flees when she calls out to Christ. Even then, Jesus only stands there smiling gently. He does not actually do anything for her until she is in heaven and he silently wipes his hand across her arm, removing the scars from years of cutting, before sending her through the curtain.

Conversely, Satan has lots to say. In his booming, echoing voice, he taunts the sinners, laughs at the arrogant fools who thought being a good person was good enough, and then addresses the audience with one-liners about how he loves to watch anger CONSUME people’s hearts and how pornography is his SPECIALTY. Then he flaps back to hell with guffaws that echo through the room after blackout.

Jesus is entirely forgettable. I do not recall anything that Jesus did twenty-five years ago on that stage. But Satan was everything I remembered. It could have been the same actor, the memories are so exact.

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.”

End of an Era

Today was the first day I ventured out of the house with Jaguar in "big boy" pants.

(He did great for the first part of the day at the gym, not so great later. Eek. Cringe.)

Regardless, the end is in sight. He's two and a half, so yes, he could still be wearing diapers for a while yet, but I have a feeling we're getting close to actually being totally potty trained. He's almost there. It's the end of an era.

Which got me thinking... Jaguar is my End of Eras baby.

A few months ago, I bought him a new stroller. The one we'd brought over with us from Scotland had finally taken it's last stroll. As I paid the cashier more money than I really wanted to pay, it occurred to me: This is the last time I'll ever buy a stroller. At least until I'm a grandma.

And about six months ago, just a few weeks after his second birthday, I breastfed him for the last time. It was unceremonious. I didn't realize it was the last time. I can't even remember when the last time was, it was so unceremonious. We had just finished. It was over. It wasn't until at least a month later when I realized: I'm done breastfeeding. I'll never breastfeed again. Not even when I'm a grandma.

I packed away his cloth diapers a few months ago. He's too big for them now. I don't have the heart to get rid of them just yet, but no one in this family will ever wear them again. The end of my cloth diaper era.

He's in his own bed now. No more cribs.

He drinks out of cups now. No more sippys.

And now he's potty training. Soon, no more diapers.

(Which, incidentally, hurray!)

Happy as No More Diapers makes me, it's also the end of yet another babyhood era in our family. The McFarlane babyhoods are nearly complete. Never again (lord willing and the creek don't rise) will there be another baby in this family. No more breastfeeding. No more baby-led weaning. No more baby-wearing in slings. No more bed-sharing. No more cribs, sippy cups, bibs, muslins. No more diapers.

It's a relief, but it's also kind of sad. We're soon to be a family of kids. Of school-age kids. I mean, in six months, Jaguar will be old enough for pre-school. PRE-SCHOOL. In just over two years, we'll have a child in middle school. MIDDLE SCHOOL.

I don't care if it's a cliche, it's totally freaking true - Kids grow up so fast!

I never shed a tear over Jaguar's last breast feed, the way I did over Lolly's and especially Fifi's. I'm not feeling weepy now either over the end of this baby era. I know I'm truly ready now to say goodbye to our family's babyhoods. But it's sobering. We have only this one life to live and one chance to live it, and, well, a really special part of my life is just about over, never to be repeated. I'll soon be the mother of school children, then teenagers, then college students, leaving me an Empty Nester. And Scott and I will be that old couple who look at each other in our empty house and wonder, "What the heck happens now?" And we'll plan to travel the world, except one of the kids will announce they are having a baby, and we'll suddenly be grandparents instead of globtrotters, and we'll be cool grandparents until our bones get too achy and we can't see through our cataracts and then, at some point, we'll just die.

End of an era indeed.

Okay, feeling a little weepy now.

The Spider In the Doll's House

One thing you might know about me is that I am deathly afraid of spiders. Beyond arachnophobic.

At least I used to be.

There was a time in the very recent past that I would cry if I saw even a teeny tiny spider crawling on my ceiling. I used to shake out my shoes before putting them on, and pulling boots out of storage after a warm season gave me palpitations. I once sprang out of my bedroom crying, tripping over a wooden beam and slicing my knee open because there was a spider on my bedspread. I once had to call the neighbor to come over and kill a spider for me because Scott was at work. I once LITERALLY jumped onto a businessman's lap on the train because a spider had crawled onto my handbag. (Probably made his day.) I was so afraid of spiders that I couldn't even get near enough to one to kill it. If there was a known spider in my house, I could not sleep until it was dead. I had nightmares about flying spiders. Ugh, saying that word over and over is actually freaking me out a little right now.

Before I got married, I had daily panic attacks because my best friend's house, in which I was staying for a month between my apartment's lease running out and moving to Scotland, was infested with all kinds of spiders - big, black, hairy spiders, little skinny brown spiders, black widows, brown recluses - and even approaching the front door of that house would cause my throat to close up and I could barely breathe. I'm not sure I actually slept for a month prior to my wedding, and it wasn't wedding jitters that were keeping me awake. It was the six or seven spiders I saw daily in that little house.

But in the past two years, I have improved significantly. It started with killing teeny spiders. Like the little practically microscopic ones. I'd take one of Scott's biggest, most sturdy shoes (brogues usually did the trick) and smash them dead. Then with half a roll of toilet paper folded up so I couldn't feel the creepy crawly with my fingers, I could clean it up. Anything bigger than a pony bead was still Scott's territory.

I got braver and learned to kill even kind of slightly bigger spiders. I knew by this point I was moving back to Arkansas, land of venomous black widows and brown recluses - not to mention harmless but evil-looking wolf spiders - and would simply have to learn to kill these beasties before they killed me (or my kids). I got really brave. By the time I moved back to Arkansas, I had overcome my phobia of spiders and now I simply hate them. I can kill them now, even big ones. If they are small and of the harmless nature, I can even allow them to coexist in my home - as long as they don't crawl around too much or get up in my personal space. We have some spiders who have taken up residence in a few corners of our home and have been very effective in killing mosquitoes. I've learned to live harmoniously with some of these guys. I'm officially no longer arachnophobic.

To prove this, we even allowed a HUGE (I mean freaking HUGE) garden spider to live in our backyard for a few weeks. However, it was interfering with our kids being able to play freely in the backyard and with actual sadness and regret (actual regret!), we had to give it the old death squash. (It was EW. I mean EW. It was freaking huge.)


But I am currently still shaking, and my heart is still pounding over what just happened.

Scott is out at an awards ceremony at work tonight, so I'm home alone with the kids. I told the girls to go get their pajamas on, while I put Jaguar to bed. Suddenly, the two girls came barrelling through the house SCREAMING and crying.

"A SPIDER! A SPIDER! IT'S ENORMOUS! IT LOOKS LIKE A BLACK WIDOW!" they screamed, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Okay! Okay! Calm down!" I could feel a little terror welling up in my chest, because even if I'm not totally arachnophobic anymore, I still hate the wee buggers. Especially black widows. I put on my tennis shoes and grabbed one of Scott's sturdy shoes from the shoe rack.

"Tell me where it is," I instructed Fi.

She told me it was on the top level of the doll's house. I crept into their room, and from the door could see what they were screaming about. It was no black widow.

"HOLY CRAP," is about all I could say.

Black legs danced around on a creature as big and black and hairy as a tarantula. It wasn't walking away but was moving its legs like it was stuck. The legs were thick and hairy-looking. Each leg looked about three or four inches long. How on EARTH did that thing get in here?!

How the FECK am I going to kill this fecker?!, I thought wildly. "GRAB ME A GLASS CUP." I said to Fi, trying to keep my composure. Shrieking, she ran to the kitchen.

"None of them are big enough!" she wailed. She was right. Oh my STARS, she was right. So I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a large cereal bowl. It might be big enough. I would trap it under that bowl until Scott got home. Somehow. Oh heavenly gracious, PLEASE DO NOT LET THAT SPIDER RUN! Wanting to pass out, I took the cereal bowl back to their room and crept closer to the doll's house.


Let me pause for suspense.


Feel the terror with me. Let's all imagine catching a bloody tarantula with a cereal bowl.


Do you feel it? Is your skin crawling? Is your stomach churning? Do you feel your intestines twisting?

Now. Imagine this.

As I approached the doll's house, I burst out laughing, maniacal laughing.

It was no tarantula.

It was a fringed trumpet noisemaker, being blown around by the ceiling fan.


I have never been so relieved. I also promptly allowed myself the freak-out that I'd been bottling up for the sake of my children. I threw that evil party toy in the trash and will never look at them the same way again.

I still don't think any of us will sleep very well tonight.

Survivor Guilt

I've been putting off posting about this, because I don't know what I can say to do it justice. But it's so heavily on my mind, I can't just not say something about it at all.

Found in the wreckage.

A week ago yesterday, a terrible storm crossed Arkansas culminating in tornadoes that touched down in several surrounding areas and leveled a neighboring town (as well as a few others). The same storm system also created tornadoes in a couple of the surrounding states.

It's been a long time since I've lived through a tornado warning. In high school, I remember a tornado warning being issued during a rehearsal for our school's spring musical. We all had to line up along a wall within the auditorium with textbooks over our heads. Our parents weren't allowed to come pick us up until after the tornado passed because the school was on lockdown. For the parents, it must've been terrifying. For us teenagers, it was just a thrill. Nothing bad happened nearby that I remember.

In college, I saw a tornado for the first and only time. I was staying at my then boyfriend's house in Searcy, AR, and the whole family plus me was crouching in the hallway. His dad kept going outside to look. I worked up the courage to go look too and in the far distance I saw the funnel cloud reaching from the distant black sky to the horizon. It was terrifying and breath-taking.

But last week was the first time I ever experienced the actual reality of a tornado.

I woke up early that morning to a thunderstorm. The night before, we'd left our canopy out in the back yard, so I quickly woke Scott and said we needed to get it down before it filled with rain. In our pajamas, we ran outside and clumsily fumbled with metal poles while lightning forked through the sky and thunder roared. It was a little frightening.

The forecast predicted tornadoes. I'm not a panicker in these kinds of situations, so I wasn't really all that unhinged. A bit freaked out, yes, but that was it. We spent the day inside, as thunderstorms came and went. It wasn't until late afternoon that I began to sense the seriousness of the coming storm.

An enormous black cloud was approaching outside. I tried to film it with my camera, but my camera's settings kept trying to compensate for the blackness by increasing its light balance. (Apologies for the lack of correct photography lingo.) It was mostly silent outside, and a little greenish, two indicators that this was tornado weather. Never had I seen a cloud like it. It covered the whole sky from my view outside my back door. On one edge, Scott noticed clouds swirling down and back up into the greater cloud. He called me to come look. Little wispy clouds were being sucked up into the black cloud in circular motion. I'd never seen anything like it.

This cloud looks dreary and grey in this picture;
in reality, it was almost completely black.

I started watching the storm chasers online. We don't have access to TV stations, so I couldn't watch the news. Facebook too was popping up with lots of weather updates from friends, including some 'how to stay safe in a tornado' posts. I'd never considered half the things people were suggesting - food for 72 hours, bike helmets, shoes in case you had to walk through rubble. I felt a little paranoid doing it, but I went ahead and cleared out Jaguar's closet, which is the innermost room in our home, with no outside-adjoining walls. I gathered together our personal documents, some water, our shoes and the kids' bike helmets. We put the kids to bed, thinking we'd scoop them up and bring them into the closet lined with pillows should the sirens go off.

I watched the coverage by professional storm chasers until midnight, when the storms had officially passed out of our area. I knew the storms had severely hit Vilonia, a town 18 miles north of us, and Mayflower and Maumelle, about 20 miles west. But I didn't know the full extent of it until the next morning.

Vilonia (and Mayflower) had been destroyed. Over a hundred people had been injured and at that point at least 5 dead. The total rose to 12 (then 15) as the day progressed. Around 40 people were still unaccounted for. Emergency staff were the only ones allowed in the disaster areas and no lay volunteers were being allowed to help at that time.

Someone's home.

Someone's truck.

I don't know what it was about this particular storm that hit me so hard. Was it the proximity? Was it seeing the start of myself, knowing that very cloud and those swirling cycles were the beginning of the tornado that devastated a town so close to us, that could have hit us if we'd just been a little less fortunate?

I still don't know what made it touch me so deeply, but it did. My neighbor and friend is friends with a few of the families who lost everything, and one who lost the family's father/husband. Another friend of mine lost a co-worker. Another friend of a friend lost her two young sons. The stories kept coming in, and they all were far too close to me in some way or another to ignore.

What does one do when they hear these things? What can one do?

All over Facebook people were saying to pray for Arkansas. In the face of such tangible devastation and need, not even to mention grief, the concept of just praying infuriated me. We were already being told of the many, many things that would be needed - supplies, clothes, first aid kits, money. I understood that people believed praying would do something (comfort the victims, I guess), but there were so many things we could actually DO besides pray.

This perhaps is what hit me the hardest.

For all my life, with a few exceptions, when horrible things happened, my response had always been 'pray'. And after praying, I felt I'd left it all in God's hands and he could go on to deal with it for me. After all, what was I able to do? But now, there I was, realizing that prayer is just a practice that helps the person praying feel better, makes them feel like they've done something useful, in times when they are otherwise helpless. I understood the urge to pray - I felt helpless too - but I also realized that praying was the lazy way out. I needed to DO something that actually might make a difference, however small.

It almost felt like I had a life time of doing nothing to make up for.

There wasn't a lot I could actually do; I knew that. I donated what I could and volunteered one day in the tornado-ruined neighborhood when I had childcare. It wasn't much at all, and I still felt the huge weight of how much there was needing done and how little I could do. I still feel that weight, and I still feel that helplessness. We might be able to get on with our lives a week later, but those whose homes were leveled to the ground and those who lost loved ones will never be able to go on exactly as they had before. For the rest of their lives, those who lost their homes and belongings will remember irreplaceable things they lost, and those who lost members of their families will never forget the agony and pain that will remain with them in waves of rawness their entire lives. I wish there were more I could do to reach those needs. Instead, all I can do is just meet practical needs where I possibly can and hope it means something to someone.

I understand through all of this the desire to pray. And having been a Christian for my whole life, I understand the theology behind praying. But as a non-believer now, I just see the irrationality of it and how futile it is. It makes us feel better to pray, it really does, but that's all it does. I've spent plenty of time in prayer - not enough time in action. I just can't sit back and do nothing anymore.

I know that one day, probably soon, I'll realize there is nothing more I can do. I know that I'll live with 'survivor guilt' for being able to move on with my life while knowing many of them haven't even begun to imagine what moving on would even look like. I know that I'll be better prepared for the next storm, with fully equipped 72 hour bags, and I won't wait to get the kids in our designated shelter, now that I recognize how quickly tornadoes can hit - too fast to scoop kids up out of bed and get their shoes on them and get them into a closet. I've learned a lot from this storm about the realities of tornadoes. But I've also learned a lot about the reality of myself. I've spent a lot of time doing nothing when I could have been searching for ways to do at least a little tiny something.

40 Questions

For the 9th time, I present to you my...


1. What did you do in 2013 that you’d never done before?
Became a Pampered Chef Consultant! I've always thought about doing it, but upon moving back home, I decided to go for it. And I love it! I also started attending a Lutheran church... never saw that one coming.

2. Did you keep your New Years’ resolutions and will you make more for next year?
I'd say I did a pretty good job last year! My resolution was "to live simply, unmaterialistically,and give myself a break from taking on too many responsibilities." For the most part, I think I succeeded. I don't feel nearly as attached to 'stuff' any more, and most of the attachment I do feel towards it is practical rather than materialistic. I've also managed to not get involved in lots of things. In fact, I can say that I'm doing great at doing nothing, maybe to a fault!

This year my resolution is to rigorously save money, to get a little more exercise, eat a little healthier and lose about 15 pounds. That second half is likely to be a failure, but I'm going to try. Don't you just love the optimism? Also, I'm going to have lots of sex. All of these are a part of my 2014 Theme "Satisfaction" - being satisfied with what I have and where I'm at. Changing what I can but being satisfied with what I can't. And sex, well, that's just satisfying.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My sister-in-law Katie gave birth to a gorgeous wee daughter, my niece, Erum. And I have two more nieces/nephews due in the upcoming year!

4. Did anyone close to you die?
My grandmother, my Mamaw, died early this year.

5. What countries did you visit?
We didn't *visit* any new countries, but we started the year living in Scotland and ended the year living in the USA. As for new places visited, though, we travelled to Seattle, WA for the first time.

6. What would you like to have in 2014 that you lacked in 2013?
Last year I answered: "A simplified, uncluttered wardrobe, house and life." Boy, did I get that, and then some.

I don't know about lacking it in 2013, but by the end of 2014 I'd like to have a plan.  A life plan. A rough guide, more like, since my plans never go according to plan.  I'd like to know where we are going to finally settle. I'm a settler; I need to be in a place and stay there, make roots, and become a part of the place.  I'm not a part of this place right now, but I want to figure this out in this next year.

7. What date from 2013 will remain etched upon your memory?
18th of June. The day we moved from Scotland back to America. A happy, sad date.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I guess immigrating my husband and three children to the USA was a pretty big achievement. There are who knows how many people out there who are dying to do the same thing we did. It was a big undertaking too.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I don't think I moved back to America in the most graceful way. I was pretty babyish about it. Nothing went the way we planned it. Saying that, I'm still trying to buck up and take it like an adult, but even now I still can't help feeling like ending up back in my home town was kind of a fail. I know, I KNOW, I'm being childish. Everything happens for a reason and all that. I'm very thankful in a lot of ways that we ended up here instead of Fayetteville. I get to be around my family and some old friends which is hugely awesome. I'm so thankful for that. But I'm a human and allowed to have petty human emotions about it, and I don't like being back in this particular area.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No injuries or illness with me (besides feeling rather depressed in these months post-move), but back in April, Lolly got her finger jammed in a door and severed it almost right off. It was gross. The tip of her finger hung on by a flap of skin. I never blogged about it, because my dear, dear friend who was watching her at her house at the time was so distraught over it. I never once blamed her at all for it. Accidents happen, especially with kids. It was a scary experience though. She had to go under general anaesthesia at the children's hospital to have it surgically reattached.

Lolly at A&E

11. What was the best thing you bought?
We had to buy so many new things this year, most of them pretty mundane, but I'd say Scott's car and our fantastic king size mattress are two of them. Scott would probably say his new computer was tops.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
I can hardly believe I'm saying it, but this year Lolly deserves a mention. She's always been a real 'handful' (to put it ultra-mildly), and she still is, but she's changed a lot this year. She's more considerate of other people, more willing to help out, more eager to please. She's still maddeningly defiant, stubborn and uncontrollable, but I think she's grown a lot in the past six months. She sometimes really does care about other people.

13. What regrets do you have about the past year?
Sometimes, if I'm honest, I regret moving. I only feel that way in an emotional sense, though.  Practically speaking, I know without a doubt we made the right decision.  There are so many better opportunities for us out here. But my wee heart is still so attached to Scotland, that sometimes I just wish we'd never left. That's got to be normal right? In general, however, I have no regrets. I don't really do 'regrets'.  The past is the past, and it influences who we become.  I really don't tend to regret things I've done or not done; I just extend and grow out from them, like a tree branches.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Into moving to America. No single doubt about it.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
I got really excited about sending Fifi to a charter school in Northwest Arkansas and went to crazy lengths to get her into it. (All to turn around and have to turn down our space because we didn't move there.) I got really excited about Fifi playing the part of Gretl in The Sound of Music in the Greenock Beacon Arts Centre. She was amazing, so incredibly good. And most recently, I got reallly, really, really excited about visiting a couple of our oldest friends, Jonathan and Sarah, in Seattle!


16. What song/album will always remind you of 2013?
There was one song on one of the Glee soundtracks that reminds me of a very emotional moment back in Scotland preparing for the move. I had the afternoon free of children, and I was in the kids' room clearing out. It was very hard for me to make the kids get rid of so many toys. It felt really cruel. Anyway, so I was feeling very emotional about moving, and leaving so many people and things I'd grown to love and that had formed me into the woman I'd become. This song, 'As If We Never Said Goodbye' from Sunset Boulevard, came on, and though for the most part it had nothing to do with my situation, this line caused me to burst into tears.
I've spent so many mornings
Just trying to resist you.
I'm trembling now,
You can't know how I've missed you!

Missed the fairy tale adventure
In this ever spinning playground,
We were young together.
It described how I resisted moving to the US for so long, how much I missed my family and friends back in the US, and how much I'd soon miss my family and friends in the UK.


17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
happier or sadder? I've been both ridiculously happy and overwhelmingly sad.
thinner or fatter? Still kinda overweight, but a lot more okay with my shape and size. Acceptance, satisfaction.
richer or poorer? A little richer, I guess, but not feeling like it matters any more. :)

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Last year's answer: Exercise.
This year's answer: Exercise.

I also wish I'd just spent a little more time with family and friends in Scotland, though I know that's silly. I spent as much quality time with everyone as I could amidst the whirlwind of immigration. But I still wish I could just have another couple of days with people.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
I don't know. Complaining, probably.

20. How did you spend Christmas?
We went to a Christmas Eve candlelight service at church on Christmas Eve.  We spent Christmas morning with my mom and step-dad and my brothers and their families. We spent Christmas evening at my aunt's house with the whole extended family. It was the first time in heaven knows how long that all of the cousins were back together again. It was awesome seeing everyone again and meeting my cousin in Dallas's son. Then the following Saturday we had Christmas with my dad and step-mom and again my brothers' families.

21. Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
This year, I spent the most time on the phone with my in-laws, Andy and Marion. I love them so, so much. (And they are both coming out to America in three weeks!!!)

22. What's your best memory from 2013?
This year is so entirely split in two that I'll need to answer in two parts.

My greatest Scotland memories of 2013 are:
-Seeing Fifi in The Sound of Music.
-Camping in Heather's mum's camper with Heather, Paula and Elaine at Millport and getting to go on a boat ride.
-Staying in Sheila's holiday home in Kingussie with Scott, and visiting all the local sites, like the Wildlife Centre and the CairnGorm Mountains in the snow.
-Staying in Kingussie again with close friends, to say goodbye in style and with wine.
-My last strawberry daiquiri with Maria at Flava. (Okay, who's cutting onions here?)
-The last night in our old flat, with all the furniture gone and suitcases packed, with Andy and Marion, eating pakora and Kate and Faisal and Adam showing up with Irn Bru. One last hurrah. (What's with the fricking onions?!!)




My greatest American memories are:
-Visiting Jonathan and Sarah in Seattle, of course.
-Our first of many Thanksgivings and Christmases with my Arkansas family

23. How have you seen yourself grow as a person this year?
I don't know if it's considered growing... I can tell you how I've changed.

I've let go of ties. I've let go of things that have held me in place. In a lot of ways, I'm floating right now, trying to find a place to land and take root. Right now, I have no roots, I have no foundation. I'm discovering who I am and what I believe in the very depths of myself. Some of it isn't what I'd like to see, but I'm aiming for acceptance. I've never been a pretender, not with myself or with anyone else, but now I feel I'm going even deeper and I'm trying to decipher even more what is under there, in areas that have always been undercover. I'm so glad that I've had all this down time since moving here, because it's given me time to reacquaint myself with me.

That's pretty lame, Lori.

24. What was your favourite TV programme(s)?
I've been watching some random shows on Netflix like Heroes, The League and Arrow. Out of boredom, mostly. I'm still keeping up with Glee and HIMYM, and I finished Dexter.

26. What was the best book(s) you read?
I read the whole Harry Potter series and I read Silence by Shusako Endo. That was probably one of the most life-changing books I've ever read. In a sad, good way. I can't believe I never wrote a review on that. I must remedy that.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Though I sound totally pretentious saying this, because I've only listened to a few songs on one album, Scott is getting me onto Band of Horses. It all started with this song....


I also liked this song and need to listen to the album more. Thank you, Scott, for your musical tastes.


And finally, this band, and this song.


28. What did you want and get?
A cat.

29. What did you want and not get?
A car. (My own car.)

30. What were your favourite films of this year?
I'm sure we saw some films, but I can't really think of anything that stood out. Took the kids to see Frozen, and we all liked that. But grown-up films? Don't know.

Netflix, however, has allowed me to watch all kids of old films that I've never seen before.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I had a low key birthday. It was my 31st, and I went out to dinner with my Friday morning TinyTalk mums/friends. It was a lot of fun. They were (are) an amazing group of women. All very strong, smart, genuinely kind and loving, genuinely good. And all married. Sorry, fellas. (I miss you all.)

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I don't know how to answer this question this year. This year has been what it's been. It's been a crazy clash of happy and sad.  When I think about it, I really couldn't say there was more we could've done. We made it through, in tact. I'm satisfied with that.

If I had to answer something, though, I'd say the year would have been more satisfying with all my old clothes! (Very unsatisfying year in the wardrobe department. I miss all of you, my beautiful jumpers!)

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2013?
It started out as usual, I like to dress a little quirky and cute. It's now kind of become a t-shirt and jeans thing for me, since I had to give away all my clothes to move. I've been given lots of clothes from people here, and I'm so incredibly thankful for all of it. I'd be somewhat naked without it. It'll be nice when I can actually look in my closet and see my style though. I miss my style.

34. What kept you sane?
Having a husband and three children I truly enjoy being around. Having my mom around has been great too, and my mother-in-law visiting from Scotland regularly has been a huge one. She and Andy are two of my best friends, and I've been a little lost without their constant presence.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I actually would have had an answer for this one this year. I would've said Pink. She's actually way more awesome than I realized. Like as a person. I only know her popular songs, so I can't really comment on her tunes. But this question got changed last year so...

35b. Which holiday or special occasion meant the most to you?
Scott's 30th birthday was the most exciting, special occasion for me (us) this year. It was for his 30th that we went to Seattle. I had a big 30th birthday bash for mine, but Scott's not a party-person. This was the perfect way to bring in his third decade. With awesome friends in an awesome city.


36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Last year's answer: "American gun control, health care and same-sex marriage. I'll keep mum about my opinions on each though! This is not a political blog. :)"

This year's answer: Health care and same-sex marriage. And this year I'll say loud and clear, PEOPLE SHOULD GET HEALTH CARE AND BE ALLOWED TO MARRY WHO THEY WANT. In a nutshell. I could discuss further, and maybe I will soon enough. But for now...

37. Who did you miss?
I missed (miss) my Scottish family and friends. All of them. Too many to name. And now I miss Jonathan and Sarah (but they'll be visiting us in Arkansas soon!).

38. Who was the best new person (people) you met?
The best new people I've met have been Lolly's soccer team moms. They are all really cool, nice people, and I need to make an effort in the new year to get to know them better.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2013.
At the end of the day, the best you can be is just honest.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year?
Early I mentioned some lyrics from the song, 'As If We Never Said Goodbye'. Later in the song come the lyrics:

I don't want to be alone,
That's all in the past.
This world's waited long enough,
I've come home at last!

And this time will be bigger
And brighter than we knew it.
So watch me fly
We all know I can do it!
As I listened in tears to that song over and over again that afternoon, I told myself that this song, despite all the parts that didn't apply, would be the song that summed up my whole year. I'd kind of forgotten about it until now, but I'm glad I've been reminded. This time WILL be bigger and brighter than we knew it. So watch me fly, we all know I can do it!

Loss

I attended a funeral yesterday, of a man I never knew. He was someone very special to someone very special to me. It was one of the saddest I've ever been to, not that any I've ever been to have been less than sad.

How does anyone go on after the death of someone they love? As this man's father spoke, I wondered how he will go on. What happens to your heart when you lose a child? Whether your child is a baby or a grown man, how do you get out of bed in the morning? How do you breathe?

His siblings lost their brother. How do you get through the next forever number of years without your brother less than a phone call away?

My friend lost her boyfriend. How do you move on from that? The what-ifs, the maybes, the probablies, they live on interminably. The memories, the love, the excitement, the laughing spells and the deep eyes-into-eyes looks - what happens to those? Where do you store these things in your heart without it breaking over and over and over again? Never ever wanting to forget, while the remembering crushes you continually.

I am deeply grieved by the loss of this man I never met. I am grieved for the grieving. I cannot put myself in their shoes; to do so is more painful than I am willing to feel. To imagine losing my son, or my brother, or my lover is too exhausting, too agonizing. I have the choice not to experience it.

But they don't. The choice was not theirs. Life and death play by an unfair set of arbitrary rules. I wish I knew what could be done to help ease some of this heartache for my friend, although I think the clear answer is nothing. Nothing but cruel, unforgiving, undesired time helps, and right now, time is the enemy. It is the only balm, yet it is unkind, taking with it all the beautiful and painful you want to hold on to tightly forever.

Sleep, dream, all you loved ones, retell the old stories, hold each other close, take deep breaths, eat something, and may you have moments of rest and comfort and peace amidst the black and blue sorrow of these long endless days.




To cold climes
comes springtime.

Mamaw's Sonnet

Wondering where we've been the past week? (You're like, 'Uh, no...') Well, we've been away up north in the Cairngorm mountains enjoying a lovely wee holiday, just Scott, Jaguar and myself, while our sweet daughters are in Portugal with their wonderful grandparents.

While we had a great holiday, and I'll talk about that later, we had some sad news while we were there. My grandma, my 'Mamaw', passed away on Thursday early morning. We've been expecting it for a while, so it wasn't a shock, but it was still very sad for me. Being away from 'home' (even though Scotland is also 'home') is really hard in times like these.

My mom asked me to write a poem for the funeral. For me, poetry is such a visceral and peculiar thing; I write in a certain way, with the words seeming to bubble up out of my very guts, and I employ heavy imagery and abrupt line breaks and usually end up with pretty bleak unexpected outcomes. None of these were terribly appropriate for writing a poem for a funeral.

And considering I had only one afternoon in which to do it, and no computer with me, the task was an immense one.

I sat down with a pad of children's colouring paper, the only paper I could find in the house we were staying in, and a pencil with no eraser, and started jotting down ideas. I haven't handwritten anything longer than a message in a card in years, and besides that, I didn't know what to say or how to say it succinctly enough for its purpose.

I wanted to do Mamaw's memory justice. I wanted to do my relationship with her justice.

I also wanted it to have poetic merit. I am a writer and don't like to put my name to anything I'm not proud of.

Finally, after agonising for hours, after three front and back sheets of paper covered in one liners, quatrains, scribbles and glib phrases, I was ready to give up.

So I gave up. I gave up trying to be literary. I gave up trying to incorporate all Mamaw was into one little passage. I gave up trying to be poignant. I had a few lines I'd written in rhyme (not my usual style) which I suddenly realised could give me a framework in which to write: I would write a sonnet.

An English sonnet (or Shakespearean sonnet) is 14 lines, consisting of three quatrains and a couplet, with a rhyme scheme of abab cdcd efef gg. Generally speaking, the first two quatrains will have one focus, then the focus shifts for the second half, with the couplet often 'summing up' the sonnet.

Here is Mamaw's Sonnet. It's not book-worthy or a competition winner; it's not lofty or mind-blowing; it's not even a perfect sonnet (some lines aren't exact iambic pentameter, many of the rhyming words are only slant rhymes). It's just about my mamaw, it's just a simple poem written in her memory.

Goodbye, Mamaw. I hope you were able to hear it in heaven.

Mamaw's Sonnet
When we parted last, it was with tears -
We both knew it would be our last goodbye.
So frail, so thin, worn out with many years,
She couldn't speak, but still she fought to try.
And yet when I remember her tomorrow
Fond memories of her will make me smile.
So rather than goodbyes and tearful sorrow--
The things I loved about her, as a child:
Mamaw making pickles and sewing drapes,
The nights of Lawrence Welk on PBS.
She made me learn to cook and how to bake
But I liked playing dominoes the best!
It's memories like these I wish to hold
For bodies age but love does not grow old.