Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Happy Birthday, Baby Sister

As lovely as our celebration is today, it doesn’t take away any of the pain of missing our sweet girl.

birthday cake and the blessings jar

Alaska's quilt from Grandma Dawn

building a shelter at the museum

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Borrowing Your Love

#writeingrief Day 23--On borrowing love and seeing myself as they see me


How would you love me in this? 


First I imagine holding you as you look up at me with (probably) blue eyes. Maybe a milky smile. Maybe your tiny hand would reach up and touch my face. But if I were holding you like this, I wouldn’t be this me. I would be Before me because you would be my little girl who lived, and I wouldn’t know After me. We wouldn’t be preparing to celebrate your birthday tomorrow because December 31 is the wrong date for your birthday. We would be buying snacks for New Year’s Eve not birthday cake ingredients. 


How would you love me in this?


If I imagine borrowing your love and looking at me through your eyes, I imagine tiny Auburn. My baby who was due on New Year’s Day. I imagine similar (probably) blue eyes for you and that you are (maybe) a boy. You would have known After me. You would have seen my face bursting with love for you and your big brothers and your angel sister. I would have smiled at you through tears sometimes, but you would know my love. You would give me the best snuggles, and you would cry and cry. That sound would be so very welcomed. I would tease you about trying to cry for two. Trying to give Alaska a voice. You would see me as one of your favorite people. Your milk machine, full of cuddles and kisses for you. 


How would you love me in this?  


As your brothers do. First they are silly and wild. Those two boys are best friends and dramatic opponents, and they swap roles multiple times a day. I can usually tell by the tone of the yelling, but sometimes, like today, the squeals of pain are from hilarious pranks. They are also helpful and caring. They clean and cook and want to play family games. 


Your brothers are sincere in sharing how they feel about you. They ask questions and tell me when they can’t sleep because they are angry that you died. They debate what kind of cake to make for your birthday, Alaska, and what outfit to buy in your memory that we will donate to a shelter and hope it will find its way to a little girl who needs it. They wonder at how to celebrate your birthday and how to celebrate Auburn’s due date without you here. They share their love for you and for our family, and they miss you, too. 

Dear Mommy, We're ok.


Dear Mommy,

We’re ok. We found each other, and we are ok. We love you and Daddy and Elliott and Asher. We love each other. We wish we could have joined you, but we can’t. I’m a big sister now, so I will take care of us. (We are in a place of peace, though, so don’t worry.) I want you to know that we are a family. We will stay together. We know it hurts you that we can’t be there. We know that you long for us. We want you to know that you’re ok, too. You and Daddy and Elliott and Asher. You’re ok. You have our love. Our family is strong. You are the best mommy. We know how much you love us and how much you have loved us for every second of our forever. Keep loving us even when you feel like the world is telling you to let us go. (We know you will love us forever. We know your love has never been a question.) We will see you someday. Our whole family will be together again. First you have to live. Breathe. Stay. Love.

We love you forever, Mommy.

Love, Alaska



#writeingrief Day 22


Sunday, December 28, 2014

What Matters

#writeingrief Day 20


The time doesn’t matter. This is about the loss and the love. We can’t control our human reactions or constraints. We can’t control our reality. We can’t control much of anything, can we? Perhaps just how we respond to our reality. I don’t know why I have the urgent desire to fix every little problem, especially when I know someone who is in pain from grief or illness. I don’t have that same reaction to my own pain. I know undeniably that it cannot be fixed, so why do I have this weird instinct to tackle and tame another’s pain? We have this way of measuring time with our clocks and calendars. Our sun and moon. Our sky. But is what matters how many days that we had with them? How many months since they have been gone? How many minutes until we will be with them again? Is it the time that matters? Last year I wrote a blog post called 19 Days: A New Calendar. And I ticked those dates (still do). How many weeks pregnant I Should Be (Why, hello, little unicorn! It’s been a few days since I wrote about you). How many hours. Days. Months. Whatevers since Alaska’s birthday. Since Auburn’s. But none of that matters. I don’t love Elliott more because he has been my son longer than Asher or their baby siblings. Love cannot be measured like that. Yes, we forget details. We just lose them in the maze of thoughts. The lost memories can potentially be found, right? Those memories are still there even if they are stuck under a heap of useless information. Even if we could rewind back to the moment just after the loss, our person is still dead, and we still love them. And if we jump ahead to the moment just before we die, our person is still dead, and we still love them. This love and loss is more than our human realities of forgotten moments and counting minutes. This love and loss cannot be diminished by memory or time. 

Friday, December 26, 2014

Need to Remember

#writeingrief Day 19-What do you want to remember? What do you wish to forget?


It’s not what I want to remember. It’s what I need to remember. The need to remember everything is a desperate feeling that all of it will be lost. These last few months have been full of flashbacks of my time that I had with Alaska when she was alive.
Telling the boys that they were going to have a baby sibling.
Pushing people away when they tried to touch my bump.
Debating names and finally deciding.
Telling people our name choices.Not caring when they said things like, “Don’t name your daughter Alaska.”
Waking up starving in the middle of the night and eating a sandwich.
Making guesses about whether we had a new son or a daughter.
Seeing our healthy, alive baby during the first ultrasound.Buying dresses that had plenty of room for a growing bump.
Feeling the tiniest flutters of movement from baby Alaska.Feeling her move for the last time that I remember. (And now wondering whether she was distressed, perhaps dying in that moment.)
Snuggling in bed with my family, watching a movie on Christmas night. Perfection in that moment: Putting my hand on my little bump and holding our boys.
Wondering whether I would need to get a new winter coat.
Taking pictures of my small bump.
Watching as my doctor moved the Doppler around on my belly.
Joking that we must have quite a stubborn little one who would be giving us a run for our money.
Taking the phone call that told us we had a little girl. A daughter. Deciding for sure that her name was Alaska Eileen.

This need to remember the happiest times in my life is answered with the need to remember all of it. The rest of the story.
The still baby on the second ultrasound screen.
The “no heartbeat” and “we can’t find the heartbeat” and “your baby died, I don’t know why.” 
The six failed attempts at starting an IV and the bruises left behind. 
Holding my belly in the hospital bathroom. Grasping it from every angle. Trying to commit the feeling to my memory. Knowing that in a few moments or hours that knowledge would begin to fade. 
Searching for pictures of babies who would be the same size to prepare for what we would see. 
The contractions that didn’t work.
Flipping out at my own mortality.
Quitting so that I could just get home to my alive family.

I don’t want to forget any of it, but I know I have already lost details. I can’t remember what it was like to be pregnant with Alaska. I have these little snippets that are covered in her ashes. I will take these grey memories, though. I will cherish them for as long as my mind will let me.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

December Special (or Holiday Delivery)


Your choice, she said.


Expert advice: First, delivery.
Let us help you, they said.

We reach down, she said.

Concentrate, she said.

Calm down, they said.

Rest, they said.


24 hours later
Expert advice: Problematic delivery.
Choose, they said.
You’ll stay safe, they said.
Calm down, they said.


Expert advice: Tools and suction, they said.
To protect you, they said.

Another choice, they said.
Box or burn?

#writeingrief Day 7-This was an exercise in found poetry. I used a newspaper from December 9, 2014.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Dear Sunshine,

I texted my sister Sunshine a picture of the moon tonight just before I sat down to write. My writing turned into a letter to her that has been brewing for many moons.


Dear Sunshine,


My sister, you have been on my mind even more than usual lately and especially tonight on this fat-moon night. I know that many miles separate us, but wherever you are, the same bright moon hangs in the sky. I have been thinking about what you did for us last year when you visited on the last days of 2013. It was your first time staying with us. It was the last best day of my Before.


I haven’t allowed myself to fully process what you did. I have thought about it since we lost our sweet Alaska Eileen, but each time I go there, I just skim the reality. Lightly, quickly. Unable to face the role that I forced on you.


On that day, you had the boys at the library when I just texted you that our baby had no heartbeat (there was no way I could have spoken those words yet). You had no corner to go to, no way to even process this with the boys there. You just continued to love them and entertain them and feed them while you waited for our official news. We told the boys that their baby sister died and then we left. You kept them safe, you helped them begin to understand what had happened, and you made it fun. HOW did you do this? Thank you. I know it was unfair and impossible, but you did it anyway.


I’ll never forget those moments where you just sat with me and held me. No words were needed. You are light and beauty and so aptly named. I am forever grateful for you.

Sending you love under the same sky!



Friday, November 28, 2014

On Signs and Hope

I went for a walk one day last spring after I found out that I was pregnant with our baby Auburn. It was a beautiful blue-sky day, and one of those walks that felt like a prayer. Thank you for this new baby. Is this really our rainbow, though? Could you tell me for sure that this is our rainbow? Maybe give me a sign...yeah, I know. I probably don't get to just request a sign. I realize it doesn't really work that way.

Scolding myself for being so stupid, I continued walking. You've probably guessed where this is going. Two birds flew out of the trees ahead of me. I noticed them but didn't think anything of it until a third bird flew out and followed close behind the pair. Is this my sign that this little one is our rainbow who will be born 7 years after Asher? I wasn't convinced, but these three birds gave me hope. I held on to that image for weeks hoping that I could write about this sweet "sign" after we met our baby. Of course sometimes a bird is just a bird.

I'm wrestling with that "sometimes" word up there. It really is ok to hold on to signs or other comforts. It's ok to think that a bird is just a bird one day--that there is no such magic in our world--and then it's also ok to turn around and see a butterfly or a blue jay feather and think that maybe it's a little bit of love from our angels.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

10 Things About Me (Grief Aside)

Carly at Still Standing Mag posted her latest article this morning. It's a link up called "10 Things About You (Grief Aside)" where you're supposed to write just what it says in the title, and then share it with the community. I thought this was a lovely idea but didn't do it right away. Tonight when I started writing, I thought about Carly's article and decided to go for it.

Let me take you on my journey of trying to set my grief aside and come up with 10 things.

Grief Aside...10 things about me.

10. I love tomatoes. 
9.

But I don't know who I am anymore. I mean. I still love tomatoes, but I recently threw away two containers of cherry tomatoes that I didn't even touch (the whole Dead Baby: Take Two thing is to blame). I have to admit that I haven't bought more tomatoes, though, because what if I don't eat those ones either? It's not really fair to the tomato.

I don't read in the same way. I love books, but I can't devour them like I used to.

I write because I have to. I enjoy it for the release and discovery, but I haven't tackled any new characters or revisited old ones since Alaska died.

Pizza is good, but food isn't the same. Breathing isn't the same. Nothing at all is the same. (Dramatic! Yipes...but it's true.)

I love my family, but my love is different now. (Here is where words will fail again.) My love is bigger, more fearful, it had to grow because it contains two more people. I don't love anyone more than I did before--that's not possible with unconditional love, but I do think that it can get bigger (which is different than more...at least in the sense that I'm trying to describe).

Even something like my favorite show, The Walking Dead, is not the same. I am still drawn to zombie lore because of the exploration of how humans react to and interact in that world, but I relate to the characters in a new way. (The new way of relating to them sucks.)

****
At this point I realized that I should go back and cheat off of the list that I wrote last December just thirteen days before my grief started. My sister had posted a "10 Things" challenge on Facebook that I decided to use as a fun way to announce our new baby to the friends and family who hadn't heard our news.


  1. Of course I started my list with tomatoes. I did that today, too.
  2. I still suck at taking naps (and sleeping in general).
  3. The sky! I will never tire of the sunsets and sunrises and rainbows and clouds. It's a new experience, though. Rainbows remind me of Auburn. He was supposed to be our rainbow baby. Before the boys knew about Auburn, they both made several art projects with rainbows. It was exciting. Rainbows are still lovely, but they. aren't. the. same.
  4. Afraid of public speaking? More than ever. Afraid of crowds? Yes, but I can handle strangers better than acquaintances. I also have several wonderful friends who have truly helped me survive the crowds I couldn't avoid. Afraid of flying? I don't think so. My fear of flying started when I had my first child, and it ended when I lost my daughter.
  5. Asher had to deal with a few people who told him that he wasn't a big brother because his sister died, but I think we've worked past that obstacle. My boys are big brothers to Alaska and Auburn in a different way than what we had planned, but they continue to come up with new ways to include their baby siblings in our family.
  6. I still have the best husband. We celebrated 10 years of marriage a few weeks ago.
  7. Yep. Zombies.
  8. Now I have all of these major writing projects that haven't been touched since December, but I have been thinking about them lately. I will go back to them someday with my new eyes and see what happens. This blog is a major writing project that I have added to my list.
  9. I hope I still have my book finding powers...I think I do.
  10. As for choosing a special power, I would certainly go bigger than the ability to apparate. So much for my old magical thinking.


Now I feel that I have failed to do this task correctly because I couldn't put my grief aside.

Try, try again...

  1. Yoga is my favorite stress reliever.
  2. Harry Potter nerd for life
  3. Speaking of nerds: #dftba
  4. I am the mom in a family of 6
  5. My mom used to tell me that my freckles were angel kisses and that for every freckle I had a friend. I still disliked my freckles, but now I wouldn't erase them if I had the chance. (Asher wishes that he could get freckles.).     :)
  6. Fish are creepy to be around unless they are contained in an aquarium at a zoo (or filleted)
  7. I prefer the chill of fall
  8. My hands laugh at the most inopportune times (like when I need to use them)
  9. I love to look at dead trees
  10. When I say that my hands laugh, most people think I'm crazy, but a few will admit that their hands laugh, too. It's a special kind of connection when you find a laughing-hands-friend.

I am Still Standing in memory of my daughter Alaska Eileen and my tiny baby Auburn.

There. It was a wordy road, but I got here.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Sleep Now

Sleep.

On my stomach first, just after I close my book because my eyes are ready for the break. As soon as I settle in my mind wakes, showing me pictures of everything I want but can't have and then (because there are no guarantees) of losing everything I have now and might have in the future.

Now on my side, clutching Beary by my face, I try so hard to change the story. Something happy--maybe with made-up characters that I could write about, some fun family time, or preliminary plans for my prayer flag design. I kick my legs and stretch trying to quiet their crawling but instead I imagine my blood cells with flailing limbs trying to burst through my thighs and shins.

Wishing I had a giant with a pancake turner who could flip me onto my other side, I wrangle the blankets and try to gently roll toward the wall where I will shut it off. Just stop thinking. A blank mind that will drift away into a dreamless sleep. You can imagine where this is going, though. Still stretching my legs I start to hear what I can't have--I mean I hear it in my "mind's ear" or whatever. It's the gentle breathing of my daughter followed by her cries (best sound ever) and then more quiet breathing with an occasional baby grunt or squeak. It's as real as a dream can be, and the loudest absence I've ever heard.

Over. Over. Over. Read to sleep but don't close that book.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Little Sister Moments

"I wish Alaska and Auburn were still here."

Elliott said this to me a few weeks ago as we drove home from his baseball game. That sentence, the fact that my son shared it with me, the truth and reality of it, hold an explosion of emotion that I can't really describe. The words simply fail.
Pain.
Gratitude.
Love.
Hope.
Truth.
Grief.
Heavy.
Happiness.
Anger.
Brave.
I swallowed and smiled and said what I usually say: "Me, too."

He went on to tell me how he felt when he helped his friend's little sister with a toy. He was laughing as he told the story and then he said that it made him miss Alaska. And if I could break any more, I did right then, but I also healed. We talked about how it must make Alaska and Auburn happy to see what a great big brother they have. And about how it's ok to be sad and miss our babies while also enjoying our time with friends and family, especially the little ones who might make us imagine what could have, should have, would have been.

Ultimately I feel gratitude around this experience. I am grateful that Elliott shared it with me and that we could heal a bit knowing that these little sister moments are a gift.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

A Song

We know full well there's just time(Birdy) 

I went to The Fault in Our Stars twice this weekend and had to download the soundtrack immediately after my first viewing. I've been listening to "Not About Angels" by Birdy since I drove out of the parking lot. This is one of those times (as a former student reminded me today) when the music says it much better than any words I could write.




If your heart was full of love, could you give it up?

I have to thank her for reaching out and bringing me a bit of light at just the right moment yesterday (I was in the middle of my unsharable rant when her message popped up). She shared a song called "Alaska" with me and sent her prayers. Later she told me that she imagines Alaska and Auburn to be great like their brothers. I wish I had a song to express how much this gesture really means.

How unfair it's just our love.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Happy Birthday Baby Auburn

Happy birthday baby Auburn!

Well, I wish that this was a different sort of announcement about our tiny baby Auburn, but it's not. Alaska is a big sister, and her baby sibling is with her. Auburn was very young and only survived the first few weeks of my pregnancy. We don't know if he was a boy or girl, but some of us felt that he was a boy. We named Auburn not long after we found out that I was pregnant. We had chosen first names for either a boy or a girl, and Auburn as the middle name for either. So we got our June baby on New Years Eve and our New Years baby in June. This is not how it was supposed to go. Alaska should still be growing and just days away from her birth. That's not how it went, though. Auburn should be growing with the joy and fear that comes along with a rainbow baby. I knew that this might happen. I've known with all of my pregnancies that people lose babies every day, and with Auburn the possibility of another loss was very real. Even with this knowledge, we celebrated Auburn's life with love and joy. We were supposed to get our happy ending around Alaska's birthday. Now we have two angels to celebrate.

In some ways I can't believe we're here again, but another part of me shrugs and says of course we're here again. Why wouldn't we be? Why would Auburn get to live when Alaska didn't? Why would I even think that we could bring home a sweaty, crying baby? What seemed so easy 6 months ago has become almost impossible to imagine. I have always felt blessed to the point of excess. I still am.

We have a beautiful family. A year ago I thought we were done having children, and I was happy with that knowledge. I love my family. I still wish I could bring my babies back.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Alaska's Roses

Over the last few weeks, my anxiety over my birthday and Mother's Day grew. If I could have chosen to skip those days I would have. Not because I don't want to celebrate my family and my additional year of life, but because this is my first of these days as a mother to a dead baby. Since I turned 30 I have enjoyed my birthdays because life has improved with each year. This year I was conflicted about this feeling. I am still incredibly blessed and thankful for my life. It all just comes back to wishing that Alaska hadn't died, knowing that I can't change this reality, and remembering to live with joy anyway.

These special days mark the time in a more significant way than any other milestone we've reached: Life goes on and on and on and on until it doesn't. Of course I knew that it wouldn't work to pretend that yesterday was just a normal day. Instead of skipping it, I ignored my phone and spent the day with my family. We planted flowers for Alaska and did some yard work in the rain. I opened my cards and gifts from my sweet boys and Brandon. We cooked and ate cheese cake and watched a movie. I continued to read The Magicians by Lev Grossman (the first book other than Looking for Alaska that has fully captured my attention since Alaska died).

When I wrote in my Alaska journal last night, I was nervous about what to write, but once I started with "Dear Mommy," the rest of Alaska's letter to me wrote itself. And in that letter, her gift to me was revealed--the big rock that Brandon and Elliott uncovered as they dug holes for Alaska's roses.

Now that I have some perspective (with a heavy dose of acceptance on this grief journey), I know that I couldn't have had a better 32nd birthday. Well, part of me knows that. Another part of me still resists reality.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Love, Alaska

An excerpt...

Dear Mommy,

Happy birthday AND HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! I love you so much. I know you've been scared of this day, and I know it was hard to not have me growing in your belly and almost ready to be born. I was and am still with you, though. And Daddy and my big brothers took the best care of you today.

I love you, Mommy. I am with you always. The flowers you planted today with Daddy and Elliott and Asher are beautiful. And that huge rock they dug up. That rock was your gift from me. You are the best mommy in the world. I'm so lucky to have you. You spread my love and my light. Remember to live a big huge life, Mommy. Remember to feel joy until your hands laugh and your face hurts from smiling. Interrobang about tomatoes and books and your babies (all of us).  I know it's hard, but do it anyway.

I love you forever!
Sending you angel kisses!

Love, Alaska <3 ‽

Monday, May 5, 2014

Candles for Alaska


When Asher brought this note home a few weeks ago, I wasn't sure how we would celebrate Alaska on Easter (I kind of panicked thinking that we needed to find the perfect way to celebrate her). Of course, we celebrate Alaska every day, so it was natural that Alaska would join our Easter celebration as well. Elliott and Asher received these candles in their Easter baskets. Now they have their own candles to light for their baby sister.

Monday, April 28, 2014

The Break Is Over

I had to take a break from blogging. I've been writing still (not as much), but we're in the thick of counting down the last days of school. It's a crazy and stressful time, so I've had to cut out other things in order to manage the chaos. I have several pictures that are waiting to be posted, though, and I felt the urge to write a bit tonight.

At first when I stopped blogging it felt like a much needed break. I decided that I would take a week. Once I passed the week mark, I had anxiety about blogging again. This anxiety on top of the other stress was overwhelming, so I just froze even though I knew that not writing was also adding to my stress--a crazy cycle that can only be broken by jumping right back in.
first flowers

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Skipping Toward Muchness

Today is day 30 of my Muchness Challenge, and it did not start out very muchnessy. Last night I realized that I was letting stress over trivial matters take over. I wasn't breathing, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I have worked hard since Alaska died to get my breathing back, and yesterday stress swiped all of that progress from me.

This morning I decided to fight back with my muchness songs "Brave" and "Happy." I was trying to convince myself to be both. Before school started I tried skipping laps around my classroom--an old but effective trick. Try to skip down the street or a hallway without a smile on your face. People might think that you've lost it, but I can't think of a good reason to care about that. Skipping erases the negativity from your face and heart. Skipping is the exercise version of Tova's sparkle theory. When I have challenged Asher to skip without smiling, he has failed every time. It's hilarious to watch him try; for the record, pursed lips trying to hold in a grin do not count as not smiling. Elliott, my serious one, even acknowledges the positive power of skipping.

I move forward from this challenge knowing that finding my muchness is a journey that will be easy some days and impossible on other days. I have tools to create muchness moments on the difficult days. If you could use a little help finding your muchness, try the 30 Days of Muchness Challenge.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Dear Alaska, Your brothers started planning your birthday party.

Dear Alaska,      ‽

Hey, baby girl! Today was a nice day. Your brothers started planning your birthday party for New Year's Eve. They're very excited. Asher says, "I can't wait to celebrate with joy in my heart! I just wish Alaska was here right now to snuggle."

Elliott told me that you were his answer to the question, "Which family member are you closest to?" He also wrote about how Alaska is his favorite state because of you.

Your brothers are so proud of you, Alaska Eileen. We all are. <3

Now I have to tell you about Daddy today. He bought a carpet cleaner and completely geeked out over it. He's so cute when he tornadoes through the house on a cleaning spree! He's the best. I did have to tease him a bit because, really, who gets excited about cleaning carpets‽  <<< Hey look! An interrobang!

I miss you every second.

I love you forever.

Love, Mommy    <3     ‽

Friday, April 4, 2014

I Promise

It's coming--the blue sky, the warmth, the energy of the season.

Can you feel it? Pressing out from the earth. New life shaking off winter. Inching up through dirty snow and old leaves.

Thawing only to freeze again (not for long). Be patient. Breathe. This dance is worth it.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

In This Moment

I have written and deleted a lot tonight, so I am going to leave just a few thoughts about what has worked for me today.

The letter Q: Asher's drawing of a quilt for Alaska.

Because I woke up sore from my tense day yesterday, I found a yin yoga video that focused on slow stretches and deep breaths.

Right now I am sitting in a dark room with some music that I used to listen to in junior high (TLC's CrazySexyCool). I think of a couple of old friends when I listen to these songs, and I think of who I was and how much I have gained from every experience over the years. And in this moment, I am thankful. I am blessed.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Three Months: Wild Sky

My body aches from holding it together (trying at least) all day. I didn't realize how tense I was until the end of the day when I could finally release my breath.

On this day that marks three months since Alaska was born, I wore my shiny rainbow-starred shoes because I knew today would be difficult and that I would need extra help finding my muchness. I tried to go back to my Muchness theme--sky and song. The sky today was wild. It changed in the matter of a few hours from a beautiful, warm spring day to hail to a tornado warning to a blizzard warning. I was going to say that I didn't find muchness in the sky today, but I think that I did. I felt connected. I get it. It's exactly how grief is some days. I'm ok until I'm not. One thing I keep reminding myself about spring storms is that the sun will come out soon.

A note at the top of the blessings jar

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Muchness Day 21

Muchness Day 21

1. Going to church with my boys, mom, sissy, and brother bear

2. Enjoying the beautiful weather before a possible spring blizzard

3. Eating fresh walleye and having great conversation with my family

4. Geeking out over the season finale of The Walking Dead

5. Listening to my mom feel out over her second read through Looking for Alaska


Elliott added this bluejay feather to his frame with Alaska's picture 


Saturday, March 29, 2014

Dear Alaska, Your brothers were amazed at the blanket.

Dear Alaska,            ‽

 Grandma Dawn, Auntie Nae, and Uncle Josh came to visit us this weekend. When they got here on Thursday night, they gave us a blanket that a lady named Noelle made for you. It's the perfect size to snuggle around Beary. I'm snuggling them right now. <3

 

Auntie said that your blanket was at a TEC retreat that she went to where many prayers went up. We have been surrounded by love and kindness and prayers from family and friends and strangers, Alaska. Your brothers were amazed at the blanket and hearing about all of the prayers. They wanted to send a thank you to everyone who prayed. I know that we can't do that because we don't know everyone, but we can pray back. Maybe I will post this letter so that at least some of the people who have prayed will know how much we appreciate the prayers and that we are sending prayers for them also.

Daddy sent me a sunset picture tonight from the river. He's fishing for his birthday this weekend, and he's actually going to bring some fillets home this time! He hasn't had great luck lately, so we're excited to eat some walleye this week. :)

I love you forever, angel girl!

Love, Mommy     <3      ‽

Friday, March 28, 2014

Congratulations

"Congratulations on your daughter!"
congratulate (v.)
  • give (someone) one's good wishes when something special has happened to them
  • feel pride or satisfaction (congratulate oneself)
Someone wrote me a note that included both sympathy and congratulations after I shared Alaska's story. At first I was taken aback by the congratulations, but I realized that this person was exactly right. I am proud of my daughter. She brings us love and joy. Her addition to our family is special, a blessing.

I am sad, broken, and scarred. I celebrate anyway.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Dear Alaska, What is a meatball doing in Candyland‽

Dear Alaska, ‽  


Today I am thinking of the stories we would have told you at bedtime. Asher brought home a picture that he made at school, and it reminded me of the bedtime stories that I used to tell your brothers. Sometimes I still tell them bedtime stories, but it doesn't happen every night like it used to. I'm going to try to find one of the stories that I posted on fb a few years ago. I know that it took several days to complete (I used to fall asleep in the middle). :)

Now Asher tells stories to anyone who will listen. Today he shared his theory on the science and magic behind volcanoes (it's all very complicated and beyond my understanding of both magic and science). I know that he and Elliott would have told you some entertaining tales!

I love you, Alaska!

Love, Mommy  <3    ‽

p.s. Here is the story about a meatball that ended up in Candyland that I told to your brothers in 2009.



Once upon a time Gingerbread Man and Gummy Guy went on an adventure to visit the King of Candyland. They traveled far, swimming through Soda Lake, struggling against a marshmallow blizzard, and walking through a sucker forest. Suddenly, Gingerbread Man ran into a giant meatball. "What's this in the middle of Candyland‽ This IS NOT candy!"

Gummy Guy said, "I think it might be a meatball. I've heard of these. Smell it...no sugar. hmmm...we're not going to be able to get around this thing..."

"You should try to climb over it," said Candy Cane as she approached the two adventurers. "I'll give you a boost, Gummy."


As it turned out, they couldn't climb over the meatball, and they couldn't squeeze around the meatball.


"What are we going to do?" asked Gingerbread Man. I don't think we're going to get through. "We'll never see the King of Candyland at this rate!"


"It smells good...I wonder what it tastes like," said Gummy Guy.

Candy Cane said, "You try it. I'm allergic to all nonsugary foods."

Gummy Guy and Gingerbread Man ate a tunnel through the giant meatball. It was the best food they'd ever tried. Candy Cane crawled through the tunnel to the other side of the meatball. "I think we'd better tell the King of Candyland about this. He may not be happy about this meatball showing up in the middle of Candyland. We'll need to bring proof, though. He might even want to try a bite," said Gingerbread Man. Candy Cane filled her empty cookie jar with a piece of the meatball; Gummy Guy put small pieces of the meatball in his plastic candy cane-shaped container; and Gingerbread Man sliced pieces of the meatball into his ice cream bucket. The three adventurers were ready (and a little nervous) to present the king with their surprising find.

After days of camping and trekking through Candyland, they finally made it to the castle. In order to cross the hot cocoa moat, the three friends had to build a 10-cracker tall s'more raft so they didn't fall in the moat as the hot cocoa turned the s'more into mush.

Luckily, the raft held and Gingerbread Man, Gummy Guy, and Candy Cane reached the castle with the meatball samples for the king. One of the chocolate easter bunny guards from the gate approached them, "What business do you have here? The King of Candyland does not let just anyone in...What is that smell?"

"We've brought a piece of the giant meatball that we came across on our adventure. The king must see and taste the meatball," said Gummy Guy.

"Yes! It's really very delicious considering it is not candy. We don't know what the king will think of our discovery, but he deserves to know about the meatball presence in his kingdom," said Gingerbread Man.

"WHAT IS A MEATBALL DOING IN CANDYLAND‽" roared the chocolate Easter  bunny guard.




Monday, March 24, 2014

Dear Alaska, he thinks of you anyway.

Dear Alaska,     ‽

Today is Daddy's last day of being 30! Your brothers and I went shopping for birthday gifts today. They decided that we should pick out a little memorial for Daddy to have in memory of you. We found an "A" keychain. It was the only one--the only letter and the only "A," so we decided it was perfect.

A for Alaska.


A for angel.


I know that Daddy doesn't need anything to remember you by because he thinks of you anyway, but it sure was nice to see his face when he opened it tonight. That's another thing about your dad. He's kind of a sucker and let's the rest of us open gifts early sometimes. We decided to let him open all of his gifts tonight. I wasn't going to let him eat his birthday cake (German chocolate like always), but he had to try it because "if you have German chocolate cake in the house, you have to eat it."

Your daddy is the best, Alaska!

Love,

Mommy   <3   ‽

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Friday, March 21, 2014

She Is Not a Secret


Yesterday, day 11 of my Muchness Challenge, was the first day of spring and the International Day of Happiness. An orange sunrise lit my cold walk to school with the boys. I was still feeling my own personal day of happiness from Wednesday, and I was halfway to school (one block) before I realized that at 28 degrees, I should have worn a coat. Happiness and the first day of spring can only do so much.

By the end of the day yesterday, I was exhausted and happiness was being replaced by anxiety about being away from home without my family tonight and tomorrow. Before I left home this afternoon, I enjoyed many muchness moments--chatting over an overdue cup of coffee with a friend, eating lunch with Brandon and the boys (they won toys from the claw again), finding a pink dress that Asher said was beautiful to which Elliott said that Asher thinks everything is beautiful, and adding two small circles to my angel necklace for Alaska's brothers.

After I left my family, I practiced how I would answer the first question my super cool carpool ladies would ask me: "How are you doing?"

Hugs and comfort were offered, and they allowed me to share more about Alaska. Any opportunity to share my daughter and not deny her existence is a muchness moment. Alaska is part of me. I am proud of her. Just like her brothers.

I am not good at talking, so face to face sharing is stressful. But the weight of Alaska as a secret is excruciating. Excruciating probably sounds exaggerated. It's not.

Most people at this meeting do not know about Alaska. As everyone started leaving tonight, I ended up part of a circle with several proud grandmothers who shared pictures and videos of their baby granddaughters--a couple who were probably born around the same time as Alaska. They were the sweetest pictures, but as the second and then the third grandmother shared, my ability to breathe and smile left my body. I hate this physical, uncontrollable grief reaction that makes it difficult for me to properly celebrate those beautiful little lives right now. I would never want someone to not share those pictures with me even though it is difficult. The part that made this the most painful was that I had my secret. I wanted to say, "I had a daughter a couple of months ago, too. She died, and we miss her every second. Her name is Alaska, and we are proud of her."

I didn't say any of that, though. I held it in until the third baby was shared, and then I just had to leave. Rudely probably, and I am so so sorry for that. I am not one to make verbal announcements of any kind, so trying to speak this truth--the initial announcement--is a struggle. How many circles like this did I stand in before Alaska died, and how many mothers of angels held this pain alone?

As I stood surrounded by these grandmothers and their admirers, I thought of my own mom who told the world about Alaska before we knew that she was a girl (and before she really had permission to tell the world). :) And I feel terrible that she doesn't get to share these kinds of pictures of her 14th grandchild giggling at the camera. We cannot have Alaska's smiles, but our angel girl is in our smiles.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Happy and the Ugly Cry

Day 10 of my Muchness Challenge

Happy.

This is the song of the day. I started listening to it this afternoon when I needed to come up with a song for our creative writing assignment tomorrow. I decided that "Happy" would be perfect for our activity because everyone would either enjoy the song or hate the song. Strong emotions either way should make for some good writing moments.

In the song Pharrell says, "It might seem crazy what I'm about to say."

This is precisely how I feel this blog might go. How can I feel this happy? I think today might be the happiest I have felt since Alaska died. I've cried several times today, but I still feel happy. I have wondered if maybe there is something wrong with me. Maybe I'm losing it completely. I don't think so, though. I think I am doing just what I need to do to love life. I am sharing Alaska with the world. I'm not hiding her or trying to forget her. I am celebrating her, so I believe that this is why I can feel happy today. My fingers are happy and my sore muscles are happy and my toes right now are dangling off the edge of my bed. They are dancing, happy toes.

I used emoticons in emails today. I don't know for sure if this was the first day of using emoticons or if this has been a gradual transition, but I noticed that I was throwing smilies in my messages to people. Happy. (This happened before my "Happy" marathon.) I was feeling happy before the song.

The song was an interrobang on my day: Because I'm happy‽

I am happy and I miss Alaska and I can smile and I can laugh and I can cry all in the matter of a few minutes. I can feel all of it.

My boys asked me today if the doctors could see Alaska's hair and eyes because they really want to know what she looked like. They have pictures of their baby sister to draw! I wish I knew. I wanted to see her even though she was gone. In some ways I blame myself for not being able to see her, but I have forgiven myself (and I know that I did everything I could). I don't think I could feel this happy if I hadn't forgiven myself. Occasionally I start telling myself that it was for the best that I didn't get to see Alaska because her body may have been damaged from the birth. I don't really believe that it was for the best, though. I was prepared to see her. I imagine--and this is not a pleasant thought, so you might want to skip to the next paragraph--I imagine that her body would have been discolored. Her body may have have come apart. I was ready for this, though. I just wanted to see my baby. Just once.


So even with these terrible thoughts, I still feel happy. People say that when you break and heal, you are scarred but stronger. I think that is true in many ways. I feel like I shattered, like I'm missing pieces that I will never have again, but I have a new person to love (Alaska) and a new ability to live more intensely. Don't get me wrong, I am not going to go on a roller coaster or become an extrovert or even start speeding, but I'm not scared of living like I used to be. If I take a chance and mess up, I know that I will be ok. I know that I can eventually hold as much pain in the same hand as I hold joy. I can feel both at the same time with dancing toes and laughing hands and a sobbing, ugly cry.

Brandon just came into the room for a few minutes but left because I was clapping along like the song told me to. I just told him like the song says, "Can't nothing bring me down." A definite muchness moment.

Now I challenge you to listen to "Happy" by Pharrell Williams and have a little dance party right now with the people in the room. Please! And if you do it, take a picture of your faces or your feet and share it with me. This means you--whoever you are! Ready? Go!

"Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth."

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

A Muchness List

Day 9 of my Muchness Challenge

A fresh batch of snow has covered our town today. Although I prefer dirty, melting snow this time of year, I do love the brightness of this cloudy night. Because I hope to be asleep soon, I am going to simply list some of the muchness I found today.

1. Watching the boys plank challenge each other
2. Zumba with friends (exercise + music!)
3. Extra time with Brandon
4. Love for my baby brother as we celebrate his adoption day
5. A stronger headstand
6. Lighting a candle for Alaska


What muchness moments did you experience today?

Monday, March 17, 2014

Dear Alaska, We are living big huge lives.

Dear Alaska,     ‽

Hey, baby girl! Are you playing with with a kitty today? My friend gave me a note that told me about how her family's cat died last weekend. She told him about you, and he lifted his head and looked at her. It was such a sweet moment, and I am so glad that she told me. <3

We miss you everyday, Alaska, but we are living big huge lives in your honor. Today on my muchness journey, I exercised with friends and I listened to music and I wore the most ridiculous combination of pink/burgundy/red to work out in and I walked to school over puddles and I listened to stories from your brothers (Elliott is acting very chill about having his name drawn to be prince of the carnival at school, and Asher saw a leprechaun!) and Daddy grilled some delicious steaks and I just did a headstand.
Icy Puddles‽ 

Love you forever!

Love, Mommy <3    ‽

p.s. Sometimes run-on sentences are ok.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Day 7 Muchness Moments

Family time
Exercise
Red toenails
Tomatoes
Hugs
Headstands
Conversation
A beautiful note from my baby sister:
You are so strong, sissy pissy poo pants. When you are weak, remember all those days that you were strong! What made you get through that day?And if you feel like crying, just cry. It's the Holy Spirit moving through you! God doesn't give you anything you can't handle! I love you so sooo sooo much! I mean, so much that when i think about it, I smile. I smile so big that my cheeks hurt! Now, that's a lot of love! I cannot wait to see you and the boys! i'm getting more anxious even thinking about it!  
I love you!! 
P.S. Remember: A smile is not a smile unless it wrinkles your face. 

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Just Look Up

I have been sick for almost three weeks, so the last few days have been for hibernation and healing. This will likely be a stream of consciousness sort of writing today because I have a lot on my mind.

Days 3-6 of the Muchness Challenge

On Day 3, I felt physically at my lowest since I've been sick, but I listened to my Muchness Fairy when I got dressed and threw some color around my neck--a purple scarf. I have never been fond of purple, but it is what I had. That day I received many compliments about how cute I looked. Compliments always make me uncomfortable because I have been hiding for my entire life. Chopping my hair off last summer somewhat forced me to stop hiding, but I still default to blending into the background. So this was Wednesday when I decided to wear a black and gray outfit but threw on my purple scarf in honor of my muchness. I coughed until I threw up that day, but many people who saw me told me how much they liked my outfit. After several compliments, I remembered that part of my outfit was what I had worn when I found out that Alaska had no heartbeat. I have decided that I can't throw out my clothes that hold memories of my daughter. I will wear these clothes because they are a small part of our story. When I wear my clothes that have memories of Alaska tied to them, I feel full, like I may have felt a few years from now if I put on something that made my little girl's eyes sparkle. So as much as I would like to continue to fade into the background, I am trying to push myself forward.

On Day 4 I took a picture of my hand grasping Asher's while we arm wrestled. This was a Muchness Moment because we were both giggling so hard that the match lasted for longer than it should have. Asher and I have what I like to think of as hand-laughing-syndrome. A few people out there know what I mean when I say that my hands laugh, but most people look at me like I'm crazy. Laughing hands are always accompanied by interrobanging--and now muchness. If you're wondering who won the arm wrestling match, I did. I completely stomped him. I know I don't have much time before those little boy arms are stronger than mine, so I'm going to take the win. :)


Yesterday was Day 5 of my Muchness Challenge. We had the day off, so I decided to rest and go to the clinic since I have been sick for so long. It was a nice day at home, but I didn't find many muchness moments. The one that I can explicitly recall happened when a beam of sunlight came through the door and warmed the entire room. It was a mostly gray day, so the sunlight was a surprise. I was too lazy to move over to it and soak it in, though. I could feel Alaska very strongly in that light.

Day 6 of my Muchness Challenge.

Today I finally worked my way off the couch with some cleaning and painting and a headstand. Elliott's room has been waiting for the second coat of gray and neon green for a couple of weeks. I noticed that--on this gray day--I was painting gray walls and still feeling cruddy. But I needed a haircut. I have needed one for a few weeks now, but of course haven't felt up to it. I showered and put on a shirt that reminded me of the first weeks of being pregnant with Alaska. I haven't worn it since those first weeks because I was so bloated that it no longer fit. I knew that I was probably going to face the small talk again, so I practiced my answer before I got there: I have two boys and a daughter who died in my second trimester. And that's basically what I said to her when she asked. So far my encounters with the girls who have cut my hair have been filled with kindness.

This contrasts the encounters that I have had with some who I thought would know better than to diminish my loss of my daughter with words like: "Yeah, that can be hard sometimes," and "Have you lost weight?"

What. The. [folding laundry]? Have I lost weight? Yes. I was pregnant but we lost our baby.

Tears.

Why the [folding laundry] would you ask me if I have lost weight if you KNEW that I recently lost my baby? I have no idea how much weight I've lost. It is pretty much the last thing on my mind since I gained a dead baby out of the deal. But thanks for making me announce that to you and then making me swallow my sobs and not even be able to tell you that her name is Alaska Eileen and that losing her isn't just "hard." "Hard" doesn't even come close to doing justice to what I'm feeling. But, yes, I've lost weight.

So I'm pissed and hurt at comments like that, but then I remember that I don't know the stories of the people who say these things. Maybe my situation brings forth their own loss. So now I feel guilty for being selfish and feeling hurt and wanting this world to acknowledge that my daughter matters. And I'm pissed at myself because I know that I have contributed to this pain in someone else with my silence and possibly with a stupid comment that I may have made to a friend or family member who has lost a child. I am mostly just pissed off at the world for making me feel like Alaska CAN'T matter the way I feel she does. For making me question myself and my love for my daughter. For making me feel like I am crazy or selfish for dwelling too long. For being too vocal about my loss. For wanting to be treated like a mother who has lost a child (and not just a pregnancy).

Today I went to the store and bought several shiny items in honor of my muchness. These bracelets, a pink sparkly journal for my second volume of Dear Alaska letters, and some colorful shoes with sparkling stars.

At the store I stood behind a mom and her preschool-aged daughter wearing matching bright pink coats. The little girl was whining, trying to convince her mom to buy a treat. I was captivated by the entire situation. I was captivated because that is exactly what I want but can't have. I want my Alaska with her pink coat and whiny fits--surely she would have had both. I tried not to stare and give off that disapproving you-suck-as-a-parent-vibe that all parents of young children have gotten when our kids have had a rough time in public. Disapproving was far from what I felt over the situation. It was such a sweet moment, and although it made me miss what I can't have, it also brought me joy.

When I walked through the parking lot this evening on this gray day, I snapped a picture of the sun. I had noticed earlier that although the sky was gray, the sun still shines through the clouds. No matter how gray the sky gets, we can find that bright spot if we just look up.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Navigating the Slush

Day 2: #30DayMuchnessChallenge

Dear Alaska,   ‽ 
I'm tired today, Alaska. I have a cough that kept me up last night. Your great grandma Eva Eileen is here today. She loves you so much. And I do, too. <3 This morning when I woke up, it felt like my body was saying a big "screw you" to my muchness. But I got dressed and wore shiny shoes that would reflect light like Tova Gold recommended (she's like the Muchness Fairy). So my feet shined while I navigated the slush and puddles today.
And I listened to music. A song that I had never heard before came on the radio three times this afternoon while I was driving. It's exactly how I feel as I wrestle my inner voice that speaks up and tries to tear every bit of my muchness apart.
I can fake a smile
I can force a laugh
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
(Christina Perri "Human")
Although it is kind of sappy, I enjoyed your brothers belting out "I'm only human" in silly voices after they'd heard the song for the second time in a row (they sound just like Daddy). So even though this song mirrored my darkness today, I still found muchness in the music.
And I took a picture of the sky and I hugged my grandma and my auntie and I stood on my head and I snuggled a sweet little boy--our cousin. But I also thought about how it's been 10 weeks now since you were born. And how can it be 10 weeks? You know what else sparkles in the light, Alaska? Tears. I love you forever.

Love, Mommy   <3   ‽ 


Monday, March 10, 2014

Finding My Muchness: Sky and Song

Day 1: My theme for this Muchness Challenge is sky and song.


SONG

A life well lived is a life lived to music. Lately, I have neglected music for silence or listened to songs that speak to my pain. The Muchness Challenge is about finding my light even when I am in darkness, so today I listened to my ‽ playlist that is filled with my favorite songs.

SKY

I have written about the interrobang worthiness of the sky and healing with headstands, so during my #30DayMuchnessChallenge, I commit to noticing the sky each day by pointing my eyes and my toes up.

Today I found my muchness on a walk toward the pale orange sunset with my boys. We walked through dirty snow and deep puddles under the gray sky. I used to complain about dirty snow; it's the opposite of the shimmer that coats every surface throughout the freezing temperatures of winter--and often fall and sometimes spring. I used to complain about this dirty-snow-time-of-year where slush covers every surface, but today I found my muchness on a dirty snow hill with my sons.


I found my muchness outside surrounded by dirty snow and brown rivers flowing through gravel glaciers:
And, Mom, wouldn't that be cool if there was a whole world down there in that river? And another one? And what if we're just a speck like in Horton Hears a Who? Wouldn't that be cool? And, Mom, under the snow hill the grass is waiting to stretch out, dry off, and green up. Wouldn't it be cool to be that grass?
And finally, after our walk, I found my muchness in a headstand. I can feel the light. For Alaska.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

A Gift: #muchnesschallenge

A few weeks ago, I won this "Finding Your Muchness FUNbook" by the inspiring Tova Gold through a giveaway on Facebook from Tova's passion project called FindingMyMuchness. I first learned about FindingMyMuchness through a blog post where Tova wrote about an experience after losing her twin girls.

Immediately I connected with the idea of muchness. I had recently started my blog around my feelings that I had lost my interrobang along with my daughter--my interrobang is my muchness. In the FUNbook, Tova writes, "I'd lost that fire. I'd lost that confidence and that sense of promise and belief in myself." This is how I felt after Alaska died--how I still feel. I am working my way back to interrobanging my weirdness over books and tomatoes and zombies and writing.

Here's to joining the #muchnesschallenge. Thanks to Tova for the inspiration and sparkle!

Friday, March 7, 2014

Dear Alaska, Thanks for helping me be brave.

Dear Alaska, ‽

Right now I'm listening to a song that your auntie Lenae sent me today called "Brave" by Sara Bareilles. I've heard this song many times before without really listening to it. I remember being touched when I read something about it being written for the singer's friend who was having trouble coming out to family members, but I had never really listened to what the song says until my baby sissy sent it to me today with a note, "made me think of you :)".
"Show me how big your brave is/Say what you wanna say/And let the words fall out"
Alaska, everyone can relate to these lyrics at some point in life. Most people hold words in every day and don't say everything that they want to say. If it weren't for my letters to you and my blog, I would be holding most of these words in. Even with my writing, there are a few things that I haven't been brave enough to say or write.
"Nothing's gonna hurt you the way that words do/When they settle beneath your skin/Kept on the inside and no sunlight/Sometimes a shadow wins/But I wonder what would happen if you/Say what you wanna say"
Do you know what happens when someone is brave, Alaska? A weight is lifted, a strength revealed. Sometimes more pain follows, but it's ok because if we're brave and push back, we get stronger. Even in the moments when we feel worthless and weak, if we push back, we get strength. I wish you were here for me to say this to. I accept (mostly now) that you can't and won't be. I can (mostly) accept this because I have been allowed to say what I need to say to the world: Alaska Eileen is my daughter who I will love forever.

Everyone deserves a chance to be brave, Alaska. No truth is too small or too big. I watched a video posted by the University of Minnesota Amplatz Children's Hospital right before I started writing this letter. The patients, their families, and staff in the cancer ward made a video to Bareilles' "Brave." 

Children's cancer is another reality that people tend to hide from. If we don't talk about dead babies and kids with cancer, somehow we feel safer, as if it isn't happening. But it is happening every single day to people that we know. I have been guiltier than most when it comes to ignoring the painful reality of others. Did I think that I might catch their sad luck? (Absurd, I know.) I have read many times since you died that baby loss is not contagious. (Duh, I know.)

I guess what I'm trying to say is that, yes, we need to be brave and say what we want to say--to tell our truth, but we also need to be brave by offering an opportunity to others: "show me how big your brave is."

It's so simple.

I love you, angel girl. Thanks for helping me be brave. Send some extra angel kisses to your auntie Nae.

Love, Mommy    <3  ‽

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Brotherhood

These two big brothers will fight each other all day. They will hold on to a conflict for hours, typically with something ridiculous like, "He fell into my snow trap and ruined it accidentally on purpose."

As quickly as my boys start a fight, they can end it. I love every aspect of this brotherhood--opponents, friends, conspirators, protectors.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Toes to the Sky

My muscles ache today. I have worked my way back to doing headstands with the yoga practice that I started after Alaska died. Headstands used to be a craving for me. When I was particularly stressed or happy, I would NEED to go up into a headstand. Headstands require a focus that helps me reel myself in. Somewhere in the last few years, I lost my craving, lost my ability to hold my body in this inversion, and gained a fear of falling.

So I stopped trying.

Until today.

Today I convinced my core to balance my body as I pointed my toes toward the sky. Today I was afraid to fall, but I did it anyway. Losing Alaska has taken away some of my fears. If I can live through losing my daughter, if I can love her through this life, I can certainly put my head down on the ground, lift my toes up, and just try. If I fall, I can try again.