The Sky

I find myself looking up to the sky as of late: the beauty of the sun rising through the trees, the heavy, thick clouds of the humid afternoon which threaten a downpour but rarely do, the pink layers of the sunset in the distant sky. I smile because it consoles me.

I have an incredible picture of the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean that I took some years ago while vacationing with the entire family. The sun was big and full and round, and so was my family. I remember sipping coffee on the back deck at 5:30 while three other families slept soundly, and glancing up to see my best friend's husband standing behind me with a cup of coffee in his hands, watching it rise just as intently. We didn't say much at all, and the only sound was the click of our cameras. I wonder if he remembers that morning.

I've looked at that picture on several occasions throughout the past four years, focusing on the truth of a sunrise... another day that begins the same but differently, a new chance to make a difference, another day to perceive heartbreak, to conceive heartache, to feel, to believe, to by joyous, to be astounded or confounded. My eyes, when they've been on the horizon over the past four years, have always seen this picture.

Two days ago, I enlarged it and it sits in a beautiful wooden frame, broadly across the wall of my newly painted breezeway. When I leave for work, it is the last thing I see and when I arrive home, it is the first.

Give love. Show love. Be love. This horizon is my newest mantra, and believe me, it is not always easy.

When the one word question: why? comes to me, I look up. When the lump of sorrow in my throat threatens release, I look up. When tears fall, when my chin quivers, I look up. And I try to always believe.

Tonight my heart has sunk below the horizon. It wasn't anything anyone said or did, it is just the way the breeze moved through the trees, the way the humidity felt on my upper lip, the sound of a piano solo playing through my truck speakers, the echo of a laughter I once heard, the picture of a gravestone that no sister should ever have to see or share with her parents.

Yet tomorrow... tomorrow... tomorrow the sun will rise again, and so will I.

And next week when I visit my family and stand beside the new grass at a new gravesite, and feel the breeze pass through me as I pray for a lost soul, I shall take a deep breath, I shall allow my tears to fall to the ground and I shall force my eyes to look up once again.

Wedding Dress for Sale

I got the Pennysaver some time ago, and I just spent about five minutes scanning through it. I'm hoping to find someone who wants to give away about $100,000.00 to me. No such luck. But what I did see were a few ads that went like this:

"Wedding dress, size 10 (or 6 or 12), never worn."

It's such a sad little ad, isn't it? Why wasn't it ever worn? Was he a ratscum bastard, or was she? Did they come to a mutual cancellation? Did one of them get hurt?

I started thinking about what I might write about my wedding dress, and for how much I would sell it. I'd probably give it away, I'm thinking. But I would really try to make my ad interesting, or funny, at the very least. Here are a few that I came up with:

1. Wedding Dress, size 6, worn once.

2. Wedding Dress, size 6, worn once, matching shoes and curse.

3. Wedding Dress, size 6, might become a little itchy around the 7th year of marriage.

4. Wedding Dress, size 6, worn once, comes with a lot of baggage. You haul.

5. Beautiful wedding dress, spaghetti straps, full skirt, only worn once and it made for a helluva party. It sits in a box in my basement, along with a tux, also only worn once (or maybe twice):a match made in heaven. (If heaven was a dingy basement that housed shadows in every corner, with black widows waiting to pounce, a nightmarish divorce to follow where the beautiful, blushing bride is worn down to a thread), resulting in the best decision ever made in my life, and also resulting in two beautiful children and an insatiable hunger by the bride to live again, without the groom.

Or maybe I'll just go with the ultimate truth:

6. Wedding Dress, pure white, but shouldn't have been.

Let me know if you're interested. I'll give it to the first taker.

Learn Something New Every Day

I played some darts last night. I didn't have the same enthusiasm as I have had in previous weeks. It might be that my partner quit on me and I had to go solo, searching for a replacement. It might be that I've been in bed by 9pm every night, trying to shake whatever sickness seems intent on rising. It might also be because I spent the entire day in Arlington County, Virginia (just outside of D.C.) for no reason, other than to stroke the ego of one of the employees at the county. I drove two hours in traffic to make it to a casual meeting with this man so that I could get one of my sites completed, called him when I got to the office (as he insisted I do so that he'd be available), waited in the office for an hour, finally spoke with someone, then was told to wait again, and again. Finally, after all the work was completed that needed to be done before meeting with this guy, I called him and said, "Okay, ready for your review and sign-off. Call me when you get this." An hour passed, two hours passed. I got up from my seat every twenty minutes to have him paged again and again. After all, he's the one who set up the meeting. Little did I know, he decided to take a long lunch and was nowhere to be found. After three hours, an expired meter and many exasperated sighs, I picked up my phone and in the most professional way possible, I left a message that said, "Thanks for nothing, dirtbag."

Okay, the dirtbag part was absent of the message, but I let him have it! Here's what I actually said,

"Hi Mr. H, it's Carrie, sitting out on the cold chairs waiting for you. Hope that all is well with you since it is apparent that you have become tied up for some unknown reason. I've been here three hours and unfortunately, I have to leave because my daughter gets off the bus early today and I have a long drive back to MD." Dirtbag.

When he called back as I was snailing along Route 295 through D.C. traffic, he was unapologetic, stating succinctly that "I had meetings. What am I gonna do?" Um, not tell me that you're available; Um, not make an appointment with me and direct me to call you every ten minutes; Um, keep a promise? I ignored him and said, "Look, I just need a quick signature and then I'll be out of your hair. Can we meet on Friday?"

"Yes!" Really?
"Okay, I'll be there at 11:00 am," I answered.
"Can't do 11, I have a meeting until 11:30," he answered.
"Okay, I'll be there at 11:30."
"Make sure it's no later, lunch is at 12," he answered. Dirtbag. It's a precise name, normally reserved for someone else, but in this case, I've decided to share it.
"Hey, why don't you just turn around?. I leave at 3 today, but you can still make it in time." It was 2:35.
"I have to pick up my daughter," I answered curtly.
"Oooh..." he said, but it was a condescending "Oh", you know? Like, "Oh, she's one of those women..." Dirtbag.

It was a wasted trip. Almost.

As I sat there, I struck up a conversation with a kid. I say kid, but he was around 27-28 years old, but looked much younger. It might have been because his expressions were so kind, and his outlook so optimistic. The energy of that area of the country was electric, having just come off the inauguration. We spoke about that. Then, he mentioned his daughters, and I'm sorry, I thought "He must be one of those people who has kids with different woman and moves on." But no, then he mentioned his wife of six years. When he mentioned her, his face lit up. And we talked like we'd known each other forever. We talked about marriage and how tough it gets sometimes, and how it takes work and patience and love. We talked about commitment and when you make a promise, you stick with it. I immediately thought of the dirtbag I was waiting for, and of my dart partner who canceled, and my husband. He asked about my marriage and I said, "It seems that I married someone with an entirely different outlook on what it takes to succeed." He just nodded his head knowingly. By the end of the conversation, we were best friends. I said, "Keep your optimism and wisdom, and continue to be a hopeless romantic." And he said, "You too. It was a pleasure. Your ex must have been a moron."

This boy was an angel, I truly believe that. A few weeks ago, I met an 80 year old man with the exact same outlook, and now I meet this kid. I can only imagine when I meet that beautiful, single, 35-40 year old with the same viewpoint.

So the trip wasn't entirely wasted, I suppose. And I truly feel that there were two lessons for the day: One was to allow me a glimpse into what it takes to be patient; and the other was to re-emphasize the need to keep promises.

At the end of the day, I told the kids I was exhausted and just wanted to go to bed. Paige asked if they would still get a babysitter. I said, "Yes, I have darts tonight." She said, "But if you're tired, why not just stay home?" I answered, "Because I made a commitment to play and I have to be there." (Be impeccable with your word). And she understood.

At darts, a friend of mine said, "I hate looking at you. You're always so happy." (She was a little tipsy and is struggling through her own divorce). I guess I must have looked at her funny because she gave me a wide grin. I was thinking, "She has no idea the kind of day I had. But yeah, in the grand scheme of things, I guess I am happy."

It helps that I was aware of my blessings yesterday, I guess. After all, I met an angel, came home to a warm house, and snuggled with my babies. Oh, I also won at darts with my "stand-in" partner, who happens to be a good friend and neighbor. Not always happy, but hopeful.

A Disappearing Hairline

I had the good fortune of looking through a few months worth of pictures tonight. They were all “after” pictures (after Jeff died), but all in all, they were pretty good ones. I’ve learned that I am starting to look like Jeff a lot. He was a brilliantly funny brother, but as a woman, not so attractive…

And I have a couple of pictures on my camera where I am like, “Oh God, I look like Jeff!” I was wearing my hair back in a ponytail, the lighting was right, my facial expression was on and whammo – I look like Jeff! Ugh. I am 37 and I look like an aging, 38 year old man!

What I also noticed as I went through the pictures, were the changes in the faces of my family members. I have a few pictures of Cliff, Jim, Chuck, Corinne, Dana and myself. There is a spark missing from all of us. There is grief, spelled out on our faces – no doubt about it. We are grieving.

Of course, the span of pictures cover the last six months. If it’s not grief on our faces, it is worry over Jeff. It is hard to believe that January was the month of his stroke. And man, the cd “Working on a Dream” kills me! Every single time I hear a song from it, my heart plummets. But maybe that is the way it is supposed to be.

Who am I kidding? Every time I hear any song from any Springsteen album, my heart plummets! Springsteen’s voice, as familiar as it is, sends a dagger to my heart. Damn Bruce!

I know my blog is missing a lot of creativity these days. I just can’t. I can’t get it to where it is supposed to be. There is too much tenderness, too many cliffs that I am on the edge of, too many abysses I could sink into if I let go too much. I am afraid to let go. I am afraid that if I do, I shall never find my way to the surface again.

I want to. I need to. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah….

See what I mean?

Take Her to the Floor, Waiting for a Moment When the World Feels Right

It wasn't my soul I was searching today. After all this time, after all these trials, I am pretty sure what is in my soul. I know what needs to be done, how it needs to be done and pretty much what to expect out of this life. There was no searching involved in any manner. Yet, I sat on the beach today and watched Paige and Tony play. I laughed when they got splattered into the wet sand by a big wave, I gave them the thumbs up in response to their searching eyes. I listened to my i-pod, closed my eyes once in a while to really feel the sun on my face, and without thinking, I felt the fleeting moment when all the world feels right. It passed by in a second, but I felt it.

I cried today too. I cried as I watched my children enjoy their time at the beach - a joyful cry and a sorrowful cry. My, oh my, to think that my mother used to watch me and Jeff play like that! My, oh my, to know that John, Farrah and Rocco play like that. I laughed too when I saw Paige dancing the Jig (I taught her in a moment of sheer lack of inhibitions) and Tony stomping up the sand and dancing like the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk.

As I said, there were moments when the world felt right. We got to the beach at around 10:30 am. It was partly cloudly. At around noon, the sky was filled with dark clouds, there was no blue in sight. The kids grew cold. They plopped themselves down on the beach chairs and wrapped themselves in beach towels because the wind and the air was chilly with the sun hiding behind the clouds. They began complaining about the cold, wanting to go back to the hotel and in the indoor swimming pool. I couldn't have that. So, to distract them, I jumped up from the chair and ran to the ocean. They followed, laughing. It was rather chilly! We perservered, and I said, "Come on, let's do the sunshine dance!" We raised our arms in the air, fanned out our hands and said, "Bring on the sun!" We played and became distracted, splashing each other, falling with the huge waves. Ten minutes later, the clouds were gone, and the sky was bright blue.

The clouds, gray and full that had spanned the entire sky, were gone.

We played more and giggled and kissed and hugged and Tony said, "Thank you God!" with a huge smile on his face.

Thank you God is right. A moment when the world felt perfect.

And that is why I know that Jeff died too young. I can't understand predestination, everything happening for a reason, or outside evil forces... I don't know the whole cosmic intricacies of all of it, but what I do know is that Jeff died too young. And there is no consolation that comes with that fact. None.

But the power of my power will keep giving me those perfect moments, I know this. I know this. Because life isn't perfect, it is not meant to be perfect on this earth, but the glimpses of it... perfect.

Consolation?

Nah... still does nothing.

Lt. Owen Paul Meany, Jr.

I am just finishing up reading "A Prayer for Owen Meany" for the fifth or sixth time. I love this book! It's about faith, it's about miracles and it's about the imperfections of every character. We all have them, eh? Imperfections, or at the very least, people in our lives who have the imperfections.

Every time I read it though, I get depressed. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's because it is a genius piece of writing, maybe it is because I don't know any Owen Meany's, but I would love to know an Owen Meany, or maybe it's because I have read it for the last two pregnancies (because I wanted my wombed children to know the ingenuity) and I was hormonal then, so I am hormonal now, or maybe it's because I have PMS. Ah, yes! That might be it! Of course, I've been reading for two weeks now (it's a long book), and my mood has been the same. So no, it's not PMS. I'll just blame it on the "female" thing - doesn't every other guy do that anyway??

Do you know that song "Babe" by Styx? For the first 40 seconds of the song it is an organ-like piano and then "Babe, I'm leavin'..."

So maybe I am showing my age, but damn, it's a sad song. I never got the "I'm leavin' but babe, I love you"... I never got that. Am I a "you" to anyone? You'd like to think it would be your husband, eh?

Whatever.... oooh- ooh-ooh-ooh-babe.

I told my brother Cliff that this might be a funky blog - I think I did, anyway. My last thought was that my kids may never know normalcy of a marriage. They'll see their parents, transparent obviously, but never anything close to normal. That bothers me so badly. Why does that bother me so badly?

And I suppose that there are a lot of marriages out there that are "faking" it. Don't fake it! For God's sake, don't fake it! Tell your wife you love her if you love her; tell your husband you love him if you love him! And if you have to pause and ask whether or not you love your husband or wife, or not, for God's sake, tell them that you love them during that pause! You do. You don't. You know. Don't you?

I feel like Owen Meany! A hero, eh? I think so.

But then again, I've had some Grey Goose...