An Ode to the waterfront

The details of the picture do not matter, for the hero in disguise who took it knows exactly who they are... (I hope!).

Let me tell you a story... (yay, I like stories!)

There once was this person... augh - forget it. I am not in a story telling mood tonight. Let me just jump to the moral of the story. If I blogged about each and every wonderful moment in this journey, the blog would be pages upon pages upon... well, more pages. But the individual of whom I speak... well, you'll see.

Have you ever heard that quote that says..."if you are really lucky in life you will meet those kinds of people who touch your heart in such a way, their footprints are left right across your heart so that you will never forget them - nor what they've done." Well, the quote doesn't exactly go like that... but close enough. Anyway, she is one of those people - who has forever changed my life by just being a part of it.

She is the kind of person whom I feel blessed to know. She is real, she is genuine, she is funny, and she is truly, "one of a kind." She is one of the only (there are a few, but not many) people who will send a small one or two line email with a joke, following up to see how my first day back on campus was, with an encouraging word (or two or three) or will go to the place she hates the most (the mall) in order to just "hang out". Her knowledge of ETS is profound, she hates being around pathetic numbers of people, and she loves the outdoors. Her artwork and writing is inspiring and her "this is the way it is" attitude is so refreshing. But do you know the greatest thing about it is? She is someone who allows you (or in this case... me) to "be."

She doesn't ask a million questions about parts of my life I wish weren't there and she seems to understand that I am still me - hair or not - better than anyone. Our conversations as we crossed all over the city yesterday were not deep nor profound in any way. They were not religious (technically not religious, certain elements of religion may have come up though) nor probing.

They were interesting, but more importantly... life giving.

I can't describe it really... maybe it was the venting about Church or the serious lack of plan. It could have been the plans put in place for the spring of 2008 or talking of funeral homes and how they brand their water. Whatever it was, it worked. And so, an ode to the waterfront.

Ms. Talented Photographer, I hope you not only recognize your ability for capturing the bigger picture, but the gratitude from those for whom you help to see the bigger picture. While there is beauty in the fence and grass, you have a God given ability to somehow move people to the front row seat of the waterfront... taking control of the boat in which resides the dreams of the future.

And so, with an ode to the waterfront at VanEs, my bus riding companion - an ode to you. May you one day know the grace you bestow.

This too, my child, shall pass

I attended Christ Church this morning for what I fear, will be the last time for a long time. Starting the second round of "punch-u-in-the-gut" treatment, I am heading in with a full awareness of teh "guidelines" that will be put in place. Unfortunately, while all for my own well being, 5 is a very small number. And, call it instinct or an irrational fear, but I have this horrible feeling that the times of isolation and desperation will not disappear any time soon.

I am in favor of beating Albert once and for all and while the odds for six weeks of fun are next to nothing, should this be the last battle, I wish to go down fighting for what I believe in: faith, hope, love, justice, and life; Winnipeg in the Spring, Spain and Taize in 2008 and seminary somewhere by 2009.

As I sat and cried for what seemed like the millionth time since the middle of November this afternoon with one of those people I can always be myself with - tears, fears and all - I squeaked the words, "but I'm scared."

Ah! I just said them again.

I am scared of being here, in what seems to be the most dense and closed in forest of all time, wondering if I will again feel the sun on my face and hear the songs of the animals the same way I once did; I am scared of being alone and lost, not knowing enough to get myself to the open valley or field. I am scared that while I hold my breath, exhausted and following where the more knowledgeable lead, this could be where the journey finishes; I am scared of the words from the most knowledgeable that just continue to echo off each leaf, branch, and stone: 'if six weeks of the chemotherapy that you would receive does not bring a period of remission, then at least we know that we have done our best in fighting the cancer and can then focus our energy on making you as comfortable as we can... before you agree, you need to understand that the cancer cells have multiplied and migrated. This is a whole new ballgame Angela, in which without treatment, could only reach the top of the second inning, but that even with treatment, may very well not reach the bottom of the ninth.' I am scared.

Then again, how could I not be?

At 21, hearing the word "death" and my own name in the same sentence, I have a right to be scared, don't I? After a long day of being out and about in the morning at a meeting and then meeting up with my scrap-booking goddess friend planning a trip to visit some friends in Toronto March and setting plans for the Camino in 2008... my body aches beyond comfort. It feels as though certain cells have already taken over parts of me, so how can I possibly be brave and not scared? When unable to stand or even sit through an entire service of Holy Communion without seeing white patches and feeling faint, for a Church marathoner, how could the fear not be rising? Cringing at the very thought of stairs or long distances, lying awake in the darkness of the night when I no longer need to be strong for everyone else, how can I stop myself from being scared? The fear of hearing the fire alarms go off and panicking insanely for the leg to stop cramping so that I can move it and rely on it to get me to safety, is a fear like no other, even when the alarms manage to stop before my leg does.

I can not pretend to know the answers or even that the answers are to be had, but I shall clutch (ever so tightly) to the words I heard this afternoon from that one person whom I trust so very much, "this too shall pass."

I have been fortunate enough to be reminded numerous times, both in my RC upbringing and my beloved Anglican family that my love of God, my desire to serve, and my innocent yet joyful faith... set me apart. And in some backward sort of functioning, as faulted as I am, have brought inspiration or spunk to one or two along my journey thus far.

And so, even though I am "do-er" and am scared out of my wits, there are a few things that I need to remember and if I forget, am counting on someone to remind me that I have said this and make me re-read or simply stand behind it. Ready?

I am, first and foremost, a child of God. A well loved, supported, guided, very dear child of God and what an honor that is... like in the gospels when Jesus meets up with the rich young man and we read, "and Jesus loved him"... God loves me. That's right... I am loved and God is always there in that love.

Secondly, although I can not feel that warm blanket embrace right now, God (and God's love) are not always tangible - but that doesn't make them any less there.

Thirdly, God communicates in so many different ways. Sometimes in dreams (Joseph), words (Jeremiah), experiences (Paul), silent-sitting-under-the-fig-tree moments (Nathanial), and sometimes, if we are truly blessed, through others: angels (Mary). Through those people who (each in their own way) lift us on their wings when we can not lift ourselves, who carry us when we can not bear to walk and who comfort us when we can not dry our own tears.

And finally, this too shall pass. In God's timing (not mine), the very wings of the Spirit shall come along and we will together, soar out of the forest - however that shall play out or look like for onlookers.

Until then, even if only moving my lips to the words or allowing my prayer to be two single words of "Lord Jesus" because that is all I can muster up the courage to say, I will remain faithful for that is all that God is asking. God will do the rest. And leaning (literally!) on "what God hath provided" I shall crawl into the heart and shelter of the Holy Mother Mary and her infant son (as described best by P-M type) and rest there awhile.

A place where I don't have to worry about "doing" but that place where I can just "be."

(Hopefully....)

Prayer and the dark night of the soul

Before I post and make my confession about prayer I just have to say that blogs are funny things. Some blogs come in the middle of the night when the world is its darkest, some people use them as annonymous places to leave their thoughts while never saying who they are. Some use blogs to keep in touch with friends or relatives and others don't even publish or announce the address of their blog to anyone. Some read the blog and tell you about it or comment on it while others have never acknowledged that they read it but seem to know how to answer the questions that I raise, the concerns that I share. In fact, rumor has it, people start blogging because they become addicted through the blog of someone else. Not that reading Campus-Priest's blog, chocolate-friend's blog, Fox-trot-priest's blog, inspiring-friend's blog, music-man's blog, or scrapbooking-goddess' blog got me into blogging or anything... but it is interesting to notice, that's all.

Now about this prayer thing...

I don't know how Anglicans feel about a wonderful man from centuries ago by the name of St. Juan de la Cruz (St. John of the Cross), but growing up in the RC Church this man was looked upon as not only a saint of the Church, but a Doctor of the Church. A great and highly respected mystic, if you have ever read any of his writing it would be no surprise as to why people place him on the pedestal in the realm of theology and a relationship with the Divine.

As I get more and more into the reading of theology and writers such as this, it becomes apparent quite quickly that these "highly regarded people of our day" were normal people in their own day. They lived, breathed, struggled, suffered, prayed, danced, and ate... everything that we could do without batting an eye. St. Teresa of Avila, St. Terese of Lisseux, St. John of the Cross... saints are saints because they shone extravagantly throughout their life - which begins the discussion of how each and every one of us are saints - but that is a discussion for later.

The point of the matter is this: St. John of the Cross has verbalized "the dark night of the soul" which we all experience at some point in our lives. That point which we all wish and pray with such conviction, to avoid.

I remember saying a number of weeks back that after a particular service at Christ Church I was left in a temporary state of shock and felt that I didn’t know where to go, what to do, or worse… what to pray. And I recall the Holy Mitred One specifically asking the question, “how is your prayer” the first time she came to visit.

Well I am pleased to say that the concern of what to pray has now ceased however I am ashamed to admit that it is no longer a problem because, in answering the Holy-Mitred’s question, there is no prayer.

I attended evening prayer at the “home-base” yesterday evening but may not return for a little while. For the first time at contemplative prayer in months (literally), my mouth moved to the shape of the words and a quiet, somewhat squeaky voice generated the words I was attempting… but there was nothing. In the time of silence and contemplative part of the evening, again… nothing. Normally I can picture myself sitting cross legged on the Church floor in front a flame or candle of some sort and sense my homey, JC, parking down on the floor beside me – neither one of us saying anything, but simply “being.” And then being wrapped in the arms of God, the two of us together as if covered by a light but warm blanket. Not “doing” anything other than sitting in one another’s company. Occasionally some words are spoken, but never out loud… they are spoken through the embrace, through the company, through the heart.

It’s hard to describe really… I guess unless you have ever had a similar experience you would think I have lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

Yesterday there was even a candle as we celebrated the Service of Light at evening prayer, but believe me when I say that there was no candle. There was no flame, no company, no feeling of that warm embrace. (Not that I am doubting it was there, I just couldn’t feel it anymore!) In fact, as horrible as this sounds, the thoughts of wishing for the priest to wrap it up – actually crossed my mind. Or the feeling of speaking the words of the Lord’s Prayer or Hear, O Israel or the Apostle’s Creed but having them as nothing more than words. It is the oddest feeling in the world.

And unfortunately, I am upset to say that I actually understand the void and feeling of darkness in the soul that St. John of the Cross seemed to so clearly articulate. I am not defeated, I really am not… but prayer and Church is what has gotten me through every other rough spot or climb in my life thus far.

So why can’t I pray now when it matters the most?

I spent more than an hour at the “home-base” on Monday, missing out on that all important interview, but couldn’t verbalize anything – and even then, meant nothing more than sitting in an empty church with the lights off, staring blankly at the stained glass windows.

Hmmm… maybe just don’t tell the Holy-Mitred one or any of the Priestly types that although we may embark the discernment process at some point in the future, I have come to a log jam in prayer.

PEANUTBUTTER-SHMAKLE!

Taking up knitting? Are you joking??

Until the time when I finally graduated to having my own room in the basement, I had the honor of sharing with my next youngest sister and best friend Kristin, aka "Boke."

Whenever one of us couldn't sleep, we would read the other one our favorite stories. I always chose the Velveteen Rabbit or the Princess and the Pea. If that didn't work or she didn't feel like reading, she would start to sing or hum the all time favorite song, "You are my Sunshine" as we learned from my grandma as soon as we could talk, I'm sure. We took pride in memorizing all the verses and singing it when we were camping in the pouring rain.

Well, I have a confession to make. Adjustments had to be made when I moved into residence life and my sister was not on the other side of the bed or right next door but 45 minutes away... in a car! Laying there, if the thumb sucking and blanket suffocating the face while twirling the hair didn't work, my next option was going for a walk or run... yes, even at completely horrid hours of the night! (Just ask Sister-in-Japan about late night walks!). When both of these methods failed in sleep aid, there was always cleaning. Sweeping, scrubing, dishes, vacuuming, anything that I could do that would completely and utterly exhaust me.

Well, we have a slight complication to all this and I fear that if I don't do something soon, the energy and strength to put my socks on in the morning or tuck Booker the Bear in at night will soon cease to exist.

Last night I returned to classes... it was nightclass - nice and small with only 8 people (the prof included) and got home shortly after 9pm. Completely (and I truly mean there was little to nothing left) I crawled up to bed, and shivering... slid under the electric blanket the Holy Mitred One lent me. With my coat and scarf still on I dosed off.

BUT, as soon as my thumb went to my lips, I woke up in tears.

Apparently one of the side-effects to chemotherapy is that the patient "may develop mouth sores". May?? Really?? The really stupid, annoying, painful thing though is that they have progressed from small little sores to being swollen and excruciating. The entire one side of my mouth is swollen from my teeth to the roof of my mouth. There is absolutely no thumb sucking because as soon as something (and something is really anything) touches any of these burning areas of my mouth, I can't help but cry. It is the same sort of feeling that comes when you put rubbing alcohol or hand sanitizer onto an open cut - even as small as a paper cut.

It hurts and it hurts horribly.

And, there is nothing you can do but "wait it out" JOY!

This is the same reason that food has absolutely no appeal, drinking juice, anything cold, anything hot... anything. I can get past the sore throat, I can get past the complete lack of energy and painful coughs and sneezes, the sore muscles, the horrid bruises, and the lack of hair to not twirl.

This is another can of worms.

The last two nights have been long, tear filled and painful. Especially when one starts to dose off and forgets the "don't you put it in your mouth" rule that is now in place. Maybe I should take up knitting... although those needles are pretty sharp - knowing me, I would wake up after falling asleep while knitting - with two needles jabbed deep into the flesh.

Amoungst the other ailments, perhaps this would go un-noticed though...
Hmmm....

"Take up Your cross and follow me?"

These are the words that we so often hear when the going gets tough... we need to take up our cross and follow Jesus. However, I dare to bet that no one ever really realizes how heavy, burdonsome, and un-fun that cross can really be.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about this in light of the Leukemia and everything that has come with that.

Not too long ago I had a friend tell me that I needed to own the Leukemia - I needed to somehow make it my own. Besides naming him Albert and having fun games in which we destroyed another part of Albert each day, I never really had a burning passion to own something so destructive and horrible - how could I?

But, after spending some serious time thinking about this, perhaps my scrapbooking adoring friend had a point. Perhaps there really is something to picking up your cross.

In doing some research I have discovered the fact that there is not a single picture that I could find where Jesus was smiling or overflowing with joy and found it quite surprising to discover that the look on his face tells the entire story. He is wearing the look that says, "I really wish I was sitting on my own in a Church somewhere right now" or "I don't deserve this" or even more simple, "URGH!" The pictures depict pain, agony, frustration, hurt, suffering, exhaustion, and betrayal. And somewhere and somehow - in studying these pictures, it clicked. These emotions began to sound really familiar and the crying out of Jesus very quietly started to sound more and more like my own voice.

Just like Jesus didn't have a choice of whether or not to actually pick up a cross and later be crucified upon it, I had no say in whether or not this Leukemia-thing was something I desired. No one asked if it was okay for me to battle this and no one asked if I was ready to fight it or whether or not I had the courage and strength to fight it. No one asked. No one asked how I felt about doing another round or if I would be okay with doing the "intense" three treatments a week for at least the first three of six weeks, whether I could handle missing Church and work, or how I felt about being "home-schooled" while in University. Not a single person... they all assumed that I would just simply take up my cross and follow Christ through this small lil' uphill battle.

With round two's start date looming dangerously near, the answer is no.

I did it... I really did. Ask MJ... Albert was dead and it is hardly fair to say that he rose from the dead just like another fellow we know.

No, I don't desire Leukemia. No, it's not okay to battle again when it didn't kill it the first time. No, I don't have the strength or courage yet to sign up on the dotted line to do it all over again. No, I don't want it to be intense, I don't want three weeks and no, a total of 6 more weeks is out of the question. No, I can't be away from Church any longer - or my job and no, being homeschooled in post secondary is stupid. No, I'm not ready to pick up my cross - I have only just admitted and realized that it is my cross to carry.

That is un-fun enough for right now...

Over and out,
A.

One Day

This is a picture of my youngest cousin Robyn. While she is only in grade five she has been my sanity since we arrived in Calgary at 7:00 Christmas morning.

So what can I do? What am I supposed to do?? I have no idea. I am at a loss for words. I have no idea what to think, what to say, what to do, where to go, whether to suck it up or to hide under my hat.


So what am I doing? Allowing Robyn to cling to my side. We have played almost 100 games of pool in two days, darts, almost every board game in their closet, made cinnamon buns, watched Christmas movies, and coloured. We have gone for walks, sent emails, and taken Booker the Bear for a small tour of the Christmas lights.

Is that fair? No. Not at all.


However I am reminded of a song entitled "One Day I Walk" sung by the Rankin Family (written by Bruce Cockburn) where the chorus goes:

One day I'll walk in flowers

One day I'll walk on stones,

Today I'll walk in hours,

One day I shall be home.

Days spent in Calgary in a life which is not mine at the moment, pretending that everything is healthy and wonderful and I am bald by choice... are days of walking on stones. If I walk for hours, I could get away from here and return home. Hmmmm....

What makes me... me?

Okay so I may have broken a few rules, but everything is okay because they are only really guidelines (or so I am telling myself). BUT, it was all for a good reason - in order to finish Christmas shopping, I had to at least start it. So, that is exactly what I did. I started my Christmas shopping. Now I won't say who my partner in crime was, as to keep them from getting in any trouble, but just picture this...

We went into this outrageously overpriced store so that this person could get something for someone on their list. The store was not only insanely overpriced, it was crazy busy. As an attempt to hasten the waiting around, I kindly offered to wait and hold a spot in the line up while this person went to look for the Christmas-list-item. So there I am, minding my own buisness... when all of a sudden, this person returned to take their spot in the line with me and the world stopped.

Just as a side note, you need to know what I was wearing. Or, you don't need to know, but I wish to share.

Wearing blue (women's) pants from MEC, I had a pair of running shoes (again, women's) on my feet as to keep them from hurting with all the walking... I had my winter coat on (style? Women's) as well as nice sweater on underneath that (a sweater that you wouldn't be caught dead in if you were a guy). I was wearing my ball cap - not because I thought it would look "cool" but because I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a fleece pink hat in public and risk being seen by someone I know.

Anyway, so there I am, standing in this line up - when my partner in crime returns with the "to be purchased" items. The woman who was standing behind me in the insane line up (who was also holding a spot for her friend) makes the comment, "Oh, excuse me... I'm sorry, but the line up is all the way back there" pointing rudely to the end of the line which could no longer be seen. In response, the person I am holding the spot for motions towards me as to say I'm with her. This lady pipes up again and says the most dreaded 4 words anyone has ever heard spoken before...

(Please brace yourself... the words will not be spoken again...)

"OH! You're with HIM!"

In the spur of the moment, instinct told me to jump this woman... to beat her legs to a pulp and leave her on the floor in the pieces that she just shattered me into. I had the sudden urge to plug each one of her hairs from her head - hoping that the pain might just skim the hurt she inflicted.

However, the person I was with had their arm around my waist and had pulled me to their side so fast, and so strongly (this is not a force to be fought... they are slightly stronger than what I anticipated) that I truly couldn't have turned around to beat this lady if I had no other purpose in life.

What is it that makes me who I am then because a certain office-occupier down the hall continues to reassure me with the words, "you are still you"... but events like this, really make me wonder.

The last time that I checked, I was not a "HIM." Perhaps I need to check again. Nope, definately not a "HIM"...

So because I do not wear high heels, a bottle of perfume, two canisters of hairspray (although there are plans to use that much if that is what it takes to re-attach the strands of hair in time for Christmas celebrations), disgusting old lady clothes, or huge dangly earrings, I am not a HER??

Well then, apparently I have been a HIM my entire life. Why didn't someone bother to tell me sooner so that I could have adjusted to the fact that I was a HIM and not a HER and everything would have been just fine.

I somehow think that these are not the standards. So I went back to the drawing board.

While there have been huge internal changes as to how things look and feel, the only thing (other than occasional flushed skin or bruises the size of Ontario) that is visibly different is the fact that I no longer have hair or eyebrows.

Therefore, I hereby solemnly swear by anything important and valuable - even if it is only my fish Jeremiah - I will have hair for Christmas.

I will hot glue gun it, white glue it, tape it, gel it, hairspray it (even if it requires 2 cans of it), velcro it, or sew it back on (yes, I am willing to boil water and soak a needle and thread and sew each strand of hair back onto the outer layer of skin on my head, even if it may lead to some bleeding - at least there will not be any infection!) OR any fine combination of these things. I am willing to experiment and willing to go where no HER has gone before!

Wish me luck.

Calling for your help!: The Littlest Twinkle.

The Littlest Twinkle

I have to be honest with you. There was one person whom I was absolutely terrified of. Perhaps it was my upbringing in the Roman Catholic Church and the frustrations and instilled fear from the Archbishop of Edmonton, or perhaps it was the simple fact that I truly respected her so much, I feared doing wrong.

I now work for the Holy-Mitered One as well as greatly respect the person she is and the inspiration she always seems to provide.

I have provided an entry of a recent phone conversation (or a small portion of it) following this blog and could share so many more.
Bishop Victoria is truly my hero.

Such a wonderful woman, her weakness is that she gets this little twinkle in her eyes before she says anything really important. I felt of all the pictures I have with her, (including the wonderful one from my reception into the Church) this one shows particularly well the “I have something really important to tell you” twinkle. As Bob McKeon was lining up to take the picture, only having met her once, she leaned over and said, “We are taking this one for Archbishop Thomas Collins” and before the next said, “and this one for the Pope.”

And people say that she doesn’t have a sense of humour, HA! I personally find her hilarious – perhaps because we both take the road of the “dry” form of humour… who knows.

What I do know is that over the course of the past month, while there have been moments of, “I hate it when you are right and so I am frustrated with you right now because that is all I can do” there have also been those great lengths of silence as I sit there and chew on what she has just said in awe of the fact that she has read my mind, my fears, my heart and has done so, so very accurately.

She knows when to cry with you or when to tell you an outrageous joke – she knows just how to hug that (even though you doubt) you know that everything is going to be okay.
She knows what to say to keep you going, way long after you can’t and she knows when silence is making a stronger point than words. She has a way of putting perspective on the situation at hand that I could never do on my own and there is something about her tone of voice that makes you trust deep down inside that she just might know what she is talking about.

Rumor has it, on her way to the airport, she actually made a stop at the Cross for no other reason than to share an Episcopal hug with a terrified young patient who wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

She has given her promise to have fun and enjoy the Christmas vacation, asking last night about a possible field trip to Elk Island Park.

She knows.
She is more than “The Bishop”
She is a knight in God’s armor, crusading against all that hurts, is evil, or is just downright crappy.
She provides sources of continual warmth to survive the long, cold, somewhat sleepless nights.
She takes you under her wing and on the occasions where it is too crappy, too scary, too exhausting, or too difficult to proceed on your own, she carries you – if not in prayer, in person.
She reassures you of the wonderful rejoicing that can come of the healing power of Christ, even when your eyes fill with tears when you read it and your heart with fear.
She gets the littlest twinkle in her eyes and you are warmed to the core and “know” deep down inside that everything will be okay… you witness the love of God and the compassion and healing power of Christ in that twinkle… and best of all, when the world seems like it is against all odds of making things easy, it is that twinkle and inner strength that you can fall back upon and truly trust.

I know that she doesn’t have a computer at home and that she knows nothing of this blog to read or check what is happening on computers in the airport, (as she can do with the Diocesan webpage – funny story for another time) but if you see her or talk to her or send her emails, if you could help me out – that would be awesome. If you could please pass on the very important message, I would really appreciate it.
“Someone has a message for you Bishop, rather simple but rather important: Thank you!”

Thank you for your help!! Hopefully she’ll understand if she hears it enough.

What I can control...(or lack thereof)

As I lay here under a quilt, an Oilers fuzzy blanket, my flannel/fuzzy blanket, a quilt and an afghan with a toque pulled over my ears, two pairs of socks, flannel jammies, mitts, and a hoody, I have reached the conclusion that I have no control over my body's temperature.

As tears slowly roll from my eyes to my pillow, more rapidly picking up the pace as the night progresses, I understand the concept of being 'emotionally uncontrollable' because I couldn't make them stop if I tried anything else.

As my thumb lingers around my mouth and my spare hand goes straight to my hairless head, I finally comprehend the fact that I have no control over habits that have been strictly formed in the last 21 years.

As I lay awake until the wee hours of the morning, trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I did that was unhealthy and trying to label some form of cause-effect behaviour because that is easier to cope with than accepting the fact that this whole disease and course of treatment is by mere chance and a bad luck of the draw, I surrender to the thought of having control over my thought patterns and stimulation.

As I wonder and worry about people I have spoken with throughout the day and those that I haven't, concerned that I said the wrong thing, was too impatient, or just didn't have the gumption to pick up the phone and try to explain in detail how I feel or what my day has been like, I struggle to accept that which I can not change.

However, I have control on my attitude in which I start the day with, the presence and grace that I execute my routine with, and the perseverance that I "walk on" with in spite of all odds. It's not a lot, I know... but it's something. It is the only piece of control I still have in my life and so you can imagine the horror when someone tries to tell me how to go about one of these aspects of daily living... tries to dictate the minor details. If only they could have the grace to go through that which they can not control, everything just may be managable. Not ideal, but managable. Instead, perhaps in trying to fix their past or paint their future, they decide the life decisions of others.

If only they would have known, they would have realized that they are not alone.

They don't have that right nor that priveledge. They have a match and are standing on the bridge they wish to burn. If only...

A Night Prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord, my hair to keep
To guide safetly through the night and in my head in mornin' light.
And if I die before I wake, I pray the Angels my hair to take,
To mend and fix and spray back on - so when I'm buried, my hair can grow on.