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So forever ago I bought a book that I tried to read. I could not seem to get into it until recently and then I could not put it down. This is a passage, this was my journey through this book, and this has brought me to a place where I can accept and find always within never.

“What about me? What do I feel? I may be chattering away about the events at———, but I’m not very brave. I’m afraid to go into myself and see what’s going on in there. And I’m ashamed….I was suffering but it didn’t hurt and, as a result, all my little plans were just the luxury of some problem-free teenager. Poor little rich girl rationalizing things, wanting to draw attention to herself.

But this time, for the very first time, it hurt, it really hurt. Like a fist in my stomach: I couldn’t breathe, my heart aching fit to burst, my tummy crushed. An unbearable physical pain. I wondered if I’d ever get over the pain of it. It hurt so  much I wanted to scream. But I didn’t scream. What I feel now is that the pain is still there but it isn’t keeping me from walking or talking, it’s a feeling of complete helpless absurdity. So that’s what it’s like?All of the sudden all possibilities just vanish? A life full of projects, discussions just started, desires not even fulfilled – it all vanishes in a second and there is nothing let, nothing left to do, and there’s no going back?

For the first time in my life I understood the meaning of the word never . And it’s really awful. You say the word a hundred times a day but you don’t really know what your saying until you’re faced with a real “never again”. Ultimately you always have the illusion that you’re in control of what’s happening; nothing seems definitive…But when someone that you love dies [and there are many forms of death]. . .well, I can tell you that you really feel what it means and it really hurts. It’s like fireworks suddenly burning out in the sky and everything going black. I feel alone, and sick, my heart aches and every moment seems to require a colossal effort. . . someone had begun to play the piano…we stopped short and took a deep breath and let the sun warm our faces while we listened to the music drifting down from above. “I think —- would have liked this moment”. . . I have finally concluded, maybe that’s what life is about: there’s a lot of despair, but also the odd moment of beauty, where time is no longer the same. It’s as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, and elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never. Yes, that’s it, an always within never“.

So my hands. I have not really examined a part of me in true fashion for a while now. Truth be told I have struggled a bit with the photographic aspect of where I intended to go next. But, I think that for now my hands are a worthwhile component of my being to examine.

Here in my hands I hold nothing, and everything. In my hands have been the blood sweat and tears of my self as well as many I have and do love. My hands have been burdened by weight, burns, cuts and sprains. There greatest triumph is the ability to increasingly grow in their strength, flexibility and grace as my son and I age, as his weight bears down harder, as my fingers move more slowly, as daly toils take their toll, the grace of my hands increases.

These hands have displayed the luxuries of sapphires and diamonds, of Tiffany’s and heirlooms. These hands have helped and hurt; healed and injured.

Daily I use my hands. The more I use my hands the better I can say I feel. The dirt and mud, the smell of herbs and dogs. There has never been better work than that I have done with my hands. This delicate feature, fingers and nails, require great up keep for display, for my adoration –  lotion and filing and trimming and oiling – all for me, for you, for a perfect background for the tokens to be displayed. It is hard work for a mother to keep her hands, well respectable. My nails likely will not amount to anything to glamorous, and they will constantly battle dry skin, but, they are strong and capable. They create. They feel. They lead. They toil. My hands are the beginning and ending of every day. They turn on and off the alarm, they gentle wake my son and send him to sleepy bliss. They catch my tears of joy and of sorrow. My hands are well used, well loved. They dig in the dirt for play, and for nurture, they cook for joy and care, they clean for me and for others, they blow bubbles and build puzzles , they write and they turn pages. My hands are my guide, they hold my head up when I pray to God, they squeeze my son when they day has been long, they pick a flower and brush my hair.

They are not the most well maintained. I perhaps abuse the privilege of such talented hands. There are days I forget lotion, or stay submerged in the water. I try, but some how I have never been bothered by the appearance of my hands. Some how, I have always allowed them more room for imperfection, I understood them to be a tool. I have always understood the capacity at which I have been able to function at the cost of my hands. Cards, meals, dishes.  I thought that my hands were a tool to express love, to show others how I cared. I don’t think that is invalid. I do however, think that I overestimated the ability to which I could express my love through products of my hands.

I understand now that the love I have for others can be shown through small tokens crafted between my fingers, but also the touch of my fingers on a forehead, a back, holding hands, a tickle. Perhaps our hands are as much a means to our soul as our eyes are.

In many ways our hands are all we have. They are our primary tool, our means of being real. Our hands allow for all of our daily functions, all of what is needed to be alive, to be part of this species, part of something more. Applying our hands to daily tasks helps to create the path for ourselves and for others. We are as successful as our ability, as our hands, as our being will allow.

My hands may not take me to fame, to notoriety, to riches; but every day they take me home, they feel the small toes, short hair and soft cheeks of the small child that I brought into this world, a child I hold with the same loving hands as the day he was born. And though my destiny may be bigger than I imagine, for now, if all my hands do is fish, garden and wash hair, well for now, thats simply enough.

Pure. Simple. True. Devoted. Unconditional. My hands are an expression of my love for life, my love for self and my love for others.

There are those people in our lives that we call family. We are linked to them through common DNA.  The end result is that we are as stuck with them as they are with us. And while I love my family dearly, despite how drastically different we are from one another, I cannot sometimes help but wonder if family really is as critical as we make it out to. Family supposedly can not be replaced, they are the only ones you can be ugly in front of, shout at, take things out on, lay your burdens upon and then still receive a hug and a kiss and an I love you. Is that so, is it how it really works. Do we all love each other? Is it all always ok in the presence of family? because if seeing each other at our best and worst is the criteria, then my family has grown significantly larger lately. I have a great groups of friend that I can cry and laugh with, be ugly or dolled up, can have fun with and be honest with. Its not really so different. I suppose though that all strong relationships function in this regard, and that includes marriages and relationships with your children.

We go through life with so many various relationships. Perhaps there are layers to us, and I am certain that we end up with those who we can use/need to find out more about ourselves. But within this process we also make many choice, commit many acts, say many things, and when we care significantly about the well being of others, especially those who have impacted our lives, I like to think that is altruistic. The thought that we choose to do something or think something only for ourselves bothers me significantly. Though, in some cases the trickle down affect may play a role – it may make us feel good to see the reaction on some ones face when we do something nice – but did we do it to feel good, or because we wanted them to?

Can we love others for the sake of them, or is it only for our selves? Because if to love is only for our selves than that sort of tarnishes the concept a bit, that we could love another for them…is it possible? We all seem to crave this affection, attention, companionship and closeness, but why, does it serve an evolutionary purpose? Is the idea that we fall into eternal bliss? Seems unlikely, in a species which is still contingent upon our ability to reproduce, it seems more likely that love is a means by which we find the support necessary to work our way through the world and all that comes with it. This act, making it, surviving and thriving is important to our offspring and to the future of our species. Bliss puts us in the position where we feel compelled to mate, physically, and often emotionally. This is not that uncommon. We are in the game to survive, to improve and evolve.

Now that I have said all that, it is important to know that I am a hopeless romantic and truly adore the pains and euphoria’s of love. These peaks and valleys are where we learn the most and accept the most. Being in love is the greatest, and most costly ride of your life. Those that we need in our lives are often given to us, there and ready to be accepted should we choose to accept them, there are likewise those we don’t need, a true test of how well we know and understand ourselves and our needs. All relationships good and bad, have a message, a  gift to deliver. Our ability to think about the actions, the reactions, and the moments will allow us to accepts and enhance ourselves and others through the gifts and the lessons we have received. And to learn about ourselves is the greatest gift and challenge of all.

To be given the gift, be it through triumph or sorrow, to glean the desire to explore and analyze yourself is a fantastic. We, as people do not like to admit our fault or our shortcomings. It is painful, embarrassing involves great thought as to our character then and the way we want to be, and wanting to be anything else must come from within. The problem I see is that often people think that you have to make drastic changes and really re-evaluate who you are. I found that I am incredibly happy with who I am, but not so happy with how I have always chosen to express that person, or how I have chosen to communicate my thoughts and feelings with myself and others. And my desire to grow, to lear and grow is for me, and hopefully to the benefit of others, but initiated for me.

And as those I call family and loved ones have been burdened with much of the stress of my ill handling of myself, I can only hope for them a benefit as mature into a wiser person, a more in control, a more balance person. Through my thoughts and my feelings I have reconciled great weaknesses, and through my thoughts and my courage I have begun to confront those. And through my personal desire to be a better person, I have begun to make choices that directly affect how others, and how I experience myself, life and the world around.

So cheers to family, be them genetically connected or not, you are my family, and I thank you for your time and patience and love, and I pray I am able to better share in your life and return the kindness to you.

I indicated in a recent blog that I have been in need of the skills of loving, and being loved.

I thought then, and think more so now, that in order for this realization to come to pass I had to be put in a situation of desperation. A situation that felt so bleak, so lonely, so isolating, that I very quickly had to process choices I made, and choices I did not make. Through doing so I have come to learn a great deal about myself.

First and foremost, I have had to take ownership of my ill actions. I have had to face the reality that I stand where I do now as a result of my recent actions, or lack there of. My actions were perpetuated by those of  another, however, no situation is the fault of one individual. For a long time I have been scared, afraid that no matter which choice I made it would be the wrong one. I always knew what I wanted to do; and yet I was always afraid that what I chose would haunt me. I never wanted to feel so bad again in my life, and then, i felt worse.

Owning up to my portion of the situation has been hard, embarrassing, and frustrating. There is a part you that then tries to justify your actions so as to soften the blow to your own ego. Yet, no matter how I try, if I justify away my responsibility then I can not hope to grow from the situation.

I own it, I accept it, and though I know should the stakes get any higher I will suffer a blow, I also know that I have no choice but to accept that life must go on in a highly altered way. And if it is meant to be any other way, then with luck, my personal beliefs in myself others, and God, and instinct will benefit me. Yet, I am not naive enough to think that those odds are in my favor.

For weeks I have cried. Though not been self piteous, I do not believe in it. Being self-piteous is almost as selfish as suicide. I will face each day and do so to the best of my ability. I will be strong. I will learn to live my life, as me in this altered state.

In recent readings and self explorations I have increasingly realized I am comfortable with myself. My body, my skin, my style, my likes and dislikes, my imperfections. I have begun to see where I faulted, where I was weak and where I fell short – both for myself and for others. Through this process though I have had to make a choice : feel sorry for myself, or change myself.

I am changing, growing, and evolving. I am doing so quite naturally with no drastic movements or alterations of who or what I am. Rather I am embracing me. I am accepting my femenimity, my personality, my intelligence, my self. I am certain in who I am without that person be contingent upon my son or any other man or friend or group. I am me. I am certain of who that is.

The task now is understanding what I mean in the context of others and how best to communicate to them what they mean to me. I need to learn skills of communication and expressions of love. It is important to express how I feel, but it is equally important to understand how the persons I care for understand love and the means by which it is expressed. Some value gifts, some words, some touch. Though we all likely know what each form of communication means, we are each more receptive to one or some then others. I need to improve upon understanding the needs of those around me, and the needs of myself….

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me, I once was lost but now am found.

Was blind, but now, I see.

T’was Grace that taught, my heart to fear.

And Grace, my fears relieved.

How precious did that Grace appear,the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares, we have already come.

T’was Grace that brought us safe thus far, and Grace will lead us home”

I did not grow up in a bad home. My parents loved and cared for us. They made sure that we had everything  we needed, and honestly more than that. But, they both worked, a lot. And they were young. They had a lot of fun; and I grew up smack in the middle of it all. Now, don’t get me wrong I had some amazing times; and how many children can say they have experienced a Poker Fairy?!  We went all over, we heard loads of music, met tons of people and had an enormous extended family.

And while this was all great, as I have gotten older, I realize that my family perhaps suffered in the area of communication. I do not think that I learned the skills to adequately convey what I needed, how I felt, and what I thought. We were not supposed to cry, and feelings, though not shunned, were personal. We had to deal with things and move on. As a result of this I am tough. I am tenacious and afraid of very little. I know that I can and that I will survive. However, as a result of this, I have only just now realized that I lack, or have lacked, in the area of communicating love.

Sure, I can buy or make a thoughtful, creative, and often aesthetic or tasty gift – and for those of you who have received them I am not denouncing what meaning they conveyed, they were created out of love, out of thought, and out of care. However, there is more to expressing love to someone than gifts.

I could never accept the words “your beautiful” or “I just like looking at you”, or ” I really enjoy talking to you”  - how do you respond to such things. Why would someone say that, isn’t it embarrassing?

Well, I know now, you say thank you, and you tell the other person moments, places, things about them, with them and of them that you enjoy. And you don’t just say it, you think about it, feel it and mean it. And you say it whenever you think about it, not just because someone else said it first.

You honor and respect personal space, time to be alone, time to be with your child, time to be without your child. This time that is devoted to the above, is time that is representative of love. And yes, a love of self is important. Without a love of self communicating how you feel about someone in an open and honest way, and through pure actions, is difficult. That communication becomes shrouded in self doubt and insecurity because you don’t know if it is what you are supposed to say or do, or if it is how you are supposed to. Well, if its honest, and its true, then it will be okay, because if the person in turn loves you than it wont matter how you fumble your words, or if you love their large ears or small eyes. Those are no longer imperfections, rather they are trademarks, tell tale feature that you cherish like a teddy bear.

I have had a hard time communicating how I feel, how I think, what I am sure of, afraid of and what I love about those around me. I think that it is a combination of not developing skills earlier on, and of lacking – time, desire and ability – to self analyze. To actually sit back, look at who I am, how I got here, where I want to be, who I want to be with, why and how I know I want to be with them, what is it about everyday that I love? What is it about myself that I love? others?

Now that my world is relatively quite, I have redirected all of that talk of myself into myself.

A lot has changed already. Im sure there is more to come, and here, in my most vulnerable, I have found strength in me .

There are small joys in childhood that you carry, you bring them for the remainder of your journey, you revel in them when the chance presents itself, in fact, some may have children just to re-live these tremendously fulfilling, itsy-bitsy, and  inexpensive joys.

Tonight it was the banana split. Now, personally, I am not a fan of bananas mixed into anything, but at a loss for what to have for dinner tonight, I opted for the banana split. Because lets face it, sometimes you need to have dessert first, or just dessert, and tonight was one of those nights.

When I was a younger girl, my eldest cousin and myself would typically stay a weekend with my grandfather, and I remember eating more Dairy Queen banana splits and sundaes than at any other time in my life. Thanks Grandfather George. And to my Grandma Mary, and those FANTASTIC – still my favorite, no bake chocolate drop cookies that she freely let us eat for breakfast. And to my mother who reassured me, while I was briefly home for a holiday, that on occasion, it is okay to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast lunch and dinner.

So this one my love, dear Edan, is for you. My son and I enjoyed the Banana split tonight for dinner. As he can be picky I did not push many toppings, we went with bananas, Neapolitan ice cream, peanut butter and sprinkles. Simple by banana split standards, but thats part of the beauty of the split, it grows and changes with you, much like family.

If your not willing to pillow fight, pick up bugs, race to see who can drink an icee drink faster, eat dessert for dinner, play in a mud puddle in your clothes, run in the snow barefoot, and occasionally shoot a water gun in the house, then well, I am sorry for you. I was to a certain degree a bit like that, a bit to rigid about the maintenance of order and the systems of how things work. Having so much time with my son, and developing an increased interest in how children see and process the world, I have learned a great deal about what it means to be a mother, a friend, a spouse, and an individual.

You love your children all the more for being the key to ice cream floats and bubbles, and mud. No one needs an excuse, sometimes we just need to be reminded. And so, if you are still unwilling, still afraid something may get broken, or take time to clean up well, the time it takes to clean up is miniscule compared to the time you will have to cherish that memory – the smile, the giggle, the hug, the moments.

Memories are made when you have banana splits for dinner.

There are moments when less is more. Sometimes it’s not about what you are saying to someone, but how. This can be hard though. If you are not paying attention in a conversation you may miss something. You may miss body language. You may miss the direct looks at you the head angles, the smirks. But still yet, there is sometimes, something even more.

Eyes can read into you, can speak to you. They can comfort and harm you in an instant. Many people will not make direct eye contact. And often, those that do will break away, or blink steadily. Then there are conversations where things are being said without any words, the words are there, but so much more is as well. The silence of eyes is earth shattering. Often the determination of whether or not those eyes are comforting or painful will reside in the tone of the situation.

But to look, to really look into some one and give them something, or to try and take something away is intense. It makes the words said, no matter how few or how many, almost unimportant. You feel that the world could go silent and the two of you would be sharing that moment still, just as significantly, perhaps even more so.

The ability to translate that moment can escapes us. Both parties may be well aware of this ballet, and be so in tuned that the melody radiates from their eyes. The symphony though is heard as a jumble. The eyes may be looking past you for something more. And if it is there they will find it.

How after all do we make eyes lie? Can we, can we mask our true feelings in them? If we stop to look, can we not see so much more in someone by locking pupils, not just hands.

Through this invisible life line we speak, like through cans, hoping that the message will come clear. However, when it does not, we seem afraid to ask, to wonder “what exactly are you trying to find out, to convey, to have me know, to have for yourself”.

Eyes are the windows to the soul they say. If this is true, then you can easily read my soul. Eyes don’t lie.

I love my stretch marks and my hernia scars. These are my memories. Edan knows that my scares are his scares, and my life is told in many ways through those scars. They show the trauma of love lost and love gained, of hope and joy, and pain and sorrow.

People always talk of beauty, here is a beauty. I may not have the ripped abs of an athlete, or the perfect waist of a child free twenty something or even the forty something cougar. But I have a love of life, a love of people and a devotion to those that were a part, product and support of my journey to stretch marks. In the way we cherish natural blondes and bright green eyes and all the other glamourous images of beauty, why not the underside of beauty. Often I think that those who are responsible for determining what is beautiful to the general public are working from a lack of experience or understanding.

Birth and love are painful and amazing. Both come with their own trials and tribulations, both are socially accepted as beautiful. Why not my stretch marks, why not my imperfections? Is not my confidence in them what makes them beautiful. I embrace them, they are a part of me.

And though they remind me of better times, they give me strength and courage to go through the pain, and to keep trying, to keep pushing, and to keep loving.

So sometimes it is essential to have anther person around for the sheer purpose of wanting to cook food. Being alone with just Edan gives me no real reason to cook much. He wont eat it. And well, frankly it is depressing in some respects, so lately I just don’t eat, or its soups or a tuna sandwich – simple, comfort food.

But, once in a while a friend calls, or I decide it is just time to make something. Tonight it was CURRY. Not to long ago I went on what some would call an epic adventure. I went with some special people who appreciate the humor of dried luxury squid, and fried gluten balls; and while there purchased several small cans of paste – mostly curry oriented. The one for this evening was a red curry, with very simply instructions, to the effect of: sautee curry paste with coconut milk, add chicken, add more coconut milk, add eggplant. Well, I am personally not the biggest eggplant fan, just not in love with it.So I opened the fridge and played the “lets see what is not rotten” game. I lucked out. I had peppers, onion, potatoes (and coconut milk in the cabinet already, I consider it a staple). So a quick trip up the road lead to a small piece of chicken and some pre-cut squash and zucchini  ( a rather large container for $2, couldn’t beat that).

Thus the birth of my curry. And the restart of my bladder. Spicy, Spicier than I expected. Very good, but spicy.

Taylor was the lucky one tonight, she joined Edan and I for a first course of bed frame assembly paired with a lovely syrah, second course was the spicy red curry, then a match of wits in Origami (accompanied by that same delicious wine) and we finished off, all three of us, with Neapolitan ice cream and fudge covered mint oreos.

People make a meal so much more significant than it would otherwise be. I miss cooking with some one else in the kitchen and sitting down to dinner. These are things that I took so for granted and dearly miss. I have missed them. But to be fare, I recently have not been one to share my space and so have cooked and delivered my fair share of meals. Now lonely, I turn to my friends for the companionship and the community. I have some fantastic friends. Taylor is a gem, she is a great confidant, fun and most importantly great with Edan. This is critical because meals in  house with children can be difficult. Generally Edan will eat first, then we will; and he is expected while we do to respect that time (whether its one or ten of us) and then following we walk or play games and eat dessert together. So it is important that my friends are willing and somewhat accommodating.

Tonight was a reassurance, that no matter how you feel, there are always people there to remind you of the good things you have, the good things you have had and the good things you have to look forward to. They help to keep you hopeful and strong when times are tough, and when those that you would otherwise turn to are indisposed.

Here is to family, community, origami and board games!

The origami by the way- well, we found out half way through that the animals get tougher as you get into the book. So with no skill, and some wine and fierce we plunged into level three origami animals.

We performed much better in memory!

And Edan is in his new bed.

In conclusion, The memories you make are better than no memories at all.