Into the Briar Patch

The universe has a funny sense of humor. I think I've done a fine job this past year making lemonade out of lemons, getting tough when the tough got going and any other adage suggesting we should made the best of what we have. Maybe it's my competitive spirit, but when my oven quit working on the cusp of holiday baking season I decided to make it my lemonade and see what I could do without an oven. I have made five holiday treats without as much as glance as the oven that is currently on Santa's naughty list. Scott said it was like throwing me in the briar patch.

Maybe so, maybe sometimes I choose the briar patch. Maybe I like to see what I'm made of, surprise people or surprise myself. Maybe the poke of a sharp thorn now and again reminds me to feel alive and makes me appreciate the comfortable times when there are no thorns. Maybe people who don't choose the briar patch are the ones missing something. Maybe playing it safe, always do the 'right thing', coloring inside the lines, pleasing your parents, being appropriate, holding your tongue, not taking a risk, going with the crowd, having 2.5 children, being normal isn't where we plant the seeds of a truly joyful life. What would happen if you took a risk, led from your heart, went against the grain, spoke your truth when no one wanted to hear it or just did a great big cannon ball into the briar patch? What would you learn? You would learn that the thorns were good back scratchers and that hidden within the thorns are beautiful flowers you can only see when your in the thick of it. You would learn that the people who really care about you will never leave, but rather they will cheer loudly for you to succeed and they will pull you out of the bushes when you've had enough. You would learn how thick your skin really is and how sometimes a tender touch is the best way through the tough stuff. And most of all you would feel alive because you will have proven to yourself, the only person who really matters, that there is so much to you that is waiting to be explored.

What did I learn from entering the briar patch this past week? Are you waiting for me to reveal what amazing 'a-ha' moment enlightened me, that took my personal life journey to the next level?  Wait for it....

I learned that I have a deep endearing, passionate love for Beer Pretzel Caramels! I do!  I have honestly eaten about 10-1" squares of the chewy, sweet yet salty, decadent little morsels of heaven. You say 10 isn't that many? You could do better. That was just today. I made them yesterday and they had to sit over night or that number would be much higher. 

Beer Pretzel Caramels made with Tommy Knocker Cocoa Porter

 

 

If you are still waiting for my deep thoughts on personal growth you're not going to find it in this post. Really, I do like the BPC's that much! The simple thing I learned it that I do seek out the briar patch, I always have. Sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose and I have raised boys that do the same. And how it pains me when I see them winding up for big double back flip into the thorns. I find a comfortable spot on the banks of the thicket, bring my bull horn and cheer from the edge so they know where to find me if they need anything. And now I will pack a bag of Beer Pretzel Carmels, but I'm not sharing. These are the same boys who have suffered through their parents divorce and the loss of their brother and they are deep souls that see the value in not judging people because they don't fit the mold. They own character traits that no GPA, ACT or SAT scores will ever be able to measure. They follow their hearts, and have the scars to show for it (both physical and otherwise). Their thorny adventures are often the thorns in my sides, but I wouldn't trade them for anything...except maybe Beer Pretzel Caramels.

Not everything in our lives are catastrophic opportunities to learn more about ourselves, sometimes we simply learn a new recipe that makes our hearts sing with joy. I now know that really good caramels are made with butter, sugar and heavy whipping cream (and beer in this case)... and it is sooooo good! So, just like signing up for a half-marathon keeps me logging the miles, this too will force me out the door for a few more miles in exchange for enjoying my new found melt in your mouth love. And to think, if my oven had kept working I would never had learned this and thrown myself into the briar patch (again). Here's to launching yourself into the briar patch with abandon and excitement about what you will learn, how your will grow and what you will learn to love.

Mountain Bikes and Climbing

 In my last post I made a reference to biking and a couple people suggested I get my bike out. Well, it has taken me over two weeks and a running injury to get my mountain bike out. Both of those are out of character for me. 1 – It has never been this late in the season and I haven’t been on my bike. 2 – In all my years of trail running I have never fallen and gotten hurt (this was a crushing blow to my runner’s ego J).

Mountain biking has always been a mirror for my life. As soon as I my tire takes hold of the dirt the ride will play out in a perfect symphonic reflection of my life in that point in time. Yesterday was no different. Lifting my bike off the hooks in the garage I could feel the weight bear down on my shoulders and the clumsiness of an upside down bike sway awkwardly above my head. Grief, I thought to myself. The heavy awkwardness of grief became visible as a mountain bike. But I love my mountain bike; it has taken me some amazing places and taught me some great lessons. Is it too much to hope that grief will also take me places that someday I will see the value in?

My choice of trails couldn’t be more aligned with the current status of my life. A nasty climb, a climb that is relentlessly steep, 2.3 miles of dry dusty dirt gaining over 1500 ft of elevation. I roll onto the trail and dodge around the wide green gate that separates this trail from others, “Private Property” the signs says.  Yes, grief is private property so, feeling like I meet the criteria, I see no reason for me not to continue on the trail. At the top of the trail you are greeted with a green picnic table under a wooden shelter. Given the fact that I haven’t been on my bike at all this year I tell myself I don’t have to make it to the picnic table at the top, I can turn around anytime. But I know I won’t. Not because I am a  talented climber, but because I love the downhill. So, I will grind my way to the top just so I can experience the fearless descent that raises my heart rate and I push the limit knowing falling down the mountain is much worse than falling up while climbing… but I like it! . It usually takes me 3x’s longer to get to the top then from the top down.

The trail forks and to the left the trail becomes narrow (singletrack as we say in Colorado) and rolls along the ankles of the foothills for a couple miles before appearing again on the side of the main road. To the right (which is what I take) the trail stays wide enough for a jeep, it’s dry, and rocky with little tuffs of plants spotting the middle line like lines on a road, only much more irregular. And it rises abruptly announcing its existence. When I woke up on October 9^th my road forked. One fork was the life I expected, gently rolling along the ankles of life undulating ups and downs that everyone has eventually ending on the main road with everyone else travelling their lives. Without having been given a choice I faced the trail to the right that day. And now I am physically living out the last nine months mounted on 26 pounds of grief.

I dropped my head, relaxed my shoulders and without much thought readjusted my gears so that I could spin up this first section. As I turned the pedals around and around and my breathing began to become audibly louder I glanced up the trail and saw another biker spinning his way up as well. I was reminded of the parents who had also lost children that reached out to me after Brandon died. They were further up the climb, still grinding away, but took time from their own slog to show me that it can be done. I was so grateful for those Mom’s and Dad’s in those first days. I desperately needed to know that people keep moving ahead even if it’s steep, rutted out, hot and unbearable at times. I needed to know that parents didn’t just give up and recklessly abandon the climb.

I did meet one parent, a Mom, who had abandoned the climb. I knew she had lost her daughter 4 years earlier and I reached out to her to meet for lunch. Our lunch was an awkward exchange of anger and resentment with her leading the charge. She would hunt for the smallest shard of anger in my words and pounce on them eager to fertilize them and grow them into something that would smother my desire to continue to climb. It was as if she wanted to pull me off my bike and drag me back to the green gate, forcing me to let go of my hard work that had gotten me that far. In ownership of my own climb, I was very angry in those early days (and still am sometimes). It wasn’t hard for her to find places to dig in, I gave her plenty to work with and she eagerly took them. She filled my head with how horrible the Holidays would be, how she hadn’t moved on, how her other child was in therapy (maybe it should be her in therapy), how her marriage had suffered, how she avoided social situations. But, in all this she did give me a wonderful gift. She showed me what I could and would become if I didn’t continue to climb, even if I had to get off my ‘grief bike’ and push it over rocks while leaning heavily on the handle bars gasping for air (yes, I have actually assumed this position while climbing and there is usually lots of cussing as well). As much as I hate this climb, as much as I wish Brandon was here now, as often and as much as I want to quit climbing, as exhausted as I am from forcing the pedals around one more (expletive) time… The alternative is not an option for me. I don’t want to be that person and some days it takes everything I am to not become that person. Brandon was fiercely determined and if I believe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree he must have gotten it from somewhere! So I will grind away!

Crying Myself Awake

 "You are one of the most spectacular women I have ever encountered in my life.I love you with all my heart and I've come to realize that. I want to thank you for everything you have done for me. You have made so many sacrifices for me. I am so grateful and blessed to have a mother like you. One of the most important things I've learned here is patience. It applies to everything. To life, to relationships, to love and even finding your 'personal legend'.  

Excerpt from a letter from Brandon when he was at Open Sky, July 2008

It happens only occasionally, but since Brandon died there are nights that I am awaken by the wetness of my own tears leaving salt tracks across my face. The tears are big and heavy. Perhaps it's an overflow valve of sorts. As the rest of me lies silently sleeping these big heavy tears escape from the valves and race away from the sadness that squeezed them out of my subconscious and released them into reality. I don't think they like reality anymore than I do. They race toward the pillow hoping to be reabsorbed into the softness of the cotton. I appreciate the pain the tears feel and wish my own comfort could be found in simply lying my head on the pillow and being held by it's soft cotton and goose down.

It happened this morning sometime between four and five in the morning. How do I know this? Because it wasn't until four that Jason came home. This is part of Jason's journey through grief. There is no right or wrong, which is part of the challenge, each of us must author our personal Owner's Manual. Jason's way is to stay away for as long as he can, both physically and emotionally. He has been a passenger watching his brothers struggle, fall, climb get back up, stand tall and mature into strong young men. This time however, he must learn to use his own compass to map.

The tears that escape at night and wake me up while leaving tell-tale tracks of salt across my face are escorted by my dreams of Brandon.  I try so hard to stay asleep and hang on to hearing his voice, feeling him hug me and seeing his beautiful smiling face. Once I have lost my grip on sleep and the tears pull me back from the love I feel in these dreamy moments, I lay in bed and force myself to remember each and every detail. What Brandon was wearing, where we were, what he said, how tall and strong he always is in my dreams. He is always happy and, except for one dream, we always hold each other. Each time I repeat to him how much I love him and miss him, over and over again until I feel I must really being saying out loud into the silence of my room. I truly believe he is with me in these dreams, the love I feel when I press myself into his chest isn't something I've ever felt before. The love is bright and radiant and has a sharpness to it. In these dreams my heart physically hurts in the same way it did the day I found out he died. Growing pains I tell myself... If my heart wasn't broken I couldn't feel the undetectable stitching, stapling, strapping, gluing and duct taping of the small pieces coming back together.  I also want to believe it's Brandon's way of reallocating strength and love to me so that I can make it through another day.  So that I can continue to rebuild my broken heart into one with huge expansion joints that enable me to love deeper for those in my life that deserve it most.

p.s.Yes, Jason got a stern talking to this morning and I woke him up at 10:00 to babysit Sam while I ran. Sam, who is working at potty-training, took it upon himself to flush his diaper (and shirt) down the toilet and pee on the couch while Jason was cleaning the bathroom. I think that is punishment enough!

Beginning at the End

"I am happier than I've been in a really long time. It feels like the grip that 'fear'  has had over me for so many years is loosening. I can't imagine wanting my life to be at any different place than right now. I feel like I am finding peace and life has found it's flow. It feels really good!" 

~Personal Journal Entry, September14th, 2010

Over the last eight months I have often reflected back to the days between that journal entry and October 9, 2010. I sometimes wallow in how perfect life felt. Perfect for the first time since April of 2007. This very small sliver of time when I let my guard down, I let myself finally release the fear, the anxiety and the anticipation of 'waiting for the other shoe to drop'. Of course the other shoe wasn't going to drop! What could be left, I had run (literally and figuratively) through my middle son running away from home (for 10 days) and subsequently spending 15 months in various treatment programs in other states, another son who tried to commit suicide and he too spent time in wilderness therapy, the break up and make up of my current husband and the birth of my fourth son. During this time I collected therapist like an eight year old boy does baseball cards - individual, family, transitional, short-term, long-term. Really, hadn't I proved my resilience to the Universe for whatever it might have up it's sleeve? I met every challenge as an opportunity, to be a better parent and a better wife, and I had run and biked my way through all of. I ran full and half marathons, biked hundreds of miles and climbed mountains both literally and figuratively.

On Wednesday, October 6, 2010 we were leaving for Ft. Benning Georgia to see my oldest son Brandon graduate from Army Infantry Training. A decision long in the making for him and turns out something that fit him like a glove. I set out to get my run in before being on a plane all day. Only four and half miles, but living in the Colorado foothills of the Rocky Mountains it included the typical climbs and descents. Life was perfect and during that run, when I approached a long screaming downhill section,  I conscientiously let go of the past and accepted that my hard work, tears, perseverance and diligence had been paid in full. Time to embrace the life I had worked so hard for. I turned for home and embraced the gradual climb knowing that life would still challenge me but that the hardest climbs were behind me, or so I thought.

Seventy two hours later after enjoying the bliss of my family and being engulfed by seeing how Brandon had blossomed into a confident, strong soldier, I was side swiped with such velocity my heart had no choice but to shatter into pieces . Brandon was dead. In the first hours after I heard those words my heart physically ached, the pain was sharp and intense and I could do nothing but be an active observer in the breaking of my own heart.  How could this be, he had just flown home with us twelve hours before. On the way home from the airport he asked to be dropped at his Dad's house so he could hang out with his step-brother. Still dressed in his uniform as we pulled up I asked if he wanted to change his clothes. No, he was so proud of being a US Infantryman he wanted to show off his uniform while out with his friends he hadn't seen in so long. I hugged him tight, with a bit of apprehension and told him I loved him. Then I turned to Shane, the step-brother and said, "Keep my baby safe tonight". In reply as he peeled away from Brandon's embrace he told me, "Of course, I love him like a brother!".

And so began, and continues, the longest most excruciating climb of my life. In four days it will be eight months since Brandon died. It has taken me this long to get to where I feel sharing my story and creating this blog will not only emotionally benefit me but, hopefully be of benefit to others as well. My career and personal life have been focused on the benefits of exercise. I have counseled cardiac rehab patients on how exercise can help them. I have trained for and ran the Boston Marathon. Yet, in the initial trauma of my grief exercise didn't have a place. I was completely emotionally unable to apply my own rhetoric in healing myself. Nothing in my Masters of Exercise Physiology program taught me how to rehabilitate a broken heart. I am writing the manual from scratch.

Like any injury the body sustains, a broken heart never heals back the same way. But I would like to believe I have some control over how it is put back together. That may be my only hope that again some day I can let go of waiting (again) for the other shoe to drop.