Inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: Language

This week, let’s think about language. Notice the places where words flow confidently and those where words falter.


You did too much

My mother admonished me after I made my way down the stairs into the living room…two days before Christmas in 1986. After I discovered blood where there shouldn’t have been any. My hand smoothing my slightly rounded belly – as if that would stop what was happening.

What I feared was happening…

As I called out from the small confines of our brand new second floor bathroom. A short distance from a third bedroom…finished a few months earlier. Space for a new family member.

My voice unheard over the cranked up stereo down below…You Better Watch Out You Better Not Cry…in anticipation of the holiday to come. My 4 year old daughter over the moon excited about Santa. And her grandparents’ visit.

You Did Too Much

Four words.

Language that jumpstarted slivers of guilt.  Mixed with grief and anger and fear.

Compounded by my doctor….who, hours later with eyes averted, added…

These Things Happen.
It’s Probably For The Best.

What did I do?…

The unanswered question wrapped around my heart…until the day almost a year later…when my beautiful healthy son was born. And I exhaled.

No words necessary.

Our family of four complete.


moon sliver copy



This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #55: Reclaim


rock wall woods


The things that women reclaim are often their own voice, their own values, their imagination, their clairvoyance, their stories, their ancient memories. If we go for the deeper, and the darker, and the less known we will touch the bones.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés


What’s done is done.
What’s over is over.

One by one she closed the chapters
Convincing herself
it was so.

She shelved them high…year after year
Dust settled slowly
Coating spine after spine.

But that glimmer still surfaced
Again and again
A nagging suspicion…

Is done really done?
Is over really…over?

So she emptied the shelf
And cracked open each volume
To travel chapter by chapter

From whisper to shout
Addendum in process
The jury still out.






This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #53: Lottery


Life is a lottery that we’ve already won. But most people have not cashed in their tickets.

Louise L. Hay



lottery ticket
Have I won some kind of life lottery?
Unknowingly playing the right numbers at the right time?

What are the chances I would live as long as I have?
What are the chances I would give birth to two healthy babies?
What are the chances I would be born healthy for that matter?

I am convinced…life is not random.
Everything does happen for a reason…

What about that split second miss at the stoplight
When the accelerating lumber truck nearly T-boned my car
The hitchhiking car ride…locked doors, high speed, narrow road…when I was 17


Was it chance or divine design or perseverance…or a lucky combination…that made it possible to emerge from a dark childhood hell. Finding peace…blinking in the brightness.

I am eternally grateful and thankful I beat the odds…whatever they were.

Whatever the reason.

So far.


hope window









This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #52: Anomaly


I should have seen this as an ominous sign of things to come.

The bizarre muffin situation of April, 2008.

It happened 11 months before I was diagnosed – much to my surprise and dismay – with celiac disease.

Marking the starting point of my downward spiral…into the land of massive shoulder shrugging by countless doctors and specialists. I was convinced somebody had answers to my pileup of accompanying symptoms and why and what-the-hell-is-going-on with my body questions….

…Back to the muffins…
What the heck happened here? I had no idea.
Regular muffins. Nothing crazy. A simple dependable recipe that produced muffins of uniform shape and size. One of the easier items to bake.
But this batch?
Odd. Weird. Peculiar looking.
An anomaly.


So much so, that I documented. My husband and I had a few chuckles as well.

One year later I started a new baking adventure: gluten free everything.
Including muffins. Which, though more difficult to make, never turned out like those weird ones from BC (Before Celiac).

I, on the other hand, had become an anomaly in the exam rooms in 4 states.

As health care professionals attempted to diagnose my ever expanding list of health problems…with answers that did little to satisfy…

I’ve never seen this before.
Mmmm…the usual tests look normal.
I’m not sure what to do next.
It’s probably autoimmune.
Most people don’t have all these symptoms.
There’s not much we can do.

Let’s wait and see…

and…my favorite…

Sometimes this happens.


This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #51: Green


tree 2 copy

This was the view outside my home a few days ago.

The color green is everywhere.

Spring time explains it…before the heat of summer dries the grass to a crispy brown.

There is something comforting about blue + yellow.

I chose green as the color for my first bedroom-of-my-own when I was 11 years old. Emerald green carpet. Green diamond patterned wallpaper (which I loved, even though it aggravated the paper hanger). The only green in the house. A marked contrast to my sisters’ purple and pink florals.

The woods I explored. The leafy tree I climbed. The grass I sprawled out on. Looking up…studying cloud formations.

When I was seven…my favorite dress.

My birthstone…

All green.


This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #50:  Acceptance

“There’s release in knowing the truth no matter how anguishing it is. You come finally to the irreducible thing, and there’s nothing left to do but pick it up and hold it. Then, at last, you can enter the severe mercy of acceptance.”

Sue Monk Kidd
The Mermaid Chair




Acceptance…may mean making peace with an overwhelming, ugly truth. Living with it in your head.

My head.

The new raw reality nudges me. Breaks my concentration on a bright sunny day. I take it out. Examine it. Until a familiar gnawing sickness in the pit of my stomach makes me look away. I put it back before it drops from my shaking hands and explodes.

I’m a member of a club I never asked to join. But was accepted into anyway. I don’t belong here. But it turns out I do. Surrounded by the nameless who also lost their pasts. Exposing ragged edges of grief. Struggling to reach a place of resignation in a stark new reality. Healing measured in tiny steps.

Get over it Move on Let it go…well meaning, but frantic pleas from those who care, but…they aren’t in my head with the unimaginable truth. How could they possibly get it?

So for those of us who struggle to accept what life has thrown up on us…for those of us with battle scar tread marks on our backs…we yearn to be accepted…frailties, brokenness and all. In order to be whole again.

Not easy for them to accept the changes.

Even more difficult for us to go it alone.