Droppin' In

eaglesrose — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 14:07:00 UTC

I realize I am not on very often. I probably should be in here everyday. There are so many thoughts and words in my head and in my heart, sometimes I think they get jumbled up when my focus is off.

Staying focused on the subject at hand is just as difficult as fixing a point to focus on.

I love gardens. I love the smells, the sounds, the peace being in a garden brings me. I love grubbing in the dirt, the fresh scent of overturned earth, the snipping of pruning shears. I love all the colors of spring popping up from the garden. We have a twin rosebush in the backyard along the wooden fence. In August the blooms just seem to appear. Another flowering bush grows nearby. Bumblebees like our bushes. I, however, am leery around flying insects that carry around their own swords. Bumblebees make me nervous.

Our front door entrance splits the garden in the front yard of our home. Blue irises line the back of it as if to guard the house and hide the foundation. There are pansies, crocus, tulips, daffodils and lilies spread out in front of the iris. Cedar wafts in through the bedroom window when the breeze hits it just right. These cedars enhance either side of our garden.

Hostas surround the lone tree in our front yard. Poor things; sometimes the lawnmower eats them all up. Or is that down? Sparrows next in our bushes. Once I surprised a hawk when I opened the front door to check the mailbox. I saw his beautiful underside and the white spots under his wings. He was so close I could see him clearly.

We have a type of flat green fern growing in the backyard, too. We think the birds using the bath may have dropped seeds there. It could be mossy in nature. I am not very knowledgeable that way in discerning literal types of things. Colors and style have always been the first two things I notice about something. Whether it's gardens, cars, or clothes.

I like the perfume that rises on the breeze blowing through the garden. Sitting outside under the patio table umbrella, camera on my right, lemonade on my left, book in hand, blanket on lap, I tend to fall asleep in my garden. Surrounded by flowers, little birds and our sheltie, I am content.

This Girl and I

eaglesrose — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 17:30:00 UTC

I knew this girl once; she was fun to be with. We flew a thousand miles to climb trees, explore dungeons, stand under waterfalls and draw closer to God. We walked our legs off and slept like exhausted children.

We would be pampered at the Bed and Breakfast inns we sometimes stayed in. Crisp, clean sheets and thick quilts. Hot oatmeal. Our own little pots of tea or coffee. Hot showers.

We would try to get up early when staying at youth hostels, so as not to have to shower in ice water. (which, btw, will wake you up really fast). This girl made me rise early anyway, so as not to miss anything. Irish sunrises, street markets, the locals, the bus. This girl and I went Blarney Castle so she could kiss the Blarney Stone. This girl had no fear of hanging upside-down eighty feet off the ground. I took her picture. We travelled southern Ireland by foot, by bus, by taxi, by ferry. Oh yeah, the ferry.

This girl and I ferried to Wales just because we could. We wanted to see more castles. It rained for two days straight. Though we were able to see one castle, we were not allowed to take photos. If we wanted pictures, we had to BUY them. We watched soccer on the telly and drank pots of tea, while the rain came down. We journalled and we walked. We walked in the misty rain of Wales just because we could. We didn't want to miss anything, my friend and I.

And we didn't. Then. But now, we miss each other. We each have families to take care of and support. We are both fighting a spiritual battle on a field we had hoped never to see. My friend and I like to travel. You know, the kind where you actually leave the house (and the state) we live in. We like to go places we've never been and have adventures we've never had.

How does one climb a tree that can't be seen by anyone but us? Sometimes it feels like the tree is climbing me. My whole body is as tender to touch as if I'd fallen from a very high cliff. And sort of survived. My mind plays tricks on me. I once lost my eyeglasses for a whole day and they were on top of my head. I put milk in the pantry and peanut butter in the refrigerator. I throw TV remotes in the trash, and then wonder why I can't find it. We feel tired, yet we can't sleep.

My body twists into a caricature of itself and nothing can unloose it but God. Last night particularly I did not unwind until after 4 A.M. Upon rising I am battered and bruised, and yet I have only climbed the tree you cannot see, fallen down stairs that have no beginning and no end. Upon waking fully, there is no memory of dreams/nightmares, just and unfocused uneasy feeling. Like the robot from "Lost in Space" who waves his arms around crying, "Warning! Warning!" at every little unknown element we are.

This girl and I cannot go back to who we were. But she and I can travel this journey together, we can walk together, climb together, laugh together, cry together. We are growing older together, raising children together, submitting to husbandly authority together. We have homes to clean, never-ending piles of laundry to wash, meals to plan and cook. This is the new adventure we wanted.

But it is the adventure that came with it that we do not want, and yet, are stuck with. Because we choose to be obedient when God asks us to serve Him. "Here am I, Lord, send me." We both said it. We both meant it. We are both going through it. God chooses where we serve Him. He chooses when the adventure begins. He chooses when the adventure will end. Once we choose to surrender our will to His, the journey has begun.

And God is with us every step of the way.

Up The Waterspout - Part One

eaglesrose — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 13:36:00 UTC

battle depression everyday. And some days I lose.

That's why I see a psychiatrist. In another life I would have referred to him as a "shrink" or "the doctor only crazy people go to." However, in this brave new world, I call him Dr. Even though a couple of other medical professionals wanted me to seek the guidance and care of a psychiatrist, I fought it every step of the way. I sought the advice of people I trusted: my friends and my mother. Because I believed that I was not depressed; I believed that I was not crazy. But I was only half right. I'm not crazy.

To refuse to seek out medical help when you need it is like walking with a broken leg: you can get by, but not very well. A very little known fact is that the head is connected to the body. Therefore, if the body gets sick, the whole body is sick. Illness affects more than one part of one's self. When the flu strikes, your head is congested, your throat hurts, your sinuses drain, your bowels cramp and your stomach refuses food. Infection attacks you and causes your body temperature to rise, thereby causing a fever. Just as antibiotics and a cracker and 7 Up diet fight the flu, so also do antidepressants help to balance the neural sensors of the brain.

There is always a root for every illness. Even depression starts somewhere. But I'm not really where mine started. I do believe though, that I have been depressed most of my adult life. Is depression genetic? Will we ever really know the answer to that question since no one likes to talk about it? Am I depressed because I can't function like I used to or is my inability to be mobile causing an increase in my depression? This conversation we are having is being expressed because like most people I know, I need people I know. I need you around me, I need you to hear me, I need you to know me.

We tend to bottle things up inside us and put on a happy face, a mask for the world to see, a mask that hides who we are. And when we look in the mirror we see only our reflection; the mask is real, the face is not. Admitting our pain and misery to ourselves is harder than it is to share it with others. Only when we remove the mask and behold the eyes do we get a glimpse of what is inside. Did my depression start when I was a little girl? We moved around a lot when I was growing up. When I made friends, I would have to leave them behind. So I stopped making friends. I retreated into the private world of loneliness. The library became my favorite place to be. I read everything I could get my hands on. When I read a book, I am there. I'm the heroine or the princess, the pirate or the pilot. And because I chose to hide, I ended up hiding from myself, too.

You can only see me when I write. My pen is my mirror. The ink is my soul. Whether you laugh or cry, mock or pity, matters not to me. I'd like to think that anyway. My armor is my faith and mere words can only dent, not penetrate it. But watch out, you may end up at the other end of my pen