God is not

I miss him.
I miss knowing we are doing the same thing, together.

I miss taking our kids to the pool and realizing they will be grown too soon.
I miss knowing he loves the sun on his back just as much as I do.
I miss hearing him dream, seeing him reach long fingers with fire in his eyes.

Once again, someone I love has gone to a place I cannot follow, and I hate to watch him walk away.
It seems this is my lesson.
My whole life - I have been watching people walk away.
I thought I'd be better at it by now.
It hurts every time.  It is a shock every time.
I know I have friends who will die.
Who are dying...
I should get ready, right?
I should prepare for the call.

I am afraid he will commit suicide.
I am afraid he will put himself so deep in a hole that he cannot come out.
I am afraid because I have to set boundaries, and I am left to watch from behind my baracade.
I am sick of watching.
I am sick of watching people self-destruct.
However I am torn, because I know it is part of the path.
I am afraid because I know this is the only way to freeom.
But, not everyone makes it all the way through.
They die in their suffering.
I cannot make this add up.
It is senseless from where I stand.
Our most desperate attempts to live are swamped by chaos, like the tiny turtles on the nature channel.
They are killed before they make it to the ocean.
With all their gusto for life, they flap straight into death's open mouth.

I am afraid he will die right in front of me, but still breath.
Still wearing the appearance of someone I once knew, he will not let me grieve.
I am afraid I will watch my friend's ghost struggle for an exit.
Perhaps this is the origin of ghost stories about people stuck between two worlds.

And all of this I must do from behind my wall.
I hate the wall and it's necessity.
It is a privilege to be able to say, No.  The dignity of choice, right?
The gift and the burden of eyes wide open has placed me here.
I don't know.  Maybe I just hate that I am not God.

Or that God is not...helping everyone.

My only consolation is what I do not know.

I have faith that so much more is happening then I can see.

So, in the end, Grace is not what I know, but what I do not.

Mine

Vincent Van Gogh

Painfully awake at 4:30 am.
My muscles certainly needed more rest.  They creak to movement down the stairs.  I have to be careful with the angle on my knees.  They could buckle at the wrong step.  I feel 33.  Maybe older.
I ate a chocolate chip cookie and washed it down with milk.
I think I did it because I could.  Pepper threw up all day yesterday.  She can't eat anything.
The cookie was good.  The milk afterwards washed out a memory of being a kid before I knew any rules about what you're supposed to eat for breakfast.
After that I watched a Youtube video of some kid dribbling a basketball while playing the guitar.
I stopped myself from making a smart-ass comment on my x-boyfriend's Facebook page.
Then I scanned the celebrity gossip website to see what everyone was wearing.
I poked around the classified ads for used rock climbing gear.

I have become so undisciplined.

When I was first in recovery, I couldn't sleep either.
The weight of my necessary overhaul would pull me from bed to squat on the porch and smoke cigarettes.
I'd watch the sun come up and ask God to be real, and to help me.
I'd write the mundane truths of my life in that moment.
I knew I was missing something, and I searched for answers in those quiet morning hours.
Now I don't know where to look.  I don't look.
Do I assume there is nothing more to learn?
Of course not.  However I am rarely propelled by a sense of urgency anymore.
I miss it.

I think this is the danger of the serenity prayer:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change
Courage to change the things I can
and the wisdom to know the difference.

I mistake apathy, or sleep, or acceptance, or even fear - for serenity.
I am afraid to loose so I will accept my place and stay here.
I am afraid to care, so I will accept any outcome.
I don't see what is unacceptable because I am asleep.

I have been saying this prayer for 8 years now, and I think I need to augment it.
I need to ask to remember that life can be urgent.

synonyms for urgent:

burning*, called-for, capital, chief, clamant, clamorous, compelling, critical, crucial,crying*, demanded, demanding, driving, essential, exigent, foremost, heavy*, hurry-up,immediate, impelling, imperative, important, importunate, indispensable, insistent, instant,leading, life and death, momentous, necessary, paramount, persuasive, pressing, primary,principal, required, salient, serious,  vital, wanted,weighty

There are things worth burning for.
This whole second chapter of my life, this sober chapter, came from a desperate desire for one more chance.
I was graced with what I wanted, and in the beginning it was paramount.  It was crucial.  It was vital.
In fact, all the most precious aspects of my life are those for which I have pined.

My recovery.
My husband.
My children.
My family.
My home.
My education.
My healthy body.

Yes, I use the word "My."  Not because I assume ownership, but because I have taken stewardship of these things, and I take the priviledge seriously.
If that is true, then I need to pay attention.  The celebrity gossip, the Youtube, and the classified ads are not urgent.
The sun still rises everyday, and I still have so much to learn.

Vincent Van Gogh

sun-baked and solid

Climbing "The Boot" 5.10 - Potash Road

Home from Moab.  My thinking brain is rusty, and creaking to make stiff gears roll.  I have been wholy in my body for the last 4 days.  Climbing every morning at 6 a.m. and then again at 6 p.m.  We chased the shade.  We stayed dirty.  I wore the same cut-off jean shorts for days, and hair went unbrushed, swooped up into a bun.  I stuffed a duffel bag of clothes for the kids, yet Beckam lived in his diaper, and Pepper in her swimming suit.  I hardly saw Sophie at all.  She whisped in and out of the cabin like a gypsie, jingling red sand from her fingertips.

By the last day my fingers had the thickness of strong climbing.  They became my focus, and they found their place easily in the rock.  It is hard to give this up.  Everything becomes so simple in the desert.  Now I am back here where everything is diluted.  Colors are broken down into tiny shapes.  Down there it is a vast red swath of flaming rock, with blue sky above.  Two colors.  I am small against this back-drop.  I eat to climb, not so much that I can't move in the heat, but just enough.  I drink water, water, water.  My kids are filthy, but content.  We sleep in the middle of the day when it's too hot. or we swim in the pool.

Sophie, Me and Katrina - my lad

Pepper amazed me.  Until now I have considered her flimsy and easily defeated.  Instead she walked barefoot across hot rocks to the swimming pool 5 times a day.  She cried the first 2 minutes when she
floated alone in her life-vest.  Then she took right to it, like a little tadpole.
"I am a Pepper-fish, and this is my fish bowl."
She told everyone they could pet the Pepper-fish if they wanted.  She played freely with other kids twice her age.  She sputtered and beamed a smile when water was splashed in her face. She strutted her tiny butt with confidence around the pool.

Sophie looks like a different kid.  Her skin bakes hard and fast like the top layer of cheese on lasagna.  Her cheeks grow pink and she glows in the desert.  She always has.  She is fearless and strong.  People approach me and say,
"Your daughter is amazing.  She is brilliant."
She rode the river without me and tackled full-grown adults off the raft into the water.

Now back home again, I feel proud of my hearty family.
We must be doing something right.
I can't put my finger on it, but I can feel it after a long day in the dirt when my girls and I hold hands and pray together.
I can feel it because they want to sleep close in the same bed, sisters cuddled up like kittens.
I can feel it because Beckam floats easily on the cushion of people around him.
I can feel it because I want to call Andrew and tell him about our day even though he is back at home.

We are disciplined in our growth at home.  When we strike out into the world, we are strong.

6 am climbing

Beckam lounging in the shade 

Kai and I sorting gear before the sun finds us

Me laying on the ground belaying Katrina

Housekeeping

Lydia - pastel drawing on paper - 2007

Sitting here at the computer, I just had the thought,

 Isn't there some more laundry that needs to be done?

But there isn't.  I did it all yesterday.  I folded it.  I put it away.  I cleaned all the toilets.  I mopped the kitchen.  I went through Beckam's clothes and set aside the stuff that doesn't fit anymore.
As I vacuumed the entire house, I thought,

Look at you.  You are falling for the illusion that if you get everything done, you can relax.
You have to relax in the midst of everything, because IT is never-ending. You are funny, Sarah.  Tomorrow you will have no excuse not to write.

I called a woman I know to see how she was doing.  I called because her best friend had just died.
I asked,  "How are you? "
She replied,
"I'm ok.  I've just been cleaning a lot."

killing of the yellow bird - oil - 2006

Cleaning.  It is our best drug.  It is odorless, tasteless, and not a single house-wife can be faulted for it's indulgence.  It allows me the illusion that everything is exactly as it should be.  The red dish towel is hanging in my mostly green kitchen.  A perfect compliment.
Every pair of the kids' shoes are in a separate compartment.
The toilets without a single splash of urine anywhere.

Beckam slept from noon until 4 pm and all I did was clean.  What a waste of silence.
But sometimes I rebel against myself.  I don't know why I do this.  My Art Professor used to call it:  The War of Art.  Their is a book about it.  I just looked it up on Amazon.  It costs $9.85.  Their are 7 holds on it at the city library.  Apparently we all want to know how to win.  But I already know.  Just keep going...no matter what.  No matter what your head tells you, don't believe her.  She will tell you it's not important.  No one cares.  You are not different.  Nothing you have to express matters.  No one cares about your mundance experience.
In the face of all this doubt, I write anyway.  I teach anyway.  I paint anyway.
Right now I teach an adult art class at the family homeless shelter.  They are so excited every Friday.  They are excited for one hour of color and focus.  I know it will not change their lives.  It takes 1,000's of droplets to force a wave of change.

Sophie light - acrylic and pen - 2006

Another thing my Professor used to say is,
"There are literally 1,000's of art students in studios just like this, doing the same thing you guys are doing.  If you don't care about your art, no one else will either."

He'd say,
"If you don't need to paint, when you leave here, you won't."

Now it is 3 years later, and I need art more than ever.  I know it's cliche, an artist who needs to create in salvation of her soul.  Because without it, her soul will shrivel into a brown peel and be ground into the dirt.
I am ok with that.  Because I am not cultivating this soul for anyone other than the people I love, and they are worth it.  We are worth paying attention to.  We are worth aching for...attaching to.  I would rather love and suffer.  Here again I fly in the face of the detached buddhist I sometimes aspire to be.  However I am not other-wordly.  I live here.  I want to live here.

Traffic Stop

The disaster that was yesterday is now over.  Thank you sleep.
_________________________________________________
All I could do was slog through one task at a time on about 3.7 hours worth of sleep.
I kept Sophie home from school because I was too exhausted to get up and drive her there.
Instead we stayed home and finished her book project.
Brilliantly, I decided to cut open a feather pillow and give her a glue gun.
She added blue food coloring. sequins, graham crackers, and ramen noodles to the mix.

I tried to take solace in the shower.  I let the hot water lull my eyes into a daze.  I rested my forehead against the cold tiles.  After 4 minutes a tiny hand pasted itself onto the shower door.  Judging by the height, I could tell it was Pepper.
Mom, are you in there? I need you to open my fruit roll-up.
Fruit roll-ups for breakfast.  Awesome.  They do not involve cooking.
I open the shower and find a racoon looking up at me.
Did you find Sophie's make-up?  I ask.
She holds up the wrapper.

My friend Linda called to see if she could drop off tomato seedlings.  Hearing the voice of another sane adult brought tears to my eyes.  She doesn't know it, but her presence bouyed me up for the next wave of responsibility.

After cleaning the house, dropping the little kids off at the babysitter, and the gymnasts at their carpool, I drove silent and alone to work.  Again tears sat on the rim of my eyes.  It was only 2:45 pm.  I still had to teach my class, load their final painting project into my van, spend at least 2 hours doing touch-up on it, pick up the kids, make dinner, give baths, pick up the gymnast, make dinner again...

I stopped at a stop light.  I looked to my left.  A girl, about 22 years old sat on the curb.  Her hands cuffed and her face buried into her palms.  Her feet were splayed out like a baby giraffe.  She wore Converse.  Her feet were small, size 6, like mine.  Two cop cars were parked on either side of her outdated maroon sedan.  I strained to see if I knew her, but her head was buried deep.  Her lime-green purse had been purged, along with the rest of her posessions.  It looked like maybe she had been living in her car.

And it all stopped...

On Friday I will be sober 8 years.  This girl was me.   I wonder if she felt relief because the cycle had stopped for a minute.

As I drove the rest of the way to the school my thoughts were:

Thank you for letting me go and teach my class today.
Thank you for this mini-van and it's 2 carseats.
Thank you for my kids.
Thank you that I have a home for them to be...and spread out...and thrive.
Thank you that I am not in that cycle anymore.
Thank you that I am sober.
Thank you for the clear eyes that are Sarah - for eyes to see far beyond pain and inconvenience into the heart of things.

Google dispels ghosts

Sophie just woke me up at 5 am.

Sophie 2006

"Mom, I have this really bad pain in my side."

I jolt up like a piece of bread from a toaster.
Appenidicitus.  Can kids get appendicitus?  Get the iphone and Google...

I don't show her this mental panic though.  I caress her head and gently lead her to a hot bath.  I turn off the sharp lights and light an orange scented candle for her.  Then I squat on the toilet seat and Google appendicitus in children. It is most common in children over 10 years old.  She will be 11 in 3 months.  It could be, let's relax.  She tells me it is a "pulling" pain.  It could be muscle soreness.  She is a gymnast and spends 16 hours a week flipping, stretching and crashing.  It could be that.

After 15 minutes she tells me it doesn't hurt anymore.  I help her get dressed and put her back to bed.

Lately more than ever, it seems there is aways something.  I deal with strep-throat, teething, boy-crushes, forgotten homework, abscessed teeth....tooth extractions, and we have $7 dollars left until Friday.  This means the kids will be eating cereal, pancakes, ramen noodles, and My Little Pony fruit snacks.  I cannot afford to have a rigid ideal.  I need to flow with the other 4 lives in my family.  I don't have to.  I want to.

How exhausted would I be if I HAD to exercise and eat as I did 5 years ago?
My list of acceptable foods was maybe 15 items long.  I was not allowed to skip runs.  Exercise was necessary to allow myself to eat.

Now I am loose with all of it.  When I feel that quick tightening, I remind myself, this is all a gift.

When Sophie came in with the ghost of appendicitus on her shoulder, I thought,
Well, I guess maybe I'm not running this morning.
Now it seems perhaps it was just a ghost, and I am free for the moment.

Reboot

People have been asking me, Where is Chrysalisbreak?

I am wondering the same thing.  In conversation I keep telling people, I can't WAIT for summer!
I am doing something I am not technically supposed to do.  I am living in wait of a future time when things will be better, when I'll have more time, when I get to do what I want.
This is a set-up.  My life will most likely not slow down, ever.  Rather it will gain in momentum as my kids gain in size, age, and angst.

The thing about mindfulness, about spirituality, is that it doesn't work in my future life.  It only works now.  If I wait, and starve my soul, I wither very quickly.  I become a barking beast who hulks around the kitchen with eyelids slumping low, seeing nothing, and waiting to pounce on the next kid to spill their macaroni and cheese.

When I look in the mirror, I see the places exercise will not touch.  They become thick unnecessary growths.  I wish I could cut them off in the shower.  My solution to this is to stop eating.  My mind still reaches for relief in this way.  If I stop eating so much these growths would not exist, and I would feel free, unburdened.
I imagine how I would look if I had time for myself.  I would be like those moms who have matching work-out clothes.  I see them at my job.  I work in the daycare at the rec center.  They come in wearing colors like cantaloupe, mint and hot-pink.  Their shoes always look new, and their hair is clean even though they're about to get all sweaty.  They go to Zumba or Pilates or cycle for 90 minutes.

When I am quiet.  When I am centered.  When I am awake.  I don't want to be one of those moms.  I want to be exactly what, who where I am.  I take my kids climbing and we get dirty.  I look in the mirror and see a familiar woman.  I see someone who is doing her best.  I see someone strong.  My kids can spill their cereal, and I can say, It's alright, let's clean it up together.

Woman Before a Mirror - 1897
Henri deToulouse-Lautrec

So I'm writing today, so I don't have to wait for life to start.  I'm writing so I can eat breakfast.
Another thought which keeps passing across my forehead is,
Have I stopped writing because I think I'm "all better?" Do I imagine that because I've written this eating disorder blog for a year, I am somehow done?
This is certainly not true.  I still carry the clipboard everywhere I go.  I check off the boxes each time I see a woman.  This sucks.  Plainly sucks.  I wish I didn't do it.

• skinnier than me      
• bigger than me
• thicker waist then me
• eating less than me
• wearing the right shorts for her legs
• it's 3 pm - how many calories have you consumed today?
• is she bigger than the last time I saw her?

Really, this is just my brain trying to figure out whether or not it can get away with going back to old ways.  It is constantly rebooting and looking for a person who is successfully undereating and overexercising.  But every time it tries, it is now confronted with the truth.  The truth is:  no one gets away with disordered eating.

I don't have to look for very long anymore.  Now the reboot happens in seconds, and I can see the actual person very quickly.  I can also find myself after a few deep breaths.