Death, Grief, and #Outlander

Books.  Are.  Refuge.  I believe this.  I believe they offer hope when it is hard to come by, that they offer respite when the world is “too much with us,” and they offer knowledge to combat the ignorance of prejudice.

So I was not surprised when, after my mom died on Christmas Eve, I eventually turned to my books.  I was surprised, however, that it took me so long to reach out to the solace of their well-worn pages.  There was an answer for that, of course, a reason for my hesitancy to slip into the relief offered by a good story; it just took me a while to work it out…

{SPOILERS AHEAD:  If you haven’t finished the Outlander series to date, you might want to book mark this page for later.  Otherwise, read further at your own expense.  You have been warned.}

Grief is a very personal thing.  It varies so much from person to person, and even from loss to loss.  There is no “right” way to grieve.  (Although, of course, there are some very unhealthy ways to do so.)

In the first book, we get a glimpse at Claire’s grief at losing Frank.  Despite the protests of some Frank Haters, Claire most certainly does grieve the loss of Frank.  She weeps for him at Castle Leoch after tending to Jamie’s injuries.  And, trust me, if a woman can sit on a certain ginger’s lap and sadness that, my friends, is some serious grief.  Some readers minimize the depth of this grief, since Claire doesn’t curl up onto the fetal position or rock back and forth.  Our heroine, however, if made of stronger stuff.  Her turns her grief to action, to purpose, to finding a way back to Frank.  Sometimes, grief spurs us on.

There is more grief, of course, grief over the Wentworth and what it does to Jamie.  Because sometimes, the grief that hurts is the most is the unrelenting pain of someone we know…a pain which we cannot ease for them.  The pain of loved ones can rub and gnaw until it creates a wound on our own soul–as if, by adding our own pain, we can lessen their burden.  Helpless in the face of Jamie’s pain and shame and guilt, Claire finally shares her own pain in the quiet of the abbey.  And, in that sharing, she finds hope.

Sometimes grief more resembles anger, like when Jenny lashes out at Claire for not raising a finger to save her beloved Ian from death.  Why him?  Why now?  Why like this?

Death, like any visitor, can be fickle.  Sometimes you know; you plan for him, wait for him, and are ready to receive him.  Other times, he catches you unaware.

Ian Murphy saw Death coming for a great distance.  There was time to make sure that there was nothing left unsaid.  Time to prepare.  To set things to right.  A blessing to be sure, but also a burden in its own way.  Everyone gathers.  Everyone waits.  Life stands still in the long moments between breaths.  Until finally, the breaths cease and, slowly, life starts back up again.

Other deaths seem to strike like a crime of opportunity.  One moment’s hesitation, a moment too long at a stop light, a skipped mammogram, an unknown allergy…  Unfortunately, life—much like a good book—has periods of unrest…dark times to make the reader appreciate the light…tragedy to make the happy ending that much sweeter.

And that, of course, it why I didn’t immediately return to the Outlander books.  I cared too much about the characters to risk losing anyone else.  Dealing with the loss of Mrs. Bug and also Young Ian’s guilt, seemed too much to take on.  Watching Claire drink herself into a stupor instead of contemplating a life without Jamie felt too raw; to witness, again, Claire’s feeling of maladroitness in the face of Ian’s illness, felt too eerily relatable.  I wanted something else.  I wanted escape.  I wanted love without the pain.  Light without the dark.  Good without the bad.

So, for a while, tended to things.  Arrangements, loose ends, the sorting through of things.  Busy work.  Work to distract the mind.

But that is not balance; it cannot be maintained.

So, now, finally, I venture forth.  I write a little something.  I read a bit.  I try to put one foot in front of the other.  Something akin to walking.  Something like moving forward.

At some point, though, I hope for more.  I hope for something better that just forward movement.  At some point, I want a measure of peace.  The peace that comes with acceptance.  Something past the blinding pain of loss, something past the anger, something past the empty void.  At some point, I want to have the grace and wisdom to, instead, whisper:  That she may be safe, Lord.  

Maybe someday, for the moment, that will be enough.   Until, we just hold on as best we can…

mom-and-dad
Mom and Dad (Thanksgiving, 2016): our last holiday together
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Auld Lang Syne

My mother was a faithful woman.  And in the early hours of Christmas Eve morn, she went to be with her Lord and Savior.

Yesterday was the Celebration of Life for her, and tomorrow starts a new year.  My first year without her.

My very talented sister in law put together a beautiful photo retrospective.  She included one of my favorite photos of my mom.  Still glowing with youth and full of life, it perfectly captures her joy and fiestiness and her grace…

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Charlene Zeller (1935-2016)

 

In honor of her, I will recount the words I said at her service–mostly so those who never got a chance to know her might at least know of her.

Those gathered here today undoubtedly knew of my mother’s grace and generosity. One of the ways her love manifested itself was through giving. It was undoubtedly her Love Language, and she was fluent in it. She loved to go shopping—she considered it a quest of sorts—a quest to find the Perfect Pairing of Gift and Value. (She came from Scottish ancestry, and their renowned thriftiness was a trait she bore with pride.)

In her quest to find Just the Right Gift, my mother hunted all year. The only problem was that, once she found that Perfect Gift, she simply couldn’t bear to wait to see the expression of joy and surprise. Many times she would call me at work and tell me that I needed to stop by on my way home so she could present me with one of her finds.

Even once she started chemo, she often sweet talked my father to run her by some store or other on the way to treatment, or afterwards, so that she could pick up something special for someone. I still have the text on my phone from this past Spring when she had located something special…you see, Mom had passed on to me her love of plants, and she had found a certain plant which she knew I wanted for my garden. She was eager to surprise me with it and couldn’t wait to tell me about it. Her text said: Hint: Witch Hazel, come by and get it tonight, OK?

When I picked up the plant that evening, I was shocked to find that it barely fit in my SUV. As always, when Mom did things, she did them big.

A lot of the flowers and herbs that grace my garden were gifts from my Mom. They are a living reminder of her and, soon, when Winter gives way to Spring, I can walk among the plants and feel her near.

Once of the reasons she loved plants so much was, along with their beauty, they had purpose…they had meaning.

One of the last plants she gave me was that Witch Hazel….in ancient times, it was believed that Witch Hazel could ward off evil…and soothe a broken heart.

It seems that, even as the end drew near, Mama was searching for one last perfect gift.

Thank you, Mama.

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Go mbeannai Dia dhuit.

 

 

Changes, Balance, and #Outlander

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“The Gathering Glove”

A good book can entertain you.  A great book can change you.  It can interest you in previously unthought of things.  It can inspire you to try something new.  It can awaken a part of your soul long slumbering.

Outlander has done all of these things for me.  I picked up a pen, started gardening, renewed my interest in herbs, invested in chickens and a small coop, and now…well, now I am trying something new…

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My sewing space.

I find that sewing is comforting.  And I like the creativity it offers.  I like enough that I opened an Etsy store so I could share some of the things I am making.

I have serveral “Outlander” inspired items and, because I am a big geek, I am also working on some Harry Potter inspired items.

Also, in case I haven’t complained about it here, my office often feels something like the Arctic Tundra, so I have even come up with some officey looking fingerless gloves crafted from fleece so that I can stay warm enough to still type.

If you are interested, you can find these items (and more!) at my Etsy store (ThePrintAndPlaidCo).  I try to have new items listed every day or so.  So please check back often.

I am currently trying to figure out how to balance sewing, and writing, and working full time, and spending time with my mom as she fights cancer, and also taking kiddos to football and color guard.  But I am here, and I am hanging on, and (some days) that is enough.

Casting Claire (or How To Stop #Outlander Casting Bashing)

 

Claire_Fraser_(Outlander_TV)
Wait…are her eyes brown in this picture?

Her hair is brown, curly, and rather unruly.  Her eyes are the color of whisky; they are hawkish and observant[i].  At 5”6, her nose fits neatly in the hollow of Jamie’s chest.  Despite her generous bum and her full bosom, she is trim.[ii]  In the first book, Claire responds to Jamie’s blurted inquiry of “How much do you weigh, Sassanach,” with the unguarded answer of “Nine stone.”[iii]  These are the physical attribute of Claire—this is what she sees when she looks in the mirror.  Although, to be fair, considering the fictional life she lives, she doesn’t always have one to hand.  But that’s perfectly fine, because more often than not, Claire does give a rat’s ass if she looks “proper” or not.

Besides her lack of preoccupation with appearance, one of the things I love best about Claire is that her appearance is not static.  It changes.  She changes.  During times of trial and hardship, she loses weight; her stomach becomes nearly concave.  One cold winter, when activity is understandably limited due to the weather, Claire describes herself as “squidgy.”[iv]  Her hair starts to turn, some strands fade to white while others take on a silvery sheen.  Her ankle is marked by a broken vein.  Faint stretch marks are a testament to her feminine form.

And yet, based on (or in spite of) the words on the page, readers undoubtedly find themselves in Claire:

She is tall like me (…or short like me…)

She is curvy, like me (…or thin, like me…or has a round rear-end, like me…)

This seeing ourselves in the characters may be one of the reason that readers be so emotionally invested in the appearance of their beloved book characters when they do finally make an appearance on the screen.

Unfortunately, whenever a character is cast, it seems that the Appearance Police make their own appearance…

Hmmph, Brianna’s hair is so not that shade of red.  Cant’s they just use the dye they use for Jamie?

Claire’s eyes should be whisky colored.  Seriously, how hard would it be to wear contacts?

Brianna should be taller.  Geez, can’t she just, like, wear some platform shoes?

Roger’s hair should be blacker.  *produces bottle of hair dye and waves it threateningly*

Claire is too thin (…or too curvy).

Jamie’s hair is too short (…or long….or red…or curly…or fuzzy…)  Because, you know, they totally had some great hair products back in the 1700s… Bear grease, anyone?

Admittedly, it seems like the screams of outrage are louder for the casting of the female characters.  Maybe I missed it, but I don’t recall having heard too much drama over the casting of Dougal (Disclaimer: I love Graham.  Seriously.  Not hating on Graham.  But, if you want to get picky, he really doesn’t look like Book Dougal.  And yet…no drama.  But geez, let poor Catriona rock her own eye color rather than some boozy hue and OMG! The Skye[v] is Freakin’ Falling!).

It seems that of All The Things I Stage Whisper To My Husband While Watching Outlander, none of these things are about physical attributes.  Mostly, because I tend to read characters and develop a “sense” of them rather than a mental image.  So I’m kind amazed when I see how absolutely rabid some[vi] of the Mental Imagers have with regard to the casting.

I just don’t get it.

But as I read all of the Twitter (and Facebook) outrage over the latest round of castings, it made me want to understand.  The best I can come up with is this:  maybe those qualities that the Casting Blasters believe they share with the main character weren’t retained, and it makes them sad to miss that perceived connection.

Maybe not.

I dunno.

But I do know that Jamie loved Claire when she was bony and when she was squidgy.  He loved her when she was his brown haired lass, when glints of white shone in her curls, and even when her head was shaved.  He loved her pre-stretch marks, and he loved her even more when the marks—these tangible evidence of the life they created– wove their silvery web across her stomach.  He loved her unconditionally.  Because Jamie loved the essence of Claire…not her appearance.

While lovely, Claire was so much more that that.  Jamie knew it.  Hell, even Lord John knew it:

“When he began to speak of you, both of us thought you were dead,” he pointed out.  “And while you are undoubtedly a handsome woman, it was never of your looks that he spoke.”

To my surprise, he picked up my hand and held it lightly.

“You have his courage,” he said.

 *Clears throat.*

*Wipes tear.*

*Drains whisky glass.*

So, I am thinking that maybe it would help if instead of Casting Bashing, we channel our inner-Jamie and wait and see how an actor/actress actually acts before we judge him/her.  We need to give them time to “show us what they got,” so to speak.

This approach works really well with fictional characters…come to think of it, it works pretty well for Real Life People, too.

 

 

[i] “She turned to Roger, her gaze an unsettling amber.  Her eyes always reminded him of hawk’s eyes, as though she could see a good deal father than most people.”  Voyager.
[ii] And this is where I would tuck in the quote about her flat belly that I recall from Voyager, when she is appraising her appearance and wondering how she will look to Jamie, after all these years… or at least this is where I would put the quote if I had book to hand and could find it at the moment
[iii] Or 126 pounds.  I rather like that she “owns” each pound; her answer is neither coy nor self-conscious.
[iv] To which Jamie responds something like, “I like ye fat.”  A response that made me crush on him pretty hard, and which every male would be well advised to learn and use when needed.
[v] See what I did there?
[vi] Please notice that I said “some,” not “all.”  If the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t assume I am trying to shove your foot into it.

Why I Encouraged My Teenage Daughter to Read #Outlander

When I was fourteen, I read Flowers in the Attic. Several of the other girls in my grade were reading it…whispering about it…stashing it away when the teachers walked by. Of course, I had to read it, too.  I was lucky; my mother was always happy to buy me books (although, had she read the book herself, she might have rethought that, at the time).

Some of my schoolmates had borrowed the book from their own mothers…and by “borrow” I mean that they took the book after their moms left for work and then slipped it back into place before their moms came home in the evening. In the time in between, we consumed the story with a kind of perverse fascination.

So this was what grown-ups read!

Outlander-blue-cover-198x300So when my own fourteen year old asked if she could borrow my battered copy of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, I didn’t hesitate long before passing the book to her. My heart skipped a beat as she dashed to her room to start reading but, to be perfectly honest, this was likely more concern for the fate of my beloved book than for how my daughter would react to the story.

No, that was a given.

This was one of those books that would leave a mark on her soul.

Some stories do that…they stay with you forever. I simply wanted to make sure that her first Adult Book was one worthy of the honor.

I read a lot of the same books that my daughter reads. Not because I am policing her reading, but because I want to share in it. When she comes to me sobbing over some book betrayal, I need to know who has earned those tears. But some of the books targeted to teenagers seem to portray the female protagonists as perpetually enduring some Great Tragedy, or waiting for a male character to define them/save them/notice them/love them.

Not all of the stories, mind you. There are some really good YA books with strong female characters who represented a wide range of diversity. But, honestly, we waded through a lot of simpering fools to find a few strong female protagonists. And a lot of the love interests shown in the books were either sparkly or broody. Many were emotionally manipulative or controlling. If she was going to have a “book boyfriend,” I wanted better for her.

So when I realized that my daughter seemed interested in this massive tome which made me laugh out loud, and ugly cry, and real passages aloud for the simple pleasure of feeling the words on my lips, I didn’t discourage it.

In fact, I encouraged it.

I scoured the books to find passages which showed the strength of love, the resilience of the human spirit, the anguished soul clawing its way out from the pits of despair. Some passages I read aloud. But sometimes, I left the book conspicuously next to the sofa—pages temptingly dog-eared—like an offering.

So when she finally asked to borrow the book, it was a relief, really.

“Where are you?” I’d ask eagerly. But not too eagerly.

The book served as a way to talk about hard things, scary things, awkward things… We talked about love and sex and respect and mutual pleasure and consideration between couples. We talked about marriage and expectations and the roles we construct for ourselves (and those that others wish to inflict on us). We talked about sexuality and about when feelings aren’t reciprocated. We spoke of honor and vows. Of promises kept…or not. We shared tears and heartbreak and loss. We talked about rape and brutality…and of healing. We spoke of hope and faith and trust.  We talked about when to hold on; we talked of when to let go.

I let my fourteen year old daughter read the book not in spite of the fact that the books is mature, but because it is. I let her read the book because I know that a book can be more than just entertainment—more than just a story.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a book can be a conversation…or at least the beginning of one.

 

raising boys (not rapists)

The world we are passing on to our children is not the world we were given.  A double edged sword, that.

My daughters have more career choices than ever (Doctor! Lawyer! Engineer! Physicist! Space Archeologist!)…but they are also living in a world where too many boys think that an appropriate response to a declined date request is a bullet to the offending girl’s head.

My younger daughter, not even a teen, has already been told that she was a “bitch” by a classmate when she declined to be his girlfriend.

For generations (and, too often, still today), girls were taught to encouraged to be soft spoken, and ever mindful of others.  We told them to be gentle with male egos.  We reminded them to preserve the masculinity of their husband or boyfriend.  We told all the things they should not do and, in doing so, we took away their voice.

Admittedly, we now “allow” women to say “No,” but we never really tell them how.  We never “undid” all those years of conditioning.

After so many years of passivity, the word feels foreign to the tongue.  Harsh even.  Women dance around the word, fearful that using it, owning it, certain that it will somehow be too much.  Woman are taught to take the blame for not wanting to date, to sleep with someone, for not liking someone….

It’s not you, it’s me.

I’m not in a good place right now.  I wouldn’t be good for you.

You deserve better.

Too often, women shy away from the direct reason; it seems cruel.

I don’t like you like that. 

I don’t feel that way. 

I don’t want to. 

As if owning our emotions makes us mean.  As if being real makes us a bitch.  But then, that’s what women are told, isn’t it?  Remember my eleven year old?  Not wanting to be someone’s girlfriend = Bitch.

Today, women are labeled bitches for everything that conflicts with the Entitled White Male’s perspective*:

Don’t like a boy?  Bitch.

Don’t want to have sex?  Bitch.

Break up with a boy?  Bitch.

Date someone else?  Bitch.

Don’t appreciate an unsolicited dick pic?  Definitely bitch.

Just ask the guy who sent a dick pic to complete stranger with the note “You have pretty eyes.”  [Because, clearly, her eyes were so incredibly sexy that they must have wanted it—her “come-hither” eyes obviously lured him into sending such a picture.  Did you SEE how her eyes were dressed?  The eye shadow!  The mascara!  She wanted it.  Sure she did.]  The dick pic recipient’s response was funny…and tragic.  Funny, because she definitely put him in his place; tragic because she had to.  Someone certainly needed to; clearly, no one had bother to before.

My daughters live in a world where a boy rapes an unconscious female behind a dumpster.  They live in a world where, tragically, this is not uncommon.  Sports heroes, and their bright shiny futures, are given more consideration than the battered victim.

caused byWe tell our daughters to watch how they dress, what they drink, where they walk, when they walk, to look in their back seats, to lock their doors, to travel in packs.  We teach them to take self-defense classes, to carry pepper spray, to carry alarms and whistles to call for help.  What do we teach our boys?  When do we talk about the boys?

Companies now manufacture a necklace that can detect the presence of date rape drugs.

Amazon carries small “test strips” for the same purpose. Did you turn your back on your drink for a moment?  Better use a test strip!

There is even a special, protective line of clothing to help avert would-be rapists.  No seriously. A company has designed Anti-Rape Clothing to help a woman avoid sexual assault.  Apparently it is no longer enough to try to dress modestly.  No, now women must wear clothing specially designed to help that physically deters rapists.

One inventor is even working on something akin to a “killer tampon”—a device that women can insert in their vagina and which then slices off a portion of the penis of any uninvited guest.  While, in theory, this may seem perfectly fitting (after all the $#&$*#&%* tried to rape someone!), but it doesn’t consider what happens afterwards.  Now we have a rape victim who is (obviously) in close quarters with an injured and angry rapist.  Not a good combination.

Admittedly, rape is not new.  Angry ex-boyfriends are not new.  Ex-boyfriends who break into your house in the early hours of Mother’s Day when you are in highschool are not new.**  And maybe the sense of entitlement that seems to underlie so many of these stories is not new…but it isn’t getting any better.

We don’t think twice about marketing devices to help women “keep themselves safe,” but we turn a blind eye to anything that might prevent a man from raping.  Because there are so many things that can keep a man from raping.  No, not devices…something so much more powerful than pills or potions, than gadgets or guards.  Words.

Words have more power than we realize, and they are one of our most underutilized tools.  And I am not talking about internet shaming.  I’m talking about actual  conversations.  No, really.  But not just talking…also listening.  Too often the two don’t go hand in hand.

My youngest child is a boy, and every time I hear or see a story about rape, or abuse, or discrimination, or assault…I holler up the stairs for him.  I ask him to come down, because we need to talk.  Teachable moments being what they are, I stop what I am doing, and he stops what he is doing, and we talk.  I read him the stories (sometimes calmly, and sometimes with tears streaming down my face as I try to choke out the words).  I show him the videos (sometimes he reaches for my hand to “pinky promise” that he would never be like That Guy).

Afterwards, I ask him what he would do.  I share with him things that I have gone through, or his sisters.  I suggest that he consider how he would feel if the story had happened to one of his sisters, to me, or to his beloved grandmothers.

I see the horror on his face as puts familiar faces to the newspaper headlines.

I remind him that not every girl will like him.  And that’s okay.  There is nothing wrong with him.  Or her.  I coach him on how to deal with a rejection—a declined date or unshared affection.

We talk about photos taken and shared—what is appropriate and what is not.  I remind him that the internet makes things timeless.  Things that are shared here cannot be unshared.  I tell him that the internet is like fire:  it can keep you warm and toasty or it can burn you to pieces—it depends how you use it.

We talk about respect.  Both for ourselves and for others.

We talk about sex.  A lot.  He is only eleven, and already the neighborhood boys of his age are talking sending texts to the neighborhood girls informing them that they “want to fuck” them.  No, really.  At eleven. 

My daughter showed me the text her friend received:  “I want to . . . you and [Name of Another Friend].”

Whatever small bit of tact that I might possess was noticeably absent in my response.  “I hope she told him to go Dot Dot Dot himself,” I snarled.

I try to explain to my kids that sex isn’t something you do, it is something you share with someone you love.  And we talk about what love is…and what it isn’t.  Love isn’t just attraction or desire or butterflies or giddiness.  All of that pales in the presence of love.  And I have told all of my kids that I want them to find love.

True love.

Love built on respect and loyalty and trust and devotion.  Love that gives at least as much as it takes.  Love that takes its time.  Love that gives time.  I told them that I don’t care what type of package that love comes in.  I promised them that if they bring home someone who is kind and respectful and generous with their heart that we will love their partner, too.

Love is love is love.

Teaching love will do more to destroy rape culture than any mass-marketed device that we sell to women.  Teaching love will do more to squash the dangerous sense of entitlement than the ridiculously inadequate jail terms handed down for the poor misunderstood athletes rapists.

Let’s use our words.

We’ve talked enough about What she wore.  Where she was.  What she drank.  Who she slept with before… 

It’s time for a new conversation.  Let’s talk about our boys.

Let’s talk to our boys.

 

_______________________

*Yes, I know not all men are like this.  Yes, I actually do like men, in general.   Quite a lot actually.  Some of my favorite people are men.  Yes, it is sad that I need to add this disclaimer.  Yes, this is the kind of thing I am talking about.

**And I know they are not new because this happened to me when I was in high school.

#Outlander, the Icky Bits, and Nutella

I haven’t weighed in on Season 2 of Outlander yet.  Maybe I was letting it sink in, perhaps I needed to process it a bit…to decide just what I felt about it.

Other fans shared their thoughts and opinions.  I heard talk about how Episode 1 Jamie seemed remote, hard to relate to, almost wooden.   They bemoan the change and how Season 2 Jamie isn’t “their” Jamie–how he’s not the same as Season 1 Jamie.

And, of course, they are right.

They mention the rape, talk about his PTSD, and how he is traumatized.  Yes, yes.  Of course he is.  But a lot of these comments are followed up with the something like, “I’ll be glad when the old Jamie is back.” 

What they likely mean, of course, is that they will be glad when camera focuses less on Jamie’s pain and trauma and gets back to the good times.  They want less screen time that focuses less on his nightmares and more on his smile, his wit, and his cute tush.

And I get it.

I do.

Or maybe they simply mean that they want his suffering to end.  That’s not bad, right?  I mean, they really like Jamie.  Who wants to see someone they like in pain?

But, really, if one of our BFFs suffered a trauma, would we try force “normalcy” on her so quickly?  Or would we give her time to cry, to grieve, to bury her pain in a pint of Ben & Jerrys (or a pint of Guinness, I won’t judge), and to curse the son of a bitch that hurt her…all while we planned his very painful and humiliating demise?

Sometimes you need to hang out in your sweat pants and watch bad Lifetime movies while eating Nutella straight from the jar.  Sometimes that chocolate-hazelnut goodness is all that gets you through the day.

These episodes…they are Jamie’s Nutella Days.  The guy has earned it.  Don’t try to take the jar away just yet.

Yes, broken Jamie is painful to watch.  Broken Jamie doesn’t want to think about Sexy Time.  Broken Jamie is short tempered and doesn’t whisper sweet nothings in Gaelic.

Geez.  Next thing you know, Broken Jamie will start talking about bills, and carpool, and he’ll leave the toilet seat up…

But the thing is, people are like that.  Life is like that.  Love is like that.

There are things you simply can’t rush.  You can’t rush healing.  You can’t rush forgiveness (of yourself or of others).  You can’t rush growth, or understanding, or love.

One of the things I love so much about the books is how Diana Gabaldon doesn’t rush things.  She doesn’t write Jamie’s rape and then pretend it never happened.  We are reminded of it– Jamie is reminded of it—over and over and over again.

Diana Gabaldon did not merely craft a character and a scene.  She crafted scars for him to bear, specters to haunt him, guilt to chain him, and faith to heal him. Her books gave Jamie—and the readers—time to work through what happened and its implications.  She breathed life into fantasy.

Jamie’s rape casts a long shadow, and it reaches through the books and colors events for many years to come.  I appreciate that what he endured was not a simple plot device that, once used, is swept under the rug.  The thread of Jamie’s sacrifice is woven through all of the books…through each page (oh, so many pages) of all of the books (those wonderfully long books!).

Have I mentioned that I love long books?  (Thank you, Diana!)

I do.

Because you can’t rush a good story.

Stories are more than just the good parts.  Life is more than just the good parts.  Love is more than just the good parts.

So I will watch patiently.  I will bear witness to the painful bits, the heartbeats of sorrow, and the moments of aching longing, because these times are the building blocks for what is to come.

Things get better.  They do.  Wounds heal.  Disappointments fade.

Both on screen and on the page…and in life.

Until then, pass the Nutella.