Yesterday was my 46th birthday. Another year. Another milestone. Another day that we attribute significance to as a way to try to keep time. A strange saying, that. “Keep time.” As if it’s a commodity, like money or food, which can be squirreled away for a time of greater need. News flash: It’s not. Despite popular idioms, time cannot be “saved” or “spent.” It cannot be “kept” or “given.” And it most certainly cannot be “captured,” like some sort of wild prey. It just…is. Like nature, and the passing of seasons. Like that ephemeral moment when the shadows of late day somehow, possibly when you blinked, gave way to the gloaming. It is to be savored, appreciated, and allowed to pass…making room for the next moment.
When my mother died, I inherited a bit of her jewelry. Most of it was bits and bobs, but among them were quite a few watches. Most were merely fashionable baubles with no more value than the sentimental. The batteries had long since died, but I took to wearing them anyway. A reminder of my late mother, to be sure. But also to mark that moment, forever frozen, when the watch’s rhythmic ticking gave way to stillness. A testament, perhaps, to the fact that time waits for no one.
This year, the heat of summer is scorching. Heat indexes of 120 degrees dot the Oklahoma weather map. While Oklahoma heat is well known, it came soon this year, and it burns away the last of July. The days of loitering in spring’s cool days seemed fewer this year, too soon taken over by the oppressive blaze of the summer sun. But a couple of turns of the calendar and it will be autumn. Heat will give way to chill as green succumbs to shades of russet…just before winter the cold of winter settles in the bones.
For now, though, I hurry to water things, only to hurry to harvest them. And then, if history is any indicator, I will overwinter with a pile of seed catalogs and grandiose dreams of the next planting, the next season, the next year, the next…
A glance at my wrist, however, stills that. The unmoving hands, a reminder to still myself. To breathe. To look around. To truly see what surrounds me in this moment. To appreciate it before it, too, moves forward, hurling toward the next great, unpromised unknown.
Travis has another doctor appointment today to check on his pneumonia. I’m hoping that it is resolving. When we went for our walk this morning, I heard him struggling with the weight of the humid Oklahoma air. Still, I’m hopeful.
Thursday will be one month since his surgery. A month of doctors, hospitals, pain, prescriptions…and healing.
I know he’s getting frustrated. I know he’s still so uncomfortable. I know he wants to be “further along.” I know he is worried about bills. I know he feels like a burden.
How do you explain to someone that they are worth so much more than you could ever give? How do you show them that you meant every word of your vow? For better or worse…in sickness and in health…
At some point, this point in our story will make sense. At some point, this will be a “remember when…” But for now, it is our new normal. For now, it is the thing that keeps us up at night. Travis struggles to sleep (a common thing for bypass patients, I am told). And I…I sneak into the living room and watch him in his fitful sleep, sitting upright in his chair, and I relish in the simple joy of watching him breathe.
Three years ago, my husband had a heart attack. This past Thursday, he had another.
Three years ago, they assessed the damage and used stents to try to patch him up. And it worked…for a time. On Tuesday, we will try to give him more time with open heart surgery and bypasses.
Three years ago, my mom called to check on me. She worried and fussed and Mom-ed me. She watched kids, made sure I ate, and listened to me cry. Now, I still mourn her passing and ache with the knowledge of all she would have done…were she still alive and here to do it.
For those who still follow my journey, thank you. For those who might be able to help, I am humbled.
I will post as we march on towards Tuesday, and the unknown, as well as after the surgery. Until then…say a prayer, light a candle, send positive energy…and know how much we appreciate it.
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…
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.
Have been hard at work sewing more Outlander inspired gloves. It gives me something to do while I am Scrooging my way through the holiday season.
I wandered over to the local fabric store last week and came across some Blackwatch fleece, then the heavens shined on me and I found some gorgeous enamel dragonfly buttons then, BEHOLD, these fingerless reading gloes were born.
I mean seriously…did you SEE that button?!
I even found some dragonfly buttons that are cast in an amber colored enamel. If there is enough demand, I will go ahead and splurge on them and make some up.
I was also thinking about a line of gloves with a pair inspired by each of the Outlander books. Yes, I AM that big of a geek, thanks for asking.
Finally found the fabric I want for my Harry Potter inspired gloves. Time to break out the embroidery machine.
In the meantime, here are some of my other OUTLANDER inspired gloves, in case you need an inexpensive holiday gift, or work in a cold office, or because, you know, they’re kinda cute.
If you want to see more, there are a LOT of different colors, styles, and fabrics on my Etsy store: The Print and Plaid Co.
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…
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.
Sometimes you just know things. A thought, unbidden, rises with certainty. Not something hoped for. Not something expected. But something Known.
When I heard my mom had a mass in her lung, I knew it was cancer. And before the radiation and chemo and pet scans, I knew–just as sure as autumn’s days grow shorter–that when the season’s chill gave way to cold, she would also give way to something, to whatever comes After.
This brave, wise, and faithful woman taught me to live. Now, as these numbered days march on, she teaches me the Final Lesson. How to die. The one thing that she cannot teach me is how to go on without her. This lesson I must figure out on my own, and a lonely, stumbling journey it is.
Raised with books as I was, I look there for solace: I try to find escape; I try to find guidance. Something to hold onto when I can no longer hold her.
A pile of books waits for me next to my bed. The spines cracked with use. Pages dog-earred. C. S. Lewis shared his own journey in A Grief Observed, and I cling to it like a map out of the abyss. I spare a thought for the repose of his own soul, and in the next ragged breath I say a word of thanks for Diana Gabaldon and her Outlander series. Mere words on paper, to be sure, but words that have helped me untangle thoughts, find hope and faith, soothe both anger and fear… Now I turn to those beloved books in the blind panic of a grief much dreaded.
Considering the span of years (and the time period) which Gabaldon’s books cover, it is only natural that death and loss occurs. Claire’s parents. Jamie’s parents. Murtaugh. Ian Murray. Frank. Mrs. Bug. Faith. Even merely presumed deaths cast a long shadow across the page.
We see death through the eyes of so many characters. And, in them, we see ourselves Every stage of grief is represented: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, then finally…acceptance.
Last night I reread the pages of Ian Murray’s death. I grabbed the book off the pile and took it with me to my son’s football practice. The heat of the day had dissolved into a crisp breeze, and the Oklahoma sun was blazing pink and yellow behind the black of the shadowed tree line. Under dusk’s shadows, I flipped through the pages until I found it.
The death was neither easy nor poetic, but his soul’s final passage was a gentle slipping away.
He didn’t speak again but seemed to settle, his body diminishing as life and breath fled from it. When his last breath came, they waited in dull misery, expecting another, and only after a full minute of silence did they begin to look at one another covertly, stealing glances at the ravaged bed, the stillness in Ian’s face–and realized slowly that it was over at last.
Despite the fact that we know it is coming, we never quite expect it; we wait for a breath that never comes, and glance at one another for confirmation. Is this it? Is this all? We always want there to be more.
They move on. Then we move on. We proceed with preparations. Busy ourselves with What Must Be Done. But realization finds us in the quiet moments. It always does.
When Jamie and Jenny find a quiet moment together, Jenny asks her brother the thought that has lingered in her mind despite her distractions:
“Where d’ye think he is now?” Jenny asked suddenly. “Ian, I mean.”
He glanced at the house, then at the new grave waiting, but of course that wasn’t Ian anymore. He was panicked for a moment, his earlier emptiness returning–but then it came to him, and, without surprise, he knew what it was Ian had said to him.
“On your right side, man.” On his right. Guarding his weak side.
“He’s just here,” he said to Jenny, nodding to the spot between them. Where he belongs.”
This is what I am holding on to…that long after I stop waiting for the breath that never comes, I will always find her, just there, guarding my weak side.
By the time I turned 40, I had amassed a lot more good books, a few more wrinkles, and more true friends. That is the nice thing about finding yourself…once you find yourself, you can find your people. Everyone needs people. Even a sporadically extroverted introvert like me.
My people tend to be a bookish sort. Full of snark and geeky cultural references tucked alongside the botanical names for certain herbs and an unapologetic appreciation for the bagpipes, my people are a motley bunch. Yet, I still delight in adding to my tribe. In fact, I seek them out.
As I gathered water bottles and hollered for my son to hurry up and grab helmet and pads for practice, I dashed back in the house to grab a book. Well, two books actually.
“Haven’t your already read Outlander like a million times?” he asked as I climbed into the car.
“Mmphm,” I snorted. “You know I have.”
“So….why are you reading it again?”
I sighed impatiently. “Some books are worth reading again. But I’m actually not re-reading it. I’m reading that other one.” I nodded my head towards the other book. My battered copy of Voyager peeked out from under the cluttered in the back seat.
“Why did you run it to get it if you aren’t going to read it?”
I shrugged. “Well, in case I run into someone that likes Outlander. Or might like Outlander.”
That’s right. Let that Fandom Flag fly high.
This is the same reason that I want to get a new phone. Well, besides the fact that my iPhone is so old that it only has 3G, there is no space left on it, and it is so slow that if I had to use it to call 911, whatever crises warranted the call would likely be over. But I digress…I want a new phone so that I have the space to get a new ringtone. The ringtone. The Skye Boat Song.
Right now, all incoming phone calls* are announced with the blaring of the Doctor Who theme song. (Which I downloaded after I realized that the magical twinkling bells of Hedwig’s Theme was not audible from the nethermost of my purse.) I briefly considered the Sherlock theme, but my inner Scotswoman wants bagpipes. So that’s that.
At first, I didn’t realize quite what I was doing. I thought I was simply surrounding myself with the things I love. Which was true, of course, but it is more than that. Like a male peacock showing off his plumage, it was all about attraction. I was trying to attract others. People like me. My people.
There is a Scottish festival coming up in a few weeks. There will be tartans, and meat pies, and bagpipes. Books of history, and uprisings, and recipes, and languages. I want to get a new license plate that proclaims my heritage. Perhaps a bumper sticker, too.
If you see me driving down the street, feel free to honk. If you see me at football practice reading, pull up a chair. We can talk Outlander, or Sherlock, or Game of Thrones, or Walking Dead, or….whatever.
Come on. Don’t be shy. There’s plenty of room in the tribe.
* This is not strictly true. I do have one other ring tone. All of my husband’s calls are proudly announced with the ear-piercing wail of a police siren, since he is…well…a police officer. This is particularly fun when I am in a crowded place and he calls, and everyone around me looks around nervously. My kids do not find this nearly as entertaining as I do.
Momming is hard. (I assume that Dadding is hard, too. But, not being a Dad, I wouldn’t presume to know. It just seems like it would be.) Momming takes time and energy (so, so much energy). It takes patience, and it requires a certain tacit agreement to go without sleep. Momming means changing your child’s clothes a dozen times a day…on days when you may not even manage to change your own clothes even once.
Momming is especially hard when you try to pair it with something else that is hard like, you know, Arting. Arting is hard by itself. Arting takes time and inspiration time and dedication and time. And…well, did I mention time?
Yeah…with one husband, three children, three cats, four chickens, and one beagle, time is at a premium. I know, I know. I’m not special. What was it that Neil Gaiman said?
“You get what anyone gets – you get a lifetime.” ~Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 1: Preludes and Nocturnes.
Smart man, that.
I really like Neil Gaiman a lot. I like his books. I like how he talks about books. I like that he appreciates librarians. I even like how (for whatever reason) my beagle barks incessantly whenever I listen to Neil Gaiman’s audio books, as if she is convinced that a well-read Englishman has broken into our house and might decide to steal her kibble.
Set aside time to write that’s only writing time. Put away your phone. Turn off or disable your wifi. Write in longhand if you wish. Put up a do not disturb sign. And make your writing time sacred and inviolable.
And in that time, this is the deal. You can write, or you can not do anything. Not doing anything is allowed. (What not doing anything includes: staring at walls, staring out of windows, thinking broodily, staring at your hands. What not doing anything does not include: alphabetising the spice rack, checking Tumblr, taking your pen apart, playing solitaire or running a clean up program on your computer.)
You get to pick how long a day your writing time is. An hour? Two? Three? Your call.
Doing nothing gets pretty dull. So you might as well write. (And if you write 300 words, one page, every day, you’ll have a 90,000 word novel in a year.)
Let me be the first to admit that I absolutely defer to Mr. Gaiman on the subject of writing. He has done it longer. He has done it better. But I have Mommed longer than he has—what with him not being a Mom and all. (Yes, yes, he has Dadded—his is Dadding–I know. Hear me out.)
When I read Mr. Gaiman’s writing wisdom with a friend, I choked at the bit about picking how long a day your writing time was. Seriously, an hour? Two? Three? *snort laugh* I know of Zero mothers who have an hour to set aside without someone bellowing Mom? Mama? Mommy?
The Mom Version of this would be more like:
You get to pick how long you can ignore the crashes and whining coming from the other side of the door, or how long you can hide in the bathroom until your kids/spouse/co-workers find you. Ten Minutes? Fifteen? Until the person in the stall next to you asks if you have a roll to spare?
I understand that writers must write. I do. I get it. And we do learn to steal our moments where we may. For instance, in order to carve out about 30 minutes of writing time in the morning, I get up at 5:00 a.m. I also write on my lunch hour. I write at football practice. I write in the stadium while waiting for color guard practice to end. I write on my arm at stop lights. I write on the back of envelopes. I have even written out a particularly pleasing turn of phrase in the steam on the shower door, then attempted to fog up the room again to retrieve the snippet. (Yes, it worked.) But I honestly cannot tell you the last time that I had an uninterrupted three hour stretch of writing time.
With three kids, all of my vacation time and sick days are used tend to the needs of others. Sick children. Teacher conferences. Rehearsals. Recitals. Dentist. Asthma attack. You pick.
Still, I do take his meaning. And, honestly, I am grateful for the reminder. It is the doing of The Thing that makes The Thing possible. In other words: if I want to be a writer, I’d better write. So, I do. God help me, I do. I set my alarm to an hour that even my chickens find deplorable. I also linger in the bathroom longer than strictly necessary for bodily functions. In between moments of Momming, I find time to do something else. I write words. I turn phrases. I craft Art. Perhaps the method is haphazard but, for now, it is the only method this mom can manage.
Life is short. Kids grow up. So, in the words of Neil Gaiman, I might as well write.
 I am especially fond of him because when my eldest child was eight years old, she decided to write to Mr. Gaiman and to send him a “book” she had written (and illustrated) entitled “Regina the One-Winged Owl.” Mr. Gaiman was kind enough to very promptly send along a handwritten note of encouragement telling her how he liked the cliffhanger ending. My daughter was thrilled. She is now 14, and she still has the note.
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.
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.
*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.