Practicing Sanity

Look Away

2011-12-10T12:19:00.000-05:00

10 December 2011

The pot boils,

the flower blooms,

the writing fades,

the light glooms.

We watch without blinking,

eyes watering, winking--

still, the child grows,

flourishes, goes

when we look away.

Topography

2011-12-05T09:53:00.001-05:00

5 December 2011

A barely visible cross-hatch of history

lies below my eyes;

a topographical diary of thirty-five years’

experience, foul and fair, each impression

faintly faded as a fabric’s fold

that will never lay flat

no matter how hot the iron,

no matter how hard the press.

For a Time

2011-12-04T17:25:00.001-05:00

4 December 2011

I have learned there’s a treatment
to amputate whatever
silence cannot be tolerated,
whatever noise needs hushed.
Extremities are a nuisance, even when
Nature herself dictates that I receive
the gift of acute feeling
for a time. To numb is the norm;
Experience has become
a choice against the grain--
to dive in, to know, to stay sane
amidst the chaos.

Tea with the In-Laws

2011-10-27T07:12:00.001-04:00

27 October 2011

I stir my tea and think
of everyone half a world away, wonder
if Lizet stirs her tea counter-clockwise;
how Ruth manages to stir her tea at all;
if Dottie drinks tea when we’re not there
to make it for her, to sit and sip and enjoy
the simple moments that sometimes we,
yes, even we take for granted.
I stir from the bottom and wonder how
Deb can manage coffee without sugar,
if Gina is ribbing her husband instead of me
over half-and-half this early in the morning.

You Used to Write Things

2011-10-25T08:26:00.002-04:00

I used to write things--
USED to, he says,
and then looks
puzzled at my offense.
Used to indeed!
Why, just the other day,
I wrote a note
explaining why
our son was not in school.
I wrote a grocery list;
a collection of items,
things I must do before
I lay down to rest.

Polished Wood

2011-10-22T19:18:00.000-04:00

22 October 2011

Time is taking hold of my eyelids,
dragging them along
a mostly predetermined path. Evidence
of many meals enjoyed,
perhaps too much,
certainly too late,
bring softness where once
I was, by and large, unyielding--
but my hair in sunlight is still
the color of polished wood.

Broken Faith

2011-09-15T18:00:00.001-04:00

15 September 2011

Think before you call it quits--
you’ll never stop
realizing all you’ve lost,
even when the sting subsides
and you’ve forgiven yourself
and other. There will always be
another reminder of where and who
you could or should have been;
who you should be with.
No matter how good it gets,
it’s never quite perfect,
and you can’t ever make it
what it’s not, no matter how you long,
no matter how you try to believe
you never loved,
you never broke faith.

Bexley, Ohio

2011-09-09T10:36:00.002-04:00

I'm in Bexley, Ohio this weekend with my husband. He's speaking at Ohio Linux Fest, and I'm hanging out at the home of some friends, exploring Bexley and generally doing nothing and relaxing.

I have been enjoying Bexley immensely this morning. The trees are old, the sidewalks are wide, and almost every house has a large, inviting porch. This place is made for walking, and it's not just the residential areas. Main Street is a quarter mile from where I'm staying, if that, and it's lined with small businesses of every description: Thrift stores, coffee shops, bakeries, grocers, you name it. There are at least two banks and an elementary school within walking distance.

Who wouldn't want to live in Bexley? Who wouldn't lose 10 pounds within the first six months of living here, just from walking everywhere--because they could? I am envious of pretty much everyone who lives in Bexley.

Granted, from my house I can walk to Kroger, the gym, Starbucks (not that I would), RiteAid, and several small restaurants. However, walking in my neighborhood is not the pleasure it is here in Bexley, with walker friendly routes going any direction you could choose. The sidewalks in my neighborhood are narrow, and in places they are non-existent. Getting into the Kroger parking lot on foot is, at times, a practice in taking your life into your own hands.

I wonder if it's possible to transform a neighborhood like mine into a neighborhood like Bexley? I guess I can do my part, anyway. I'll need a front porch, large shade trees out by the [scrawny] sidewalk, and a willingness to start walking, even if the paths are not quite as friendly there as they are here in Bexley.

Vintage Sewing Machine Table

2011-07-14T12:20:00.006-04:00

I bought a very old, wood sewing machine table at Goodwill yesterday for $7.50. Can you believe that? I must conclude that someone didn't know what they had, because this is a very nice piece of furniture, and perfect working order.

My only difficulty was that I lacked the mounting screws that originally came with my sewing machine. There was no finding them--this machine is OLD, and the screws are long gone. I searched and searched for information about what sort of screw is required, and found no information. I finally found a set of screws at the local sewing machine repair shop. It was a bit of a long shot, since the owner just happened to have a sewing machine cabinet in the store at the time that had a vintage sewing machine attached to it, and he was willing to give me the screws because he was planning to scrap the sewing machine.

I did what I could to try to identify the size of the screws, because this is information I would have found useful this morning. As far as I can tell, the screw is a 7/8-1/2x28 fillister head machine screw. I have no idea what it's made of, but it's got to be strong to hold my steel sewing machine in place.

I'm awfully pleased to have it all together and working. Now, what project to work on...

Complacent

2011-07-07T16:02:00.003-04:00

I no longer wade into the depths;

extend myself to hidden places to find

what's wonderful any more than

I choose to seek out the predators.

By extension, or lack thereof, my beauty

swims at the bottom of an inkwell, free

to avoid notice; bound by complacency.

I sit in sunny paradise with an ice-cold

Yes I Can; Now Everything Is Peaceful

humming softly in my ear.

Thoughts After Bedtime At Friendly Acres

2011-07-02T17:08:00.001-04:00

You give me poems to write:

space for me and mine to work out

our idiosyncrasies here

in a place Friendly to such things.

There is so much opportunity.

I am afraid to go to sleep,

even at 11:32 PM, when

my children have long since

left their struggles to find rest;

when my husband has been in bed

for at least an hour without me.

You must understand, this is unheard of.

Home is a complicated combination

of many ingredients. He is the first.

My children are a close second,

and after that, it's all a matter

of geography, and being in the same space

together--safe and somewhat understood,

if only for a moment.

You needn't catch every nuance;

understand every shade of meaning

entailed within our struggles.

The matter is only one of willingness

to be present, to endure,

to come together at the end of the day

on the porch with the sun in our eyes

aware that the time is slipping past us;

this won't last. We have to enjoy of each other

what we can, while we can.

That's what matters most.

The Porch

2011-07-01T23:42:00.001-04:00

The porch is a good place to sit

and take in the rest of the farm.

Mail comes when it comes,

and if I sit here, I know when

to walk down the driveway and retrieve

the junk and what I imagine are rare

precious posts--perhaps less rare here

in such a friendly corner of the world.

The wind is cool, just right

on a day when, if I step off the porch

into the sunlight, I'm a little too warm

for comfort. The leaves are singing,

the sky is lazy, the trees are wearing

shadowy skirts that brush the grass

a darker shade of lovely.

Comparative Literature

2011-04-28T10:33:00.001-04:00

28 April 2011

The bright colors, crinkly fish

tails and floppy elephant ears

mark this book as hers, completely

safe and allowed

and, therefore, uninteresting

compared with my Kindle.

Up All Night

2011-03-18T09:42:00.001-04:00

18 March 2011

Sometimes she sleeps--we think she's angelic.

Those hours fly by, then she wakes teething,

spends the night screaming.

In the morning someone asks

and we agree she's adorable

during the day or when she sleeps,

but wouldn't it be nice to close your eyes at 10 PM,

not open them until 5 or 6? Of course,

there are the moments when she wakes burning,

a cloth on her brow, cool just moments ago,

mopping up the fever. Those moments between

2 and 2:30 stretch out as if to ten mornings or more,

waiting for the fever to break. I've noticed

how precious she is in those moments,

whether or not she's sleeping.

Congruence

2011-03-06T21:49:00.001-05:00

6 March 2011

I never have understood this brand of non-conformity,

everyone building their own unique

from homologous blocks of vaguely varying hues;

differing degrees of sameness. The very pretty

people somnambulate to and fro scrutinizing;

assimilating bits of cleverly pieced cotton and ramie;

making their resulting congruence

a little less distinctive, a little more

just like everyone else.

The Beginning of Lent

2011-03-06T10:54:00.003-05:00

My family missed church this morning for various reasons, among which were that our older daughter returned very late last night (or early this morning) from a three day field trip to Chicago, and our younger daughter decided last night that she wasn't so much into the whole Sleep Thing. I was looking forward to the service this morning, and specifically to hearing our priest talk about the epistle and the Gospel.

The epistle this morning was from Ephesians 6, and talked about honoring one's parents, one's master, one's servants; and about putting on the armor of God.

The Gospel was from Matthew 6, and was, for me, the harder of the two readings.

"For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."

I have recently realized how very long my memory is. At the same time, I know there's really no good excuse for an unforgiving spirit. I find myself particularly convicted upon reading this passage, having had several opportunities recently to have my [not so] righteous indignation stoked. Regardless of how purely motivated a person believes his or her anger to be, today's Gospel reading makes very clear that forgiveness is not optional. I'm not saying it can be forced, but it's a long road, and I'd do well to start walking.

The latter portion of the Gospel reading is equally compelling to me.

"Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

The reading itself doesn't need any commentary. What do I value most? Where is my treasure?

I'm pondering this morning how these two readings intersect, these ideas of obedience, honor, preparation; forgiveness and valuing things that last rather than what doesn't. Why do they come together, on this, the last non-Lenten Sunday of the season? And since I'm missing Father Tom's commentary on this point, I'll be running it through my processor all day. If I come up with anything particularly compelling, I'll be back to comment.

Fishing

2011-01-21T03:33:00.002-05:00

Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith
21 January 2011

I've never been a fan of fishing--
the smell of stink bait, or the wriggling
of worms I send to their deaths
so I can feel a moment of exhilaration
(or not)
when an unwitting catfish, trout, bass
runs scared from my hook inexorably
piercing, tearing the flesh of his cheek.

This has never been my idea of a good time,
though some revel in that moment, whether
this terrified creature is dinner,
or an unfortunate participant in a game
of catch and release.

I might be persuaded to sit lakeside,
unsuccessfully casting my line
in an unpopulated shallow, enjoying
the warmth of the sun, the cool of a beer,
the seemingly self-satisfied state
of the fish who think
they've pulled one over on the hook today,
the story telling later
about the one that got away.

Harvest

2010-12-28T11:03:00.002-05:00

28 December 2010
I don't generally make New Year's resolutions, because they seem a recipe for failure. But I need to be writing, and am going to try to write more in 2011.

There was a time when I wrote everything
in hopes that nothing would be missed,
no part of myself would remain
unseen--by you, by anybody.
I never expected the exercise would yield
such lovely fruit, and in the yielding
steal my drive to capture every moment
on a page. What once came more like gasping;
grasping for air than breathing
now becomes an exquisite discipline;
straining to hear the sweetest melody
amidst the musical swell suffusing every breath.

What Matters

2010-09-25T22:57:00.004-04:00

The thought occurred to me today that some of the most important things in life are the relationships we keep (and *how* we keep them), being creative and resourceful when needs arise, and learning to be content with what we have. Or maybe I should say that those have been some of the most important things in *my* life. When I was a single mom, being creative with what I had--physically, relationally, and in all other imaginable ways--was extremely important.

I get *very* distracted from those things now that life is not quite so demanding as it once was. Relationally, my difficulty is most pronounced when my kids ask me to do thus and so on a Saturday, and I'm so busy folding laundry that I miss the opportunity entirely. Being Busy is the number one joy-stealing culprit of my relationship with my kids. Not to harp on it, but this may come of having been a single mother for years. There was one bread-winner, one house-cleaner, one child-rearer, one planner-of-all-things for said child. How much time did I have for fun with my kid back then? And yet during those very busy years, I was deliberate about making sure my son had time with people other than me, especially kids. And I made sure he was loved by as many healthy, stable adults as I could muster to my aid.

However, I also bore the burden of the aforementioned responsibilities alone. Now that I don't, I can't imagine why the sense of busyness and urgency persists. I have five days out of almost every seven when my children are at school, and plenty of time during those days to get stuff done when the baby is napping. If I don't get it done by the end of the day, there are two parents in this household, and we work together to get things done. Not to mention the fact that my school-aged children are PLENTY old enough to make themselves useful.

During the single-parenting years, I was extremely creative with my belongings--my clothing, my furniture, objects of high artistic potentiality (I find artistic potentiality everywhere), curtains, vases, pictures by my son. I didn't have much of monetary value, but what I had, I made count. If space was lacking, I was creative with my floor plan, and I used what I had to make it feel like home. If I couldn't find something dressy in my closet, I created it myself. I may have seemed a bit eccentric, but it was an honest eccentricism. I used what I had to make something beautiful, if a bit unorthodox.

So back to what was my original line of thought:

I need to unlearn busyness. I think my husband might giggle to hear me say that (I'll find out soon enough) because I'm the world's worst procrastinator. But even when I'm procrastinating, I live in a pretty near constant state of feeling as if there's something I'm missing, and if I don't get it done, no one will.

I also need to unlearn the assumption that if there's nothing in my closet that appeals to me, there must be something lacking in my wardrobe. PAH! There was a day when I was known for my creativity with what I had available to me in my closet. I have somehow gotten away from that creativity, and I'm intending to find it again.

In a related vein, when did buying things become the answer to the [lack of] space issues in my house? First of all, I know a great many people who make do with far less space than I have, and just as many kids. In the same way that I was once known for my creativity with my wardrobe, I was also pretty well admired for my ability to make any space my own, and comfortable, without spending a dime. Let's find that again, shall we?

And most importantly, I have GOT to learn how to give an unqualified yes when my children want to spend time with me and I am able. This is, perhaps, the most difficult item on my list, because I'm not looking to RElearn it. I am not good at stopping what I'm doing, whether it's a want-to-do or a need-to-do item, and giving of my person to my kids. I'm good at doing *for* them--painting, cleaning, cooking, driving to activities. But painting *with* them? Stopping cleaning to play checkers *with* them? Going to the activity and enjoying it *with* them? I don't think I'm so good at these things. Ok, so I hate checkers. I don't play checkers with anyone. That's quite beside the point. This brand of busyness I have learned, wherever I have learned it, has got to be unlearned.

On that note, I'll close this post, because there aren't any words I need to write at this moment that are more important than the sleep that's waiting for me. Priorities. I think that's what I was getting at here, though I never said the word.

Manufactured Need

2010-09-21T12:54:00.003-04:00

It happens every year at the changes of the seasons--at the end of winter and at the end of summer: I forget why I avoid the mall, Target, Old Navy and the like. I have enough of anything I could possibly need, and yet I walk into places that tell me I don't have enough, and nine times out of ten, I go for the bait. Even if I don't buy anything, I walk out of the store with a sort of manufactured sense of need. I'm aware of what's happening. I know it's false. But I still experience it. This particular sort of materialism is one of the banes of my existence. It's particularly tempting this season, having just given birth and feeling rather uncomfortable in my skin no matter what I'm wearing.

This year, I think I'm going to make do with what I have, and try to realize at more than an intellectual level that I'm not really making do. I have so much more than I need. One more sweater, or that shirt or dress that seems so perfect I can't pass it up, won't add to my beauty or my worth. It's just another thing to hang in my closet with the myriad other items I couldn't live without last year or the year before.

Daisy

2010-09-21T06:33:00.002-04:00

21 September 2010

Every stretch once contained
the trying to learn each muscle effort
required to shake the shackles of sleep.
She's better at it now, looks
less dainty than she did just days ago.
Her muscles move intentionally,
in response to something more than reflex.
My little Daisy, already less little than before.

Early Morning

2010-09-21T06:31:00.002-04:00

20 September 2010

Refrigerator hummmmmmms.
Scritch scritch scritch scritch.
Tapity tapity tapity tapity comes the dog
down the hallway, where
a clock ticks audibly somewhere out of sight.
I sniff sniff SNEEZE to the whrrrrr and whiff
of the ceiling fan;
watch the sun slowly sigh through
the autumn breeze; the silent trees.

Learning to Finish

2010-09-17T12:09:00.004-04:00

I have said often in the last few years that I'm a starter, not a finisher. To wit, I had 2 murals, a dozen paintings, and a quilt started, along with various other sewing and other types of projects I was intending to get to. I think I had just accepted this as the way I function, and had ceased even to try to catch up.

Here lately, I've been attempting to remedy that. I finished my daughter's quilt, made significant progress on a bathroom mural, made my younger daughter's baptismal gown, and completed a computer bag for myself. I still have a quilt to make for my son, the mural in the bathroom and a mural in the stairway to complete, and several paintings for which I've never been quite sure how to bring about resolution. But I'm on my way.

In the interest of keeping myself accountable: I intend to finish the bathroom mural next, hopefully within a week. Pictures will be posted on Facebook. Stay tuned...

When Home Birth Becomes Hospital Birth

2010-06-22T11:00:00.004-04:00

I started blogging a few months ago about the process of choosing and preparing for home birth. I had spent over half of my pregnancy overly concerned about preterm labor, having giving birth to my son ten years ago at 27 weeks gestation. When I finally reached the 32 week mark (the point at which *early* preterm labor is no longer the issue), I pretty much stopped worrying and began planning for birth to happen the way I'd hoped it would happen the first time, only this time at home instead of at a birthing center.

Well, my daughter had other plans. Six days before the 36 week cut off (the midwife would not deliver at home before 36 weeks), my water broke as we were heading out the door to church. I had my frustrated, angry, upset cry before we left for the hospital as I was trying to find just one of our birth attendants who wasn't on vacation. My doula was available, and she met us at the hospital. I'm awfully glad she was there, though she told us more than once that she felt her presence was a bit redundant. We asked all the important questions ourselves, and the few times when it was necessary we advocated for ourselves and stated our own desires.

One such time, or rather one such issue (it came up several times) was the doctor's desire to get labor moving with pitocin. They're rather rabid about getting the baby out within 24 of a woman's water breaking, and that was the first thing that happened for me. My water broke at 9:45 AM Sunday morning, and labor hadn't really started in earnest by 9 PM. The nurse came and found us in the hallway where we were walking and reading, trying to encourage contractions by staying on the move. She said the doctor was ready to start pitocin. I said I didn't want to, and that if there was any leeway at all, I intended to take it. If they started pitocin, I was fairly certain I wouldn't make it through the process of labor and delivery without an epidural. She said she could give me an hour before she'd have to insist that we start it. That's a funny way of saying it--if a person refuses a treatment, there's not really much the physician or attending nurses can do about it. However, when a woman is in labor, or at least when *this* woman is in labor, and when she is laboring in a hospital, she automatically feels a bit as if she has to play by their rules. We did our best not to.

The nurse agreed to an hour, and we continued walking. There are, for those who are interested in knowing, a great many things you can do to stimulate labor. There's no need for me to go into detail here, but if you're planning a home birth, or even if you're just desiring to give birth naturally (without pain medications or unnecessary interventions that lead to those medications) do your research and know about those things in advance, so that you can ward off pushy doctors and nurses and get things moving in a natural way.

By 10:30 PM, contractions where coming regularly and intensely. I know I was in the birthing pool not long after that. And yes, they *did* allow me to use the pool, even though my water had broken more than 12 hours previously. Don't let anyone push the assumption upon you that they won't let you, because the pool was my best friend.

I'm fairly certain that transition started while I was in the pool. For me, it lasted a long time (at least an hour), which was discouraging in the midst of the process. But we did it, and the moment she was out, the labor and delivery pain ended and the wonder began.

So we planned a home birth. We *paid* for a home birth. What does one do when home birth is thwarted by pre-term labor? Luckily, our midwife has a method of prorating her services for situations like this, but we never talked about it beforehand. This made for a bit of an awkward situation once we got home from the hospital and knew that the bills were just around the corner. It took a couple of days for me to get around to calling the midwife, and once I did I realized I had nothing to worry about. However, this is a subject that I realized is best handled *before* the situation arises, and it would have been good to include questions about prorating of services in the interview process. Since we have no plans of doing this again, and this information does not serve us, I want to make sure that anyone who ends up using these blog posts as a home birth resource realizes what we didn't.

No one who is planning a home birth wants to assume that it will end up in a hospital--but it may. First of all, talk with your midwife about that possibility, and along with discussing what role she would play in that event, discuss also how she would charge you for her services, since those services will surely change rather drastically.

Also, consider how you would handle advocating for yourself in the event that you give birth in hospital and not at home. Our nurses were wonderfully supportive. Our doctor was amazingly tolerant, and even supportive, of our desires. I didn't push on my back, which I thought for sure would be an issue. I pushed on my side, and in the end, I think that's how I would've chosen to do it at home. My contractions were far too intense for me to want to be upright at all, let alone while pushing. Yet even with how supportive they were, there were still an abundance of opportunities for our desires to be pushed aside. If we had not actively put forward the fact that 1) we did not want an epidural or drugs, 2) I did not want an epidural or drugs offered to me at any point (I would ask if I wanted it), and 3) we did not want any unnecessary interventions, including pitocin-- we would have ended up with induction by pitocin and stripping of membranes (the doc was hot to trot on both of those as soon as she got there), probably an epidural to help me cope with the intensity of induced contractions, and whatever other unnecessary and unpleasant interventions which might have become necessary because of the epidural.

We planned a home birth for lots of reasons, not the least of which was to avoid medical interventions in a non-medical, non-emergency situation. In preparing for home birth, I did a lot of thinking about what I didn't want to have happen to me while I was laboring, and I read a lot about women who advocated for themselves in hospital and achieved the births they desired. I was not completely unprepared, and neither was my husband. But I had the experience of a previous, very early birth under my belt, and that gave me much food for thought as we prepared to give birth. If you are preparing for a home birth, prepare also for what probably won't, but possibly could, come.

New Memory

2010-06-16T10:34:00.001-04:00

16 June 2010

I emptied the sugar bowl this morning,
the Tour d'Eiffel disappearing through the hole in the lid.
That spoon hung useless on the wall, sat neglected
in the bottom of a box since a dark childhood
visit to the City of Lights.

Suddenly comes purpose, though
I keep running out of sugar. So much
coffee to drink, so many bottles of under-valued
wine to enjoy, so many sweetnesses to spoon out
that sometimes I forget the grief altogether
in the midst of forcing words, struggling to write
anything anywhere--keep poetry flowing
through the books that will someday fill
the shelves we have not built.

Those pages once were bound to be topped off
with bitter melancholy--so many caged and angry
women and their box of useless spoons.
I cannot possibly grieve again as I did back then,
and I wonder if there is less meaning now,
with joy and grief so unevenly matched--
one grown, contented woman stirring her coffee
with a new memory of Paris.

My Husband's Job

2010-06-15T10:29:00.003-04:00

Eight days ago, I gave birth to Elise Marguerite. She was 6 lbs 3 oz and about 20 inches long. She's lovely and healthy and content, and we are enjoying her in the extreme.

To say that I gave birth to her feels a bit like short-changing my husband. He left only once early in the process, before it became unbearable, to get himself and our older daughter something to eat, but he was present and working hard with me for every moment of active labor. Several people offered him breaks, including myself. I think I was the only one in the room who realized, after having offered the break, that he really, truly didn't want one. He was tired, but so was I, and I didn't have the option of a break. He stayed right beside me as I labored in the pool, let me squeeze the hell out of his hand while reading Dandelion Wine to me between, and sometimes during, contractions. When I had to get out of the pool for them to monitor the baby again, he lifted me out of the tub as I cried that I was afraid to stand up. He applied counter-pressure to my back for what seemed like hours (probably was minutes) while I endured transition. He never allowed the doula even to take *that* job so that he could sit down and just hold my hand for a while.

When it came down to pushing, he sat beside me, held both my hands, [turned off his hearing aid, I'm sure], and let me moan and scream in his face. There's no more intense moment with him in my memory than staring into his face, aware only of the pain and the color of his eyes, between the last few contractions. How frightening that must have been for him. I think it's probably normal for a woman to have thoughts of death in those moments, wondering if she can live through that pain. I know I said to him once that I felt as if the contractions would kill me. Did he believe me? Did he fear the same? If he did, he only let it come through in his voice once or twice. The rest of the time he was calm, reassuring, adoring, gentle. I have no idea how he maintained such a demeanor in the midst of so much of my emotional chaos, but I think that, in light of the experience, he will always be my hero.

So now we have this amazing little girl at home with us, often lying between us on the bed because at 3 AM, I really don't have the energy to get up off the floor (we don't have a bed frame) and put her back in her bassinet. I feared during the pregnancy that her presence might cause tension or resentment for one or both of us. We both liked our life very much the way it was. Contrarily, I think we're both experiencing that she belongs here, and her existence is just a natural extension of our love for each other.

Everything is changing. Everything is already different. But it's not a change to mourn--not entirely. There's an aspect for each of us of having lost something--I, my independence (I simply cannot do for myself in the aftermath of the delivery), Richard, his freedom, and both of us our spontaneity. But there's something here to replace those things, and eventually to exist right alongside them, that is so very precious and beautiful and sweet that I'm really not sure what we were doing before. I loved my husband. He was already my best friend. But now the ideas of Protector and Provider mean so much more than they did before as I am forced to rely on him for fulfillment of some very basic needs. As difficult as it can be to need him to fill those roles, he does so graciously and without resentment, even lovingly and, dare I say, joyfully. This is his contribution to the process of her birth. Mine was nourishing her for 9 (well, ok, 8) months, and then going through the pain of labor and delivery, and now healing from that process as I continue to make small sacrifices to provide her nourishment.

It seems my husband never forgets those things. I wish very much that I could be as relationally, psychologically, and emotionally constant as he is. Unfortunately, I'm tossed about rather violently by the biological realities of pregnancy and of the post-partum period. Who am I kidding? My emotional stability is questionable on the best of days, pregnant or not. I suppose that's why there are two of us, and why we're wired so differently. I'm certain my mode of existence serves us in some way. Apparent to me, however, is the fact that it does not provide stability. I guess that's my husband's job.

Recovering Gifts

2010-06-05T08:37:00.004-04:00

A Piece of Her
5 June 2010

I bought a chinois just like Grandmother's--
Ebay has its uses. She never called it that--
it was just a colander with a wooden pestle,
and she couldn't have told you where or when she got it.
She was always so elusive about the recipe--some flour,
a bit of baking powder, a pinch of salt (I'm fairly certain
it was Bisquick), and the dewberries, of course,
which I always thought were just blackberries.
Turns out I was wrong--and right.
Dewberries and blackberries are related,
and the name is legitimate. That makes me smile
as I press pestle against colander, juicing the blackberries;
coming one step closer to the mind of Bernice.
She's been gone for years now,
and I thought her cobbler was gone with her,
but I've found a piece of it, by trial and error--
a piece of her.

It wasn't perfect, but it was very close. It's definitely close enough to satisfy my memory. The taste of it brought tears to my eyes. I think I'll try it again this weekend. Although The Boy wants me to make a strawberry one. That feels like blasphemy. :-) But I guess I can alter tradition a bit here and there for the sake of my children's preferences. But the *norm* will be blackberry--and I'll probably call them dewberries. I'm going to try to find someone who sells berry bushes and plant them in the back yard. I'm very excited about the prospect of having the berries in the backyard like grandmother did.

It's always such a joy to find some small gift that has been passed on to me from my family members. Mother's quilting, Grandmother's cobbler, Vovo's chorizo & eggs (eaten in moderation--whew!). None of these gifts was ever handed down directly--I'm learning them now by consulting the poignant memories I have of the smells, the sights and the sounds associated with watching these women create beautiful things. And now I create beautiful things, both theirs and my own. I feel more whole every time I recover one of these treasures in myself.

Today, I should quilt. Of course, when I say that to myself, and especially when I say it out loud to someone else, I always pay for it later. The Boy wants to go to Gamestop, The Gril wants me to fix her hair, or I find housekeeping tasks that need to be done, and I feel badly sitting down to something "non-necessary" until those things are done. The trouble is there will always be a household task to complete. If I don't *make* the time for these small but very important creative tasks, I will always find reasons why it's not a good time to get to them now. I'm learning as I recover well-hidden gifts inside myself, though, that it's important to pull those to the surface, and to give them to my children.

Until I Can

2010-05-27T12:22:00.000-04:00

27 May 2010

So many projects sitting around
unfinished. The mural I started
years ago, forlornly in the stairwell
stands against the wall, hoping someone will notice
the beauty, ignore the naked; the parts-in-
progress. I measure
the merit of the day in terms of
what I accomplish, regardless of my circumstance.
The quilt sitting in a heap on the dining room table
reminds me each morning how very many things
must wait until a more convenient moment--
after a nap,
when the living room is tidy,
once the laundry is done,
after the baby arrives.
Oh, the things I would accomplish if not for
exhaustion. All the things I didn't do before,
must now wait until I can.

Borrowed Clothes

2010-05-07T05:00:00.000-04:00

22 April 2010

I don't think I can stretch

much farther (but I will) as I bend to find

the next shorts, pants, skirt

I probably wouldn't have chosen

for myself--but I'm grateful for clothes

that will cover my unfamiliar body.

I whisper a thank you, a Lord have mercy;

write the lender's name on the tag,

if it fits; consider more creative

ways to identify them as someone else's

if my marker won't show up on the tag.

Choice is a luxury right now. I knew

this would be the case, this process

highlights my vanity nonetheless--

I don't wear an XL.

Ever.

Something to Give

2010-05-06T05:00:00.001-04:00

16 April 2010

Everything defeats me rather swiftly

these days. The lawnmower, a brisk walk,

a careless moment bending over to collect

mail from the floor--I missed the coffee table.

I can't even enjoy a cup of tea

without consequences. My body is not

my own any longer; for a time.

Such things once caused

deep resentment, wondering

if there had ever been a time

when my body was my own. Now I know;

it is. A skipped cup of tea, or the admission

that I cannot start the mower on my own

are sacrifices, not deprivations. Finally

I have something to give.

Home Birth: Talking with My OB

2010-05-05T11:57:00.004-04:00

When we first decided we wanted to give birth at home, one of our first concerns was how and when to tell our OB. She has been wonderful from the beginning, handling with compassion, tact and honesty what we all thought was going to result in a miscarriage. She's been very attentive and supportive and concerned throughout the pregnancy.

The anxiety I've experienced at the prospect of talking with my OB about the choice to birth at home has been a bit over the top. It's my choice, right? I'm never going to do this again, so I should go for the gusto and do it the way my husband and I are both now excited about doing it, right? The majority of folks I talked to suggested not telling her. This struck me as dishonest and even a little unkind, but I had been leaning toward doing just that--nothing. As much as I want to give birth at home and as excited as I am at the prospect of doing so, when folks start naysaying, I start feeling the pressure to placate and appease. I'm very suggestible that way.

I threw my anxiety to the wind today and talked with my OB. She was amazingly supportive, considering how worried I'd allowed myself to get over telling her. She said that, as an OB, she would obviously prefer that her patients deliver in hospital, but that life's short, and we should make this choice according to our convictions and preferences. She asked me to consider continuing to see her until 36 weeks (given my history of early preterm labor), but after that, we could be done.

I feel a bit foolish about how much time I've given to worrying about this. I was afraid she'd try to talk me out of it. I'm very glad I did talk with her. *Not* telling her was not sitting well with my conscience. It's a professional relationship that one has with her OB, but it inevitably turns personal. She's caring for me and my baby, and doing all that's necessary to ensure our health and safety, and if she's doing her job well, she really cares. I'm happy to have given her the benefit of my trust and vulnerability. I'd highly recommend her to anyone looking to give birth in hospital.

Unpoetic

2010-05-01T05:00:00.003-04:00

14 April 2010

I must have something to say.

Seems unlikely that the well has

dried up like the skin of my very pregnant abdomen.

But none of the images work. None of the words

come together like they used to, and I can't

force them to make sense to anyone but me.

I'm hungry.

Unpoetic, but necessary. Life continues

in it's very earthy vein: breathless, sleepless,

swollen and uncomfortable,

but amazing in a way that lacks art, though not beauty.

It is a truly lovely thing to carry your baby.

It's just not very poetic.

Strings

2010-04-30T10:43:00.002-04:00

30 April 2010

Inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith

I had thought all of my strings were taken--

or broken. I guess we all think

there's only so much love to give and take.

But there's a growing space, making room

for more than I thought I was, and something

of you as well to sweeten the deal.

Come summertime, another string

will resonate alongside the others--

a quartet of sorts, making my heart sing

in four part harmony.

Deep Magic at 27 Weeks

2010-04-09T10:10:00.003-04:00

Today, I am 27 weeks pregnant.

Yesterday, I picked up a paintbrush for the first time since I found out I was pregnant.

I don't think these two realities are coincidental. I've been on pins and needles throughout this pregnancy, waiting for the fateful 27 weeks to pass. Not that it's a magic number; I know it's not. Or maybe it is--"Deep Magic", as a friend of mine at church quoth (very C.S. Lewis of her...) the other day when the incessant back pain I'd been having for 5 months suddenly vanished in the middle of the Holy Unction service of Holy Week. Not magic--but God's hand, God's grace, God's peace--and the little girl in my abdomen finally choosing a more comfy position for what I hope will be the duration of the pregnancy.

I think most people would be surprised to hear me talk like that. The years between 2000 and 2005 beat a lot of things out of me, including the ability to speak in platitudes. But it has struck me constantly, in the midst of those years; in the midst of the Blessing Years that have followed, that God's grace and love and peace are not platitudes. And they are certainly not to be hidden away, but they are very precious, wonderful, mysterious, unfathomable realities that work even when we can't see them. Even when we are so reduced by our circumstances that we wonder if He's even there.

So--27 weeks. Not a magic number. But definitely a point of new vision, and hopefully a point of rebirth of creativity. Deep Magic.

Pregnancy-induced Memories

2010-03-19T14:49:00.004-04:00

My son was born 9 1/2 years ago, 12 weeks premature. I had no idea at the time, and have no idea now, why.

Everything past the first 13 weeks in my current pregnancy has gone very smoothly. I have been monitored and checked, and will be checked again, for signs of preterm labor. So far, so good. Both the high risk obstetrician and my regular obstetrician have left off being cautious in choosing their words--everything looks good, everything looks healthy, and I should stop worrying about an early delivery and start preparing myself for the probability of a full term pregnancy.

Despite their reassurances, every little feeling that remotely approaches pain tends to set my mind whirling down the What If Path. My desire for this time around to be different is very strong, and my anticipation of the prospect of having a measure of control in the birth of this baby and her care immediately following delivery keeps me on the edge of my seat--and I still have another 16 weeks to go.

Going through pregnancy again, even ten years after the difficulties of the first, is proving to be a poignant experience. I observed the birth of my honorary nephew last Monday morning, and as I held the video camera in the moments immediately following his birth (I was *asked* to do this, and I preserved the mother's dignity as far as was possible), I struggled to hold the camera steady as my chest heaved and tears fell. Such precious moments, and in such contrast to my own experience and the experience of my son.

There's not much in the way of self-pity in that statement: My son was born early, but healthy. He was born in a facility equipped to meet all of his needs. He was never intubated. And he came home a month and a half sooner than the doctors had originally predicted. Ten years later, he's a healthy, intelligent, *extremely talkative* little boy who bears not a scrap of evidence of his rather frightening beginning.

All that said, his birth and the days following were a painful experience, and one I'd rather not repeat this time around. Whether or not I will still feels like a bit of a waiting game.

I wrote a poem for/about my son about five years after his birth, and about five years ago. Find it here.

Home Birth: Interviewing a Midwife

2010-03-15T16:42:00.004-04:00

This should be obvious to anyone in this process, but I didn't think about it until the last minute: Consider carefully what it is that you hope to accomplish as you interview a midwife. About five minutes before she arrived, I realized I had given *no* thought to deliberate organization of my thoughts and questions. This was a rather unfortunate mistake, redeemed only by the presence of my very level-headed husband, who asked all the right questions. I did come up with a few myself, mostly after he got the ball rolling.

Insurance and the Expense of Home Birth

We had read that home birth tends to cost more out of pocket than hospital birth, primarily because a great many insurance companies don't cover midwife services or home birth expenses. There's also the reality that, even if your insurance company *does* cover midwife services, your midwife may not accept your insurance. Insurance aside, we had read that home birth in the United States is *crazy* expensive, and I was gearing up to be disappointed by the reality that we simply couldn't afford to give birth at home.

My fears proved unfounded. There may indeed be places in the U.S. where home birth will cost you your first-born (pardon the expression), but at least in Kentucky, or perhaps just with the midwife we interviewed today, this is not the case. We, at least, will end up paying less out of pocket for a home birth than we would to give birth in a hospital. Unfortunately, we will need to maintain a relationship with our current OB in case I go into labor early again and need to deliver at the hospital (I delivered 12 weeks early with my first pregnancy), and this will mean a bit more expense over all. But if the midwife we choose has a fee as reasonable as the midwife that we interviewed today, this shouldn't be too much of a problem.

Husband as Primary Birthing Partner

My strongest desire regarding labor and delivery is that my husband be allowed to fill as active a roll in the process as we both desire and he can cope with. My husband is my best friend, hands down, and no one knows me as well as he does. Granted, there will be plenty of moments in labor and delivery when a trained professional will know better than my husband what my body needs, but it's not her face I'll be looking for in my moments of distress, and if it's my husband I want (and I foresee that it will be), everyone in the room had darn well be ready to get out of the way and let him through.

Unnecessary Interventions

I want very much to avoid unnecessary interventions--epidural, forceps, suction. This desire is near the top of my list of reasons for wanting a home birth. Specifically, I want to avoid an episiotomy. I'd rather tear naturally. I'd rather not tear at all. I know there are no guarantees, but I've read about (and observed) a great many techniques for avoiding tearing, and I wanted to know that the midwife we choose is versed in these techniques and ready to employ them.

Finding a Relational Fit

The one issue I *had* thought about was how my husband and I would mesh with each of the midwives we interview. What I have been told is that, with a home birth, it is absolutely essential that the midwife and laboring mother have a positive, trusting relationship--not simply a luke warm, I-guess-I-can-live-with-this-person kind of relationship. I assume that it's helpful if the midwife is also a good relational fit with my husband. In this respect, I feel I was very well prepared to interview. It doesn't take long to figure out if I can manage to mesh with someone. We got answers to important questions (most of which were brought up by my husband, God bless him), but I also talked with her about my first experience with labor and delivery, and was able to gauge her responses to my anxieties and desires for my next experience. I felt heard and affirmed, and I think this is one of the most important things (for me, anyway) that came out of the interview.

~~~

These were some of our questions and anxieties--the information we considered key in our process of choosing someone to attend us in the birth of our baby. Your questions and concerns may differ from ours, but thinking through them ahead of time--even writing them down--will help you get the most out of your interviewing process.

Home Birth: Choosing a Midwife

2010-03-15T16:06:00.003-04:00

The next step in this process, it seems, is choosing a midwife. I'm fortunate in that I have several friends who have chosen to give birth with a midwife. Only two of them, however, have chosen to give birth at home--not all midwives will attend home births. Both of my friends who are planning to deliver at home are using the same midwife. Therefore the word-of-mouth venue, at least within my immediate social sphere, yielded only one recommendation. But at least that's a start.

I searched the internet for midwives in my area. This yielded more results, but again, not all midwives attend home births. Most of the midwives I found work within medical practices with doctors and nurses, and my understanding from the websites of the practices for which they work is that they attend births in hospitals, but not in homes. I did find one home birth midwife. So I now had two names (with email addresses) on my list.

The third name on my list came from the friend of a friend. I was chatting with her on FB about my search for midwives whom I could interview, and she did a little digging, made a phone call, and got back to me with a name.

I've sent emails to these women explaining my history of early preterm labor. As of yet, I have received only one response, and we interviewed her this afternoon. I'll tell you more about that in my next post.

In the meantime, I'm very open to suggestions. If you know of midwives in my area (Lexington, KY) who are willing to attend home births, send me an email with names and contact numbers or emails.

Home Birth: Making the Choice

2010-03-15T15:00:00.007-04:00

Last week, I talked with my husband for what I thought was the first time about the possibility of a home birth. Much to my surprise, he was very, very open to the idea. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I thought he wouldn't be. Regardless, I can clearly see that he is 100% behind me, and we're both looking forward to taking the reins in this experience and making it what we want it to be.

As we have begun to move through this process, the thought has crossed my mind that perhaps there are folks who could benefit from watching our decisions unfold. Also, I'm a bit of a verbal processor, so writing these things out is helpful to me as well. I hope others will find something in these posts leading up to our home birth that will help make these same sorts of decisions in their own lives feel a little less chaotic.

Praying for family in Haiti

2010-01-15T08:31:00.002-05:00

My sister in law and her husband live in Port-au-Prince, Haiti with their two children. My thoughts have been with them constantly since the earthquake on Tuesday, which left most of the city in shambles. Their house is standing, as is the school where my brother-in-law is headmaster and my sister-in-law is a teacher.

I can't help but sit at the computer and search for article after article, picture after picture, trying to understand the trauma they've experienced--and that they're going through in the aftermath. The children are foremost in my mind. It must be such a terrifying experience, and confusing for ones so young.

That said, I think of them and their situation, and I realize that while they've been severely traumatized and terrified, they're with their parents every night, and their home is intact. There are children all around them sleeping in the streets. There are children trapped in the rubble. There are children who have lost their parents, or parents who have lost their children. It's all so very overwhelming, even from this distance, and I'm dreadfully thankful that my nephew and my niece are alive and well and being cared for by their parents, and not by strangers or relief workers.

White Christmas

2009-12-20T17:27:00.001-05:00

20 December 2009

Madness infuses the everyday

rituals that help our home get through

the holidays, but now and then we manage

contentment--as near perfection

as we’ll ever get--as near the wishes,

hopes and dreams we’ve feared

we’d never realize as we can hope to come.

I am given to analysis,

though I could never manage to encapsulate

what makes these moments happen,

what gives me eyes to see this

brief window into Paradise. I’ll quit now,

while I’m ahead and my vision’s clear,

the children are here and ours

for a white Christmas.

Letter

2009-10-29T11:43:00.002-04:00

29 October 2009

Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith

photo courtesy of Pink Sherbet

Correspondence is a lost art--

not the type it in and click send sort.

The kind that exacts a price

in ink, paper, postage, and hands sore

from gripping a well made pen.

Most everything is faster now than it was

when I was a kid. Back then, everything was

faster than it had been before.

I wonder at what point we’ll lose

our equilibrium; revert of necessity

to a less dizzying pace. Maybe then we’ll sit

down of our own accord on a summer evening

with a glass of actual fresh-squeezed lemonade;

write a letter to someone who remembers

less hectic times than we do.

Lucky

2009-10-29T10:36:00.003-04:00

29 October 2009

Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith

for MJ & the Brats

photo courtesy of Rich Bowen

He could find a four leaf clover anywhere,

and he always did--even 14 years later in my yard,

a relative stranger now. He bent toward the ground,

worked his magic once more, and I remembered

luck was a luxury--we were more like dandelions

blown across the globe wherever the Forces willed.

We flew with the wind and landed,

hoping this plot of land would be

as or more kindly than the last.

Sting

2009-10-29T10:26:00.001-04:00

29 October 2009

Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith

photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/furryscalyman/

I think I might welcome a wasp or two--

they’re a sure sign summer has long yet to surrender--

standing at the bus stop on a chilly fall twilight.

If not for the knowledge that Winter is on his way,

the morning would be relatively unmarred.

The air isn’t cold enough to sting; to rob me

of the paintbrush trees and the flaming bushes...

yet.

Flag

2009-10-29T10:12:00.002-04:00

29 October 2009

inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith

photo courtesy of Moab Girl

I prefer a quilt to a flag--there’s room

for mixed loyalties, preference more complex

than blood and honor, courage and fifty-one stars.

Ambivalence wreaks havoc on those lines--

the unrelenting contrast a written-in-red-and-white-

stone patriotism which makes it difficult to think

beyond black and white.

The quilt was made by my mother. I watched her

stitch the pieces together on a military base

on foreign soil, where soldiers had died.

So did we all, for the sake of a mission,

nevermind the casualties at home.

Line

2009-10-29T09:55:00.004-04:00

29 October 2009

photo by dr.ppr

There’s a line, a point of indecision

beyond which it will cost dearly to go back,
lose weight, make right, arrive
at the intended destination. Too Late
is a myth, but one always hopes to turn
before interpreting the point of indecision
as the point of no return.

Protest

2009-10-29T09:42:00.002-04:00

29 October 2009

Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith

photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/ghoulmann/

I had traded my picket sign

for a picket fence, but injustice doesn’t disappear

because I am safe. There are battles to be fought,

and I, being the soldier, cannot sit idle;

let this or that chauvinist think it’s ok for him

to leave the chivalry to you.

Scamming

2009-10-26T10:11:00.003-04:00

Someone tried to scam me through my Etsy shop today. I was uncomfortable from the first email, but couldn't figure out what the scam was. Here's the email:

I asked several times to what location I would be shipping my painting (MY PAINTING), and she responded each time that her "private shipping company" would pick it up. She said she would send an excess of funds so that I could pay the shipping company via Western Union.

I have to admit I'm a bit crestfallen. I do desire to sell my paintings. But it scares me to think that if these folks had been just a bit more sophisticated in their approach, I'd have lost a very meaningful painting, and I'd be more than $1000 in the hole.

Without Fear

2009-10-17T10:55:00.001-04:00

17 October 2009

My eyes are open today. I see

how fruitless are the hours spent worrying

about a form and substance you adore.

These conversations never cease behind the eyes,

laughing or weeping. They never cease.

I hear the fretting accusations,

the whispers of starvation. I hear them,

but they grow quieter with time. Or perhaps

I build a wall inside my head, beyond which

their power diminishes--

I am, without fear, who I am.

Someone Else's

2009-10-08T10:14:00.000-04:00

8 October 2009

No one decided to titivate our walk

to the bus stop with a two-days-gone raccoon

and broken fluorescents. Nevertheless,

the flattening lump in the road

gave me a shiver-- unnecessary in today’s

decidedly crisper autumn chill.

Carelessness, really, perhaps a neglected brake-check,

lack of attention to detail on trash day,

and our daily trek was muddied with the detritus

of someone else’s poor judgement.

We did not choose to put the raccoon in the street,

nor the glass in the grass at the bus stop--

neither had we chosen to remove them.

Chastened, we took up the less offensive burden; hoped

someone else would own up to the raccoon.

Whisper

2009-10-07T08:27:00.003-04:00

7 October 2009

There’s a perfect arc of moistened concrete

beneath the storm door today, another autumnal whisper,

“summer is gone,” I’d not heard until this morning.

From now until May, possibly June,

the air on the world-side of that door will be cooler

than the air on the home-side.

The latter will rarely be warm enough, and the former

will only shed its moisture down the door for so long

before North Wind weaves of the water

her crystalline lacework over the glass;

hides the frosted grass from view.

Blank

2009-10-06T07:24:00.003-04:00

6 October 2009

I picked four canvases,

though quantity has never been an object--

I always fill the empty spaces. I didn’t realize

there were two such, untouched, against a wall

at home, hiding behind neglected work

like the words I’ve tried to write of late.

I’ve waited too long, spoken too little--

there’s a perfect whiteness cluttering my mind.

I can’t find the component shards of possibility

until I’ve brought a new one home.

Reticent

2009-10-05T09:47:00.002-04:00

It's a word that well describes my sentiment as I sit down with my laptop to take up the task of writing again. I haven't written a single poem since mid-August, and before that it was mid-July. It's been so long since I've attempted to write everyday. There was a time when I couldn't help myself, and I lost sleep because there was so much to say.

I know there are at least as many beautiful things around me now as there were 3 years ago, when I wrote nearly constantly, sometimes driving down the road (usually I pulled over). Something about being, by and large, content seems to dull the edge of urgency--it's easier to put off sharing my mind when desperation is not licking at my heels.

I find, though, that when I don't write, over time, the things I would've said in the span of days or weeks back up in my mind, and I come to the point where there's too much to say and not enough words, or drafting-board space in my mind, to organize it and say it well.

This brings me to my word for the day: Reticent. I want to write. I want to share what I have to say, but I have no idea where to begin. So I'll begin with today. And maybe tomorrow will be easier.

reticent

5 October 2009

This season is fraught with dangers,

cliches I must attempt to navigate

over, around, beneath to find something

more meaningful than turning leaves,

pumpkins and hot, mulled wine.

I despair of avoiding the trip-up

and turn my face upward, breathe

the full, crisp air, wonder at the perfect

cut-outs against an o-dark-thirty sky

as I walk beneath a maple

reticent to change her green.

Beauty of Ashes

2009-09-23T13:18:00.002-04:00

I've made some updates to my CafePress site--mostly organizational issues in the Everyday Art section. But I think it looks good.

http://www.cafepress.com/beautyofashes/6629306

Song Lyrics

2009-09-14T12:17:00.005-04:00

I'm not a huge fan of the Christian music industry. A lot of the music played on Christian stations strikes me as insipid or manipulative jargon aimed at winning people into the Kingdom, or keeping them there, by means of an emotional high or, worse, an emotional low, when being faithful really has very little to do with how we feel. (Just as an aside, I know a lot of people who enjoy Christian music as a genre. I can completely respect that. I just don't tend to enjoy it myself.)

There have been songs over the years, though, that immediately struck a deep, deep chord of truth in me, despite my very strong bias against the genre. They may or may not have appealed to my emotions as they proclaimed, loud and clear, a truth which was not only valid, but vital. The lyrics below come from a song by a band called Tree 63. And perhaps the reason it strikes so profoundly every time I hear it is that they didn't try to say anything new or bend the Message to be "relevant". The song is scriptural, almost straight from the Psalms, and it acknowledges joy and grief, while praising all the while the God who works in all circumstances.

I heard it in the car on my way home from having a cup of coffee with friends after celebrating a liturgy with them this morning. I haven't heard this song since the Divorce Years, and while the trials in my life have morphed and eased dramatically since that time, it still brought tears to my eyes. Blessed be the name of the Lord--when I'm celebrating triumphs and redemption, or when I'm struggling with the results of my sin--blessed be the name of the Lord.

Blessed Be Your Name--by Tree 63

Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name

Blessed be Your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be Your name

Every blessing You pour out,
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say...
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Blessed be Your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's all as it should be
Blessed be Your name

Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, Blessed be your name

Untitled Pastel

2009-08-29T16:06:00.002-04:00

Playing with pastels. I like this medium, though I certainly have not mastered it. May never. But it's fun, and it makes for beautiful shading.

Apple & Brand Loyalty

2009-08-28T11:00:00.004-04:00

I am not a tech-savvy individual. I'm very good with programs like iCal, Pages, Mail, Numbers, Keynote, etc, but I have to call Apple when my computer starts doing glitchy things like shutting down iCal for no apparent reason, or when the notifications don't work anymore, again, for no apparent reason. I simply do not have the know-how to figure these things out on my own, or the interest to find the solutions myself online.

I am, however, deeply, irrevocably in love with my MacBook, and with all its peripheral products that make my life easier *everyday*. Most of all, I have realized today, I am completely head-over-heals in love with Apple's customer service. They're truly amazing, and they make me realize that it doesn't so much matter (primarily) what a company does--it matters first and foremost how they market their product, and how they treat their customers when problems arise. And when it comes to my Mac, Apple makes me want it. What's more, they make me enjoy it, even when there are problems, and they make me look forward to the day when I can step up to that sexy, 13" aluminum bodied MacBook (those of you who know my husband can hear his influence in that statement...). I've never been one to develop brand loyalties, but Apple has me firmly by the heart, and I'm quite happy in my predicament.

2009-08-14T22:29:00.002-04:00

A new painting, started today. I was working on Caelum/Upturned Reservoir when the idea came to me. It is also not finished. I have a very definite idea of where I want this one to go. I said that about Upturned Reservoir as well. I guess that's what comes of not painting all summer.

Upturned Reservoir

2009-08-14T22:25:00.003-04:00

Originally titled Caelum, this painting has taken an unexpected turn. It's not done yet (are they ever?), but I'm eager to get it to the point where it is. I'm really enjoying it, and the concept and the image are firmly sketched on my brain right now.

Meeting Margie

2009-07-22T13:23:00.001-04:00

22 July 2009

Her name on his lips brings a smile

and memories, laughter. She still lives

because he remembers her. I come to know

the woman she was through stories told

around the table and the view

through the window overlooking

a field where the milking barn used to be

before she died, before the farm was rented out,

before they sold the cows, and the silo for scrap,

when the boy who would grow to be my husband

called this place home, milked cows, played

and worked in the hay barn and caught fireflies

under her swath of New Jersey sky.

Cobbler

2009-07-05T15:38:00.002-04:00

5 July 2009

Bernice Imogene Pope

Now and again I get back

a part of myself. A cobbler brings me

face to face with my grandmother

and the dewberry bushes that grew

at the back fence in Victoria, south Texas

when I was younger than my little ones.

She picked them thinking of me--

no one loved those berries quite as much as I--

and she pummeled them through

a v-shaped colander so only the sweet

juice was covered by a rich cobbler crust.

The pan is two feet across,

the crust golden, the berries

sweeter than they’ve ever been since

in my memory.

Making Salteñas

2009-07-01T09:00:00.000-04:00

1 July 2009

There's something real about working

flour with naked hands--

more sensitive than any pastry knife, my fingers

blend more naturally than stainless steel.

Water and flour become cool,

pliant dough against my skin.

Given my mother's unused kitchen,

we could have mixed the dough in half the time,

reduced the strengthening on our forearms,

the time spent learning where my sister-in-law

learned to make salteñas and empanadas.

We laid a foundation

and I asked where the napkins were kept:

"En la puerta."

"...the door? In the door? Oh, the Pantry!"

"Si! En la puerta."

...

"...Where? ...um... Donde?"

"Abajo."

"Abajo?"

"A-BA-jo..." A slight nod toward the floor

"OH! Abajo!"

She opened la puerta to the language of her heart,

and all because we took the long way around.

Damascus

2009-06-12T08:58:00.001-04:00

12 June 2009

Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith.

Light comes through the slats,

sometimes subtle, sometimes

keen--then the shutters cut like Damascus

steel through butter. The light

comes regardless of pallor or intensity--

a dozen curtains couldn’t block the cumulative

kinetic energy of the sun’s arms winding through

space, bouncing off the moon and the atmosphere,

making their way to my window, melting

into a bright and beautiful pool at my feet.

The Straw Man

2009-06-12T08:20:00.005-04:00

12 June 2009

Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith.

I still forget sometimes

especially when the Straw Man comes,

sets flame to all the arguments

I learned to keep me sane back then.

I must remember these arguments

do not serve except to train my mind

in another vein, prepare me to receive

another Truth, higher than any

proposition he could offer

that would have had me running ‘round

in circular arguments I couldn’t win,

even to save myself from the flames.

Sketching

2009-06-02T11:18:00.003-04:00

Fiddling around with colored pencils. Not my best work, but I'm really stuck on the image.

Long Morning

2009-05-27T08:07:00.002-04:00

27 May 2009

These children tell me every way but straight

what hurts and why. While well equipped for this

interpretive work, I tire easily; let down

my guard and them in the process; speak

words I can't take back no matter how I try.

No one told me I could not say, "Here"

and "This is so"; tie the loose ends off neatly,

uncomplicated by the circumstances we've created,

the hurts we cannot undo.

Same Site, New Look

2009-05-26T22:57:00.002-04:00

I think most people these days read blogs through aggregators such as Bloglines and wouldn't notice the change, but being an artist, it bugs me to have my websites looking drab, or getting too familiar. So I've made some changes. The title has changed, but only for the sake of the look of the site. It's still the same old PracticingSanity.com.

I hope to have some new paintings to post soon. Maybe I should spend more time on that than on redesigning my website, eh?

Loves Me Not

2009-05-17T21:24:00.003-04:00

New painting, just started. More images as it progresses.

It brings to mind loves-me-loves-me-not. That is actually the inspiration for the painting. There are vital nuances--in particular, it's not a picture of romantic love. That seems an important interpretive key to add, given the title of the painting.

As always, it's not yet finished. I think 50% of my paintings are Not Yet Finished. Maybe I'll create a new genre.

Reveille

2009-05-13T08:23:00.003-04:00

13 May 2009

Inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith

He put on his uniform

just to get us out of bed,

That's how it seemed to me

as I shielded my eyes from the almost-

eye-level ceiling light--

the top bunk was always mine.

Come morning, Dad never failed,

clad in army green from tip to booted toe,

to wake us with a start, bleary eyed,

wanting just one morning without Reveille.

untitled

2009-05-05T16:07:00.003-04:00

5 May 2009

Now and again I revisit

the anger, see if I can still feel

the grinding implications in my bones,

the grit between my teeth scraping,

wearing away flesh and blood. Resentment remains,

though on the periphery and fading fast.

I learn what it means to die to self

for the sake of Others who pushed me

to the point of chewing bitter, sandy cud

as I contemplate forgiveness; redemption.

The Gift of Giving

2009-05-05T16:02:00.005-04:00

Today a surprise came in the mail for me, and I really, really love it. I don't imagine anyone else cares, but I still want to share it, and give my husband a huge pat on the back for picking something for me that I'd have chosen for myself. He has a gift for giving. At least with me. I don't think he's ever gone wrong.

I am very fond of clothing that has something of an international air, and caftans are at the top of my list.

BAHA

2009-04-29T09:38:00.004-04:00

I am *very* pleased to announce that my husband got his Bone Anchored Hearing Apparatus, a.k.a. BAHA, today. It's simply amazing to me the technology available to the general public, and today, to the hearing impaired in particular.

I drove us home from the hospital, because now that he has the BAHA, he can hear me when I sit on his left side. We conversed all the way home, which is something we've never been able to do unless he was driving. We passed two emergency vehicles on the way home, and he immediately knew (with his newly gained stereo-hearing) from which direction they were approaching.

I can't express how pleased I am for my husband, because while those small new experiences today are a big deal, they're only the beginning of a new level interaction for him. Maybe he'll never have to pretend again that he caught the whole conversation when we're in a room full of people and someone is talking to him from the left. Maybe he will no longer feel compelled to avoid situations where he won't be able to hear adequately. I'm so excited and pleased for him.

Class project

2009-04-24T10:04:00.007-04:00

I'm going blog crazy this week, huh?

My son's class is doing a geography project involving butterflies. They made butterflies out of tissue paper, hung them up around the classroom, and then left for spring break. When they came back *gasp* the butterflies had flown away. The idea was to have friends and family send postcards from around the country and the world telling the kids where their butterflies had been spotted.

My son has been bugging me to write a postcard to his class. He's totally on to the game, and wants me to participate. So I did, and here it is:

Silent Reverie

2009-04-23T22:30:00.001-04:00

The aforementioned sketch:

Caelum

2009-04-23T22:22:00.003-04:00

Toying with names for the painting when I should be going to bed. I have no idea whether it's finished. I had originally intended ONE of these to be an acrylic rendering of an old pencil sketch I'd entitled Silent Reverie. However, I like them both so much, I'm afraid to mess with them.

Aaaaand another...

2009-04-23T21:40:00.003-04:00

This one's a bit of a teaser, as I've only included the corner of the canvas. Actually, i guess it's just a little less than half of the canvas. I started this painting and left the last as it is because I liked the latter so much, and was afraid to mess it up. I am now falling in love with this one was well. *Sigh*. One of them will have to serve as fodder for a more complex painting. Dunno which it will be yet. Maybe both.

And another...

2009-04-22T17:43:00.001-04:00

I started all over today. New canvas, new idea. It still took all afternoon to finally get the idea by the tail, and it's not finished by a long shot. But it's a very nice start.

Painting

2009-04-22T07:06:00.001-04:00

I started a painting yesterday, and soon came to the point I come to in every painting, when the painting isn't actually done, but I'm afraid to continue for fear of ruining it. Well, I pushed past that point. And I ruined it. But here's the documentation that a really cool, if somewhat bizarre painting existed until then.

nocturne

2009-04-19T10:42:00.001-04:00

19 April 2009

I tried to take light from the Light
which Darkness cannot dim.
The darkness was complete enough
to hold a sinner in regret; hide my longing.
But the veiled and twinkling mystery
danced its way across watery vision,
nimbused by tears, grief
I cannot lay down while the darkness persists.
I need light to find the foot of the cross,
and the Savior.

On the lighter side...

2009-04-11T21:50:00.003-04:00

I saw this on FailBlog this evening, and while I can't believe this is real, I got a very big kick out of it. I'm still laughing. You have to watch it all the way to the end. The whole thing is hilarious.

New Store

2009-04-09T14:21:00.003-04:00

Today I opened a store on CafePress, were you can purchase prints of my paintings and sketches. There's a link in the sidebar above my image and profile link, or you can check it out here.

Progress

2009-03-26T17:40:00.003-04:00

As usual, the painting is growing and changing, and becoming somethign I could not have forseen. I'm enjoying this one immensely, despite the subject matter. It's not yet finished.

Also, keep in mind that my husband presently has both our good cameras with him in Amsterdam. I'm very aware the quality of the image is severely lacking.

Back to painting...

2009-03-25T14:03:00.003-04:00

Even for a woman of 33, with 2 kids, a fabulous husband, and a relatively stable, ridiculously happy and satisfying home life (it took long enough to get here); even having already weathered the storm of divorce in my own life, watching the marriage of one's progenitors dissolve is nothing less than harrowing.

I've had an image in my head for a while which expresses, for me, a portion of the chaos of it, and I started painting it today. I think for this one, I will dabble in mixed-media for the first time, because there are some things I simply cannot do in acrylics. We'll see how it turns out. Here's a peak at Stage 1. I apologize in advance for the quality of the photo. My husband is out of the country, and he accidentally left with our good point-and-shoot digital AND the digital SLR. So I have to work with what I have.

ends, means, in betweens

2009-03-12T13:52:00.000-04:00

12 March 2009

There’s nothing wrong right here.
There’s just a nagging fear that this
really cannot be enough for us,
because it never was for him, for her,
for so many of their kind who never grew
any way but bitter and affronted,
then looked back and colored life dissatisfying--
one drab, unflattering color,
and justified their destinations in the end
by the miseries they endured, the pains
in between which forced them to choose.

The dreadful intimacy of divorce

2009-03-10T15:48:00.003-04:00

I am reminded often of how foreign the feelings which accompany divorce are to those who have not experienced it. Actually, I realize now and again that there are folks for whom those feelings are foreign in spite of the fact that they themselves have been through a divorce.

So a relatively new acquaintance learns that I don't have my children with me today, and the conversation very naturally, though very uncomfortably for me, veers to the fact that they are each with their respective Other Parent. And my family is evinced as blended, and my heart as broken, though I'm never quite sure if the person with whom I'm talking understands the depth of the wound.

Or someone who has known and been close with both me and my ex, either in the past or currently, admits curiosity about our circumstance. And the conversation ends up in the vein of asking about our time-sharing agreement, and what the person perceives as the pros and cons of it, or asking me what pros and cons I experience.

It's not offensive to me to talk about--it's my life and it's dreadfully intimate, but it's bound to come up. I carry it with me everywhere I go, whether by the conspicuous absence of my children, or by the fact that my daughter addresses me by my first name, and my son addresses my husband as Baba. But it hurts. My, how it hurts. And no, I don't consider my children's Other Parents to be built in baby-sitters. It's not a newlywed perk that my husband and I are without our kids every other weekend.

And it will never be over. This is reality not just for the foreseeable future, but forever. My children will always have two homes, and I will always be obliged to split their time with folks who are, at least at this point, relative strangers, and worse yet, people who hurt me, and whom I hurt, by the very fact of our respective existential realities.

I heard someone recently say that if they had to choose between the death of a parent and that parent walking out on their other parent, they would choose the walking out. That statement provoked profound ambivalence in me. Ten years ago, I might've said the same, but now it strikes me as short-sited. Granted, the person who said it had lost a parent--one he loved and missed dearly. I honestly don't know which I'd prefer. Death is final. Divorce is an ongoing wound, with ongoing perpetrators. Death is closure, and leaves room to grieve for the person we knewso well, for good or ill. Divorce leaves us wondering who they are, whether the years we spent with them were really a lie, and whether there was something we could have done differently--or better. Divorce is never truly over, and given my demonstrable need for closure, I tend to think I'd prefer to deal with something cut and dry, something honest that Time might could help to heal.

affronted

2009-03-05T08:46:00.001-05:00

5 March 2009

These affronts, at least, are mine,
somewhere half way between self- and other-
inflicted. Accepting culpability
doesn't close the wound, though
perhaps someday my bearing
of this burden will make lighter
for my children a cross they did not choose.

Blaming Barbie

2009-03-02T09:46:00.005-05:00

I've spent a good many years blaming Barbie, Bratz and the like for most of the problems so many young girls (and grown women) seem to have with self-image. I just read an article posted by Ruth that shook the foundation of all those arguments, and made me take a long hard look at my growing up, and at my dinner conversation.

I can't say I hadn't thought about my tendency to blame culture, or about the importance of my own attitude toward my own body and my ideas about beauty in general. I also cannot say, however, that I had ever connect these concepts, and realized that while Barbie, Bratz, and all the images with which we and our daughters are inundated on a daily basis mean nothing next to the influence a mother and a father weild in the mind of a child. My comfort with my own body, and my husband's unconditional love for me, will speak volumes more to my daughter in the long run than a ridiculously proportioned doll.

That said, I'm still not a fan. Why Barbie could have been made with smaller breasts and a tiny bit larger waist, I'll never understand. Oh, and flat feet. Who wears heels everyday? Srsly.

moving target

2009-02-26T07:47:00.002-05:00

26 February 2009

Time is a moving target in its banks--
like dunes I barely own before they shift,
take on a different shape, a different place.
They move into a different time, and I
no longer recognize the clouds or sky
above them, much less this landscape
the river never ceases to mold.

beautiful disaster

2009-02-02T07:19:00.001-05:00

1 February 2009

Mom's sewing projects were disasters
of monumental proportions, but her wrecks
were always confined to the sewing machine cover,
strings of all hues, lengths and thicknesses
peeking out from among countless castoff swatches
of every imaginable color, shape and size.

The outcome of every venture was a masterpiece--
from Raggedy Anne to wedding dresses
that outlasted their respective marriages.

She had a gift, and she gave it to me.
I pull it out seldom, and with much effort
in the way of enthusiasm. I never nurtured the skill,
and I lack the talent of my forebears.

Just enough of my mother's grace exists
in my fingers to bless my own girl with a moment
like the moments of my childhood, to recreate
the beautiful disaster in some small way,
make the little girl I was a part of her.

dunes

2009-01-29T05:00:00.001-05:00

28 January 2009

I trace the curve of my belly
too many times a day to count
with my eyes. I watch my skin
rise and fall in different places
than it used to, and I wonder
when these dunes will cease
to shift. My thoughts are prone

to solidify more swiftly
than the contours of my breasts--
from moment to moment,
I think, “this shape is It--
this is Me,” and the synapses fire

M-E.

Then the wind picks up,
and the dunes shift again.

the branch

2009-01-28T11:26:00.000-05:00

28 January 2009

Wind whips the young, ice-glazed
branches of our slender sycamore sapling
out back, and I think hard at the tree,
“Hold on!” I suppose that one branch
is not so necessary in the larger scheme.
But that’s the branch upon which
my grandson will place his foot someday
to scale the limbs outside my window.
That branch will let my granddaughter
climb the tree a year or two sooner,
because the rule has always been
if you can reach it, you can climb it.

Untitled-- nude in acrylic

2009-01-27T21:12:00.002-05:00

Nudity in art

2009-01-27T17:01:00.002-05:00

I have received some criticism in the last year or so as my artwork begins to take a more sensual turn. I think there are a lot of people who tend to identify nudity in general, and portrayal of nudity in art in particular, as pornographic. I do not share this tendency, though the comments I've received re: my sculptures and a couple of my paintings tends to make me a little gunshy when it comes to sharing them. Nevertheless, my next post, tonight or sometime tomorrow morning, will fall under the classification of "fine art nude." Consider yourselves warned.

Newest painting

2009-01-26T08:45:00.003-05:00

This one emerges out of some recent events--a little too personal to explain, but I think it's a cool painting anyway. I don't think it's quite finished. But it has a very fairy-ish, will-o'-the-wisp feeling to it.

computer woes

2009-01-20T20:39:00.002-05:00

My computer completely stopped working three days ago. It won't boot at all. We bought a new hard drive, because we thought that might be the problem and I wanted more space anyway, but the hard drive is apparently not the only problem. So I'm sending it off to Apple tomorrow and hoping (against hope) to have it back by the end of the week.

I fully realized how dependent I was on my computer, and when I realized the hard drive hadn't fixed the problem, I was *extremely* discouraged. It's strange that the internet has become such a presence that it almost feels like something I *need* is missing. I know it's not a necessity, and I'm fully capable of going without, but the psychological strain its absence causes gives me pause--perhaps I should unplug more often.

stories

2009-01-15T07:20:00.000-05:00

15 January 2009
Beloved

He thrives on stories,
epigram or epic--
hears them with relish,
tells them with an eye
toward making you believe
he was there,
saw it with his own eyes,
whether he actually did or not.
Who can tell? His joy is complete
in the sharing of experience
(his or someone else’s),
though he’d have you believe otherwise.
He is a lover of experiences,
but his addiction is reliving, retelling
an experience that never really dies

New Moon

2008-12-25T16:07:00.002-05:00

25 December 2008, 1:07 PM
Since I first begain writing, the moon has always held a very specific meaning for me, and for reasons I can't really explain in a public forum, I have used it less and less over the last two years as a symbol in my poetry. Today, I redefined the moon.

No one would disparage the mutual influence,
subtle yet inexorable. The Sea is the Sea,
The Moon is the Moon, the two indivisibly
intertwingled, undiminished by his sway.
She has never been subdued by this drawing
and releasing. He gently pulls upon the tides,
makes her more, not less, than what she is.
As he pulls away, the tides pull back
to follow, woo him back again.

Emmanuel

2008-12-25T06:00:00.003-05:00

by Steven Curtis Chapman

One of us is crying as our hopes and dreams are led away in chains
and we're left on our own.
One of us is dying as our love is slowly lowered in the grave
and we're left all alone.
But for all of us who journey through the dark abyss of loneliness
there comes a great announcement: We are never alone.
The Maker of each heart that breaks,
the Giver of each breath we take, has come to earth
and given hope its birth.

Our God is with us, Emmanuel
He's come to save us, Emmanuel
And we will never face life alone
now that God has made himself known as Father and Friend
with us through the end--Emmanuel

He spoke in prophets' voices and He showed Himself in a cloud of fire
but no one had seen His face
until the One Most Holy revealed to us His perfect heart's desire
and left His rightful place
And in one glorious moment all Eternity was shaken
as God broke through the darkness that had kept us apart
And with love that conquers loneliness, and hope that fills all emptiness
He came to earth to show our worth

Our God is with us, Emmanuel
He's come to save us, Emmanuel
And we will never face life alone
now that God has made himself known as Father and Friend
with us through the end--Emmanuel

So Rejoice! O, rejoice!
Emmanuel has come

I love this song. On Chapman's Christmas album The Music of Christmas, it follows directly his rendition of O Come O Come Emmanuel, and the juxtaposition of the two, and of the phrases "Emmanuel shall come" and "Emmanuel *has* come" in the first and second songs, respectively, has always struck me as profound, if a bit obvious. Of course He has come! But I'm reminded all the time now what it means, and what messes can be redeemed by His human life.

Come, Lord Jesus

2008-12-24T22:58:00.004-05:00

O come, O come Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here,
until the son of God appear.

O come, thou Dayspring, come an cheer
our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
and Death's dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Sung by Steven Curtis Chapman here. The video is tripe, but the song is wonderful.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-18T08:47:00.002-05:00

I always take these posts by Ruth as an invitation to go and find out what kind of *fill in the blank* I am. This one's a little different from the others, but here it is.

You Can Say "Merry Christmas" in 10 Languages

You can say "Merry Christmas" in:

English

Spanish

Japanese

French

Arabic

German

Swedish

Gaelic

Latin

Esperanto

How Many Languages Can You Say "Merry Christmas" In?

BAHA continued and, hopefully, concluded.

2008-12-17T11:21:00.003-05:00

Well, that was relatively easy, though not exactly painless.

The lady at the doctor's office who handles pre-certs for surgeries called us back. It turns out that after receiving my husband's research and letter of appeal, the agent at Anthem BCBS realized that our policy is black and white on this issue. She agrees that the procedure is covered and she spent a good amount of time profusely apologizing for having been rude and sarcastic on the phone when she was rejecting our claim a week ago. Regardless of the outcome of the discussion, I think the snark was entirely unnecessary.

I would think insurance companies would require their agents to know the policies backward and forward. Regardless, the surgery is on, and by March of 2009, my Beloved will be able to hear the world in stereo again. I'm so excited.

It appears that folks are right--it is indeed the job of insurance agents to reject claims. My husband will be posting his appeal letter and his research on the subject of BAHA implants on his website in the not too distant future. When he does, I'll post a link here as well.

Please do the research if your claim is rejected. If you're paying insurance premiums, you have a right to coverage, but it's possible your agents may just be "doing their job" in hopes that you'll go away, and they won't *actually* have to do their job.