A few months ago, I wrote about my uncle, David.
Shortly after that, he fell ill.
His lungs were failing; he was wracked with infection.
I never had the guts to go see him in the hospital. I'm a wimp, really.
It broke my heart enough to see him walking down the street, and how much he'd aged, and how little I knew him. I just couldn't bring myself to go see him. It seems silly, but I just couldn't do it.

On thanksgiving day, my mom was down for a visit. She had seen David the day before and was showing us some pictures. She was marveling at how much he's improved since he was transferred to a rehab facility. Alexandria saw the picture and her eyes filled with tears. She hyperventilated, the way she does she she sees a bunny or something else that melts her heart. She announced that he was adorable and she wanted to meet him, and that he looked like Bob Dylan (she's obsessed.) She just fell in love with that picture of her great-uncle, who I call the original hipster. Alexandria has always been braver than me, and occasionally it challenges me. With every bit of dread in my soul, I agreed to go.

Once we were there, I had no idea why I waited so long. He greeted us, and scarfed down the piece of pumpkin pie we brought him. He apologized for eating in front of us (heart melt.) He was asking my mom what had happened to him; he was trying to piece together the last few months.
Everything he said was so adorable to me. It's this strange mix of insanity and sincerity that equals this beautiful vulnerability. We talked for a while and then he asked for someone to please bring him some shampoo. I could tell how badly he wanted to wash his hair, and strangely, in that moment, I realized how alike we are.  If there's one thing I hate, it's the minute I've gone too long without washing my hair. There's basic human needs that bind us together, like a clean scalp; even more, we share the same blood.

Something happened in my heart during that visit. The only way I can describe it is a renewed love. For him, for family, for the process of taking care of one another.

Sadly, he's taken a turn for the worse and is now in hospice care. I've been at his bedside, and I'll return again later today. It's an honor to be there and help in any way I can. He's barely hanging on, but you can feel that he is a fighter and he incredibly, incredibly strong. I am in awe of him and of my uncle Brad, aunt Kacie, and my mother. They're all doing what they can for their beloved brother.
When it all comes down, love is everything we need.

Like a river to a raindrop, I lost a friend.

 HBD, Eric.  I miss you.

Fake it till you make it.

If all goes well, I'll be applying for the nursing program this time next year.
I almost can't admit that there's an end in sight; that I'm so close to my goal, I can taste it.
It feels like I'm being too vulnerable, and a part of me wants to make a disclaimer statement. You know, just incase something goes wrong.

I met with an advisor last week and she broke down the classes I still need over the next three terms.
There it was on paper; no denying that I'm making progress.
She made a big fuss over my 4.0. I had to force myself to take the compliment. I really wanted to tell her that I'm just faking it. That none of this is real.
Wouldn't that have been funny?!

Truth is, the writing based courses were so easy, I can't imagine not getting a A's. It's these science based courses that I'm worried about. I could write papers about Roman culture , or Sigmund Freud's theories all day, but understanding carbon bonds and the breakdown of complex fatty acids? What, what?

A nurse midwife I used to work with told me she faked her way through nursing school without ever learning how to take blood pressure. She said one day it just clicked for her, but until that point, she had to fake it.

That example has kept me in the game. Everybody learns in a different way; meanwhile, we have to make ourselves fit into the box when necessary.
I was born a nurse, I've always been a nurse at heart.
The rest is just a technicality.
And I'm gonna fake it till I make it.

we just needed an outing.

Tonight, after dinner and a day full of homework and housekeeping, my daughter and I walked to the corner coffee shop for some of their famous cake.  The shop is called 3 layers in homage to their sky-high southern style cakes.  And trust me, they are worth the (almost) five dollars a slice.  

Anyway, my daughter isn't good at staying home all day, she thrives on the hustle bustle of life.  I'm the exact opposite, so sometimes we have to compromise.  She has to compromise a lot more since I started school and weekends are devoted to studying. 

But I needed a break and she needed an outing, so off we went.  

I could feel the heaviness of her heart, for whatever worries she had in the moment; all set ablaze by cabin fever.  Sometimes it's hard to be a 15 year old girl, you know? 

We didn't talk much on the walk, her enthusiasm level was basically flat lined.   

But I could feel the night air filling my soul and I figured she could, too.  

I could hear kids playing in back yards and people laughing on their porches.

The breeze was blowing around a bouquet of dinner smells; the sound of clanking dishes echoed from kitchen windows.  

It was open mic nite at the coffee shop, but then again, it's always open mic nite at 3 layers.  

It was a sweet little man doing the best he could; I don't remember what he was singing.

  

We got our cake to go, orange slice and chocolate espresso. yum. 

While we were waiting, we saw our neighbor and friend, Daniel.

My brother's house is 2 doors down, but he didn't appear to be home, so we kept walking.

On the way back home, more neighbors said hello.

It had gotten darker, so you could see the inside of the beautiful houses that line my street.  

The banisters, the art hanging on the walls, I try not to be a stalker, but it's hard not to look.  

As we walked with our ten dollars worth of cake, I felt like a million dollars. 

I love our neighborhood so much. 

Meanwhile, my daughter's steps got a little springier, and later the cake helped everything, too.

It was a win/win situation.  

My dad used to always say, "when spirits are low, you just need an outing." 

It's so true.  

somebody's someone

Today, I saw my uncle, David, walking down the street.
I hadn't seen him in over 8 years, but I instantly knew it was him.  His posture, his frame, the way he walks is trademark.  I'd know him a mile away.

We were driving pretty fast down a busy expressway, so I couldn't stop to say hello.
He was hunched over and tired looking, he has aged quite a bit, too.
It made me sad in the depths of my heart;
there was my uncle walking down the street like a pauper.
Truth is, he's a brilliant mind with a trust fund,
but I'm sure he's mistaken for a homeless person. I'm sure people are mean to him.
It breaks my heart to think of what his life has been like, especially in contrast to all the other Stetsons.

I have two uncles named David, but this one happens to be schizophrenic.
My mom always told me it was from him doing too many drugs in the 60's.
But we'll never know for sure if that's true.
When he first starting showing signs of mental illness, my memaw was advised to institutionalize him.
In that time, it was just what happened.
I know she felt guilty, what mother wouldn't?
But she was a widow, and his meltdowns really scared her.

He was always a part of family holidays and visits.
He'd always lurk in the outskirts of whatever was going on; he was always a little nervous.
The way he'd ask permission to have a glass of champagne, or a cigarette, always made me sad.
I was very sensitive to the fact that he was, and always would be, treated like a child.
In fact, he used to sit with us at the kids' table on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but we didn't mind.

He kept us guessing as to what he'd say next.  

And his stories were always worth re-tellig to my friends.  

I don't think he ever made it to the adult table, poor guy. 

Memaw always worried about what would become of him after she died.
My uncle Brad has done an outstanding job with his care.
Over the years, he seemed to enjoy family events less and less.
He just likes to do his own thing;
I don't really blame him.
I'm not sure if he'd even know me anymore.

Any mother will tell you that her children are an extension of her heart, and
I felt that today as I passed by him.
There was a living, breathing part of my memaw.
He's distant and broken, like a mixture of  a cowboy and vagabond.
He looks like he's walked a thousand miles in the desert, but he's hers.
And in that same breath, he's mine.
He is my family.

Kinda changes my perspective on all the displaced people I see around my neighborhood.
They are somebody's someone, too.

Live to tell.

It was a close call, but I survived the move!

We've been happily living in our house on walnut street for a month, and I love it more everyday.
All I can say is, what a difference an additional 800 square feet makes to a family of 5!
Everyone has seemed to benefit from the extra space, even the dogs.

We're the kind of people who get sick of the same scenery after a while; moving downtown was medicine for sure. I don't think I'll ever get sick of it down here. I seriously can't imagine living anywhere else.

Moving on.

Moving has my nerves completely shot.
It's funny how I remember so few details of our move from Alabama 2 years ago.
But I'm sure I was a total spazz then, too.
I remember leaving almost half of our stuff on the curb because we thought the middle size truck would be big enough, but it wasn't.
I remember everybody stinking to high heaven after packing the truck and thinking we'd shower before we hit the road, but we had packed all the towels and clothes. And soap.
And then we drove through the night in a car with no a/c and had 2 dogs and a cat with us.
OMG, we probably stunk so incredibly bad.

Maybe in 2 years I'll hardly remember this move, too.
That will be awesome.

I think what it comes down to is that I hate change.
Even if it's a good change, it just takes me a while to be okay with it.
But I'm so excited about the house and the new neighborhood.

The kids only have a few more days of school left.
Brace yourselves because the "back to school" posts will be coming soon.
If you know me, you know that back to school almost slays me every year.
It's like tax season for an accountant, or the olympics for an athlete, except nobody pays me and I get no metals.

Happy summer, y'all.

Life changing.

Y'all know I love Oprah.
Well, she interviewed T.D. Jakes a few weeks ago and I absolutely fell in love with him.
Sure, I had seen him on tv before and noticed his books in the grocery store, but never really thought too much about it.

The excerpts of his sermon featured on the show have changed me.
I cannot tell you how many times since then I've heard the words. "He's blessing something that isn't enough."

His retelling of a simple bible story was profound to me and Oprah, too. That's probably because we're soul sisters!

I found the sermon all typed out online, it may not be verbatim, but you'll get the idea.

“...You know the story as well as I do.

The little boy there with 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread. Then the miracle begins to occur.

And He took it, and He blessed it. And I’d like to talk about that because He’s blessing something that is not enough.

Until you can be thankful for something that is not enough; then what you have cannot be multiplied into what is more than enough.

We are certain that he has 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread when He blessed it. As he broke it, that’s where we lose count.

You understand then that the blessing is in the breaking. That that refuses to be broken, refuses to be blessed. It is the breaking of life that produces the blessing of life.

Now, I know a lot of you don’t understand that because you yourselves have not been broken, but I have noticed in my life that the most blessed people I have ever met in my life have gone through something that has broken them."

—Bishop T.D. Jakes

tonight, we are young.

And by "we," I mean Alexandria and her 8th grade classmates.
She had her first (non-sponsored)school dance on Friday night.
I never went to school dances, except for my senior prom.
I was more of a house-party girl and because of that, I am definitely encouraging the school parties; even if they're non-sponsored.  I'll pay the money just to keep my kid away from house-parties.

It was totally bittersweet to drop her off.
I advised her to just dance because everybody has more fun when they're dancing.
She had a little mini panic attack, and while I basically forced her out of the car, I thought about how she is so much braver than me.

I parked in the grass because the Volvo is pretty much to the point of embarrassing both of us.
I watched her walk in, high-heels sinking in the dirt with every step.  I gave her a few minutes to decide if she really wanted to stay, and then I left for 2.5 hours.
In these moments, it hits me like a ton of bricks; I'm the mom now.
But wait, I was just in high-school. 

She starts high-school in 3 months.

Dear Aiya,

Enjoy your youth, little bird.
It's beautiful and fleeting.
Go and make the best friends you'll ever have.
Laugh, and dance, and sing, and splash in the ocean.
Just be free, and wise as you can be.
I'll always be waiting for you to come home.

-mom

like pictures in a frame.

I had a tear-invoking memory of Eric this morning.   
Every time I think of him my throat stings, but I can usually contain the tears.
Not this day.
I miss my friend so much.

Grief is a funny thing; how it comes in waves.
I just sat there alone, fanning my face and trying not to ruin my make up.
I just kept telling myself to get it together; it was only 8:15 a.m., and I look like crap with no make-up.

I'm thankful for all the memories,
even though they make my heart hurt sometimes.

I wrote this poem a long time ago, but I think it's fitting for today.
It's about the transition that people, places, and things take into being a memory or sentiment, and not wanting to let go.
The good thing is, we don't have to let go.
We just have to remember.
And remembering just happens to be one of my gifts. 

Oh sweet memories,
how they turn away and change,
or sell for cheap at a second hand store.

Frames on the wall tell all the years contained;
alluding to a life from day to day.

Say it ain't so,
you're going away?
Leaving me with all this change?

I will remember you every time I say goodbye.
It will always be the same,
I'll hear your name and close my eyes tight to bring a sight of you.

Memories, how they fade
like an old photograph in a frame.
Telling a story,
bringing a tear,
showing me beauty,
how I wish you were here.

Follow up.

Because I believe in the value of a good, solid praise report,
I must share that my dream of having an historic home will soon be realized. 
After months of making frequent visits to the historic district, and checking the classifieds for houses, I basically concluded that I was torturing myself because most of the renovated homes weren't in our price range.  I gave up several times and figured we would just stay put.  
However, hope remained springing up in me, and I had a lot of encouragement from my friends to just keep looking and see what happens. 


Once we found this house, which happens to be an awesome deal, I obsessed for about a week.
Feelings of fear were surfacing; fear of not wanting to be disappointed, and not wanting to make the wrong decision.  
With being on a tight budget and being a student, it's scary to change anything and open the door to the unknown.
What if the utility bills are sky high?
What if traffic is an issue?
Will we like the urban lifestyle?
What will I do without a garage?


Once we made a decision to just go for it, I haven't really worried at all.
I've also decided I will not live in fear.  

The house is beautiful, I absolutely love it. 
It's about 800 sq feet bigger than our current home.
It has lots of charm and character. 
It has a front porch and a sweet little entryway. 
The mailman walks across the porch to deliver the mail; I just love that! 
Original hardwood floors and mantles. 
Carlos finally gets a studio that isn't a walk-in closet.
I finally get a bedroom free of gear. (PTL)
Living, dining, kitchen, mudroom, office (studio.)
4 bedrooms, 3 full baths.
It was built in 1912.  


This might sound weird, but I feel like the house needs us.
To fill it with love, to respect its history.
The neighborhood is slowly returning to its original splendor after being run down for a period of time. There is so much potential there, and we get to be a part of that.


It just feels right.

I am so excited!

  

hanging in there.

Well, I had a full circle moment the other day when I cried in math class. 

They weren't happy tears, either.

They were the kind of tears that come when you realize that something will never be easy, and you're just so tired because of it.  

Math, ugh, the bane of my existence.  

I sailed through psychology, humanities, sociology, and human growth & development.

I heard the angels singing in English composition. 

But math is basically a foreign language for me. I just have to drill, drill, drill until it finally sinks in.  

My tear-filled full circle moment, was produced by the sting of a failing grade; something I hadn't experienced in almost 20 years.  I felt that absolutely nothing had changed between then and highschool.

There wasn't any amount of life experience that could change my proficiency, or lack thereof, in (pre)algebra.  

Math doesn't care how many babies you had, how many cupcakes you've frosted with a perfect swirl.  Math doesn't care how bad you want to understand. There's no points for effort.  

I drove home, almost hyperventilating from panic and disappointment. 

I wondered if I have what it takes to finish college and be a nurse. 

But then I realized there's only one way to find out, and it's to proceed.  

Truth is, I don't have a bad grade, (89.5.)

I re-took the quiz and passed.

It's just soooo hard for me to master the units that a good grade doesn't feel like a victory, it's just passage into an even harder unit.  

Getting my math credits is the only thing keeping me from taking Anatomy, micro-biology and Chemistry, and then I can apply for the program.  

OMG, y'all, college at 37 isn't for the faint of heart.  

History and wonder.

I love historic homes. They have a way of speaking to me way down deep. Whenever I see one, I can't help but wonder, has a baby been born in there, has anyone died in there, has anyone gotten engaged on that porch? My heart starts to bond with the story of the home, with the majesty of architectural details that have all but gone extinct. Waking across a wooden porch and opening a creaky screen door is heavenly to me. It makes me think of MeMaw's hunting lodge, and seeing grandma Stella's smile through the tinted mesh when I used to visit her.
I love pretty houses and manicured sidewalks.
I'd like to think I'm going to have my very own historic home one day.
I'm just letting patience have her perfect work. Meanwhile, I dream.

taming momma bear.

It's no secret that I can go from sweet to ferocious in 2 seconds if I think for one moment that my children are being mistreated.  I'm just not one of those moms who can embrace my kids’ heartache as a means to toughen them up.  That's been a hard one for me. I am a communicator, a fixer, a nurturer, and a protector.  

I am momma bear.  

And, my youngest cub is sensitive.  

Sensitive. Sigh. What a loaded word. 

It's a strength and a weakness. A blessing and a curse. 

But that's just one side of him. And there are very few people who get to see the rest because there are very few people whom he feels comfortable around.  He is precious, hilarious, smart, compassionate, and he's painfully shy.  And he’s sensitive.  

Well, a few times over the last few weeks I've wanted to come to his rescue.  I wanted to find the fool who hurt his feelings and rip em' a new one.  But I just heard the Holy Spirit hush me; tell me to wait.  (I really don't rip people a new one per se, but I mediate through emails or little talks with teachers, etc.)  The main point I'm always pushing with him is forgiveness, and how proud he should feel over his sparkling manners.  He doesn’t treat people badly; he has manners and character.  So he wins.  And I win because he's mine.  

Lately, he has really been surprising me with his ability to stand up for himself.  Like when a little girl gave him “tips on how to be cool;” which basically entailed him developing an entirely new personality and set of friends.  He told her he didn’t need her tips and that everyone is different.  He wasn’t even hurt over it; he mostly seemed surprised by her audacity. 

I was proud of him. 

A situation came up recently where I was concerned about him getting his feelings hurt.  I felt I needed to do some pre-damage control, however I felt hesitation and decided just to wait.  I prayed about it, and I felt like I was supposed to trust God with his heart.  After all, He loves him even more than I do.  Well, like everything God does, it went better than I could have imagined.  I saw stars in his eyes; the kind that only come out when something real special happens.   If I had gotten involved, the whole thing might have been called off.  

So, I’m officially taming the momma bear.  I mean, tame doesn’t mean sedated or buried.  It just means disciplined and slow react. 

It’s time.

safe keeping.

I came across the best interview the other day, and I wanted to post it here so I can read it whenever I want. I've had a long standing respect for the soy bomb guy. He's just as much a part of my life as the cast of Friends and the lyrics to my favorite songs.  He's just there, in my arsenal of pop culture influences.  He's one of my all time favorites.

 I remember watching this live. I was at home with Alexandria, who was about 6 months old, enjoying BobDylan's song when the Soy Bomb guy started flailing around. I was mesmerized. This was before social networking and texting, so I had to wait a few days to discuss it with my friends. Imagine that.

What I like about the interview is his wording; it's so weird yet impossibly brilliant.
I hope he gets to make a comeback one day.

The real question on people's minds at the 1998 Grammys wasn't "How did some guy with 'Soy Bomb' painted on his chest get onstage with Bob Dylan?" No, the more pressing question was, "How did this guy get to STAY onstage with Bob for almost an entire minute, before security realized he wasn't part of the act?" Bob seemed as confused as everyone else.

In a new interview with Yahoo! Music, Soy Bomb, who is a respected artist and whose real name is Michael Portnoy, explains his motivations behind that night. "Comedy is for people who have a sense of rhythm but can't play an instrument. Rhythm is for people who like to hit animals but instead stretch them over clay bowls. The art world is for people who want to be comedians and musicians, but don't like driving in vans with other males, or practicing. Soy Bomb was intended to be a simple poem, but my arms stole all the attention."

Asked if he would ever crash national television again for a performance art piece, Portnoy replied, "If the delivery of all the nation's programming were confined to just one Jumbotron in the heart of the country, I might consider occupying a few square feet in the lower right corner of the screen as a kind of living punctuation."

We assume that means yes!

beauty in the breakdown.

When I read through my old posts, I really miss being able to sit and write.

Now, most of what I say is pointless and 140 characters or less.

I don't miss being sad or feeling misplaced, but I miss the heightened feelings that went along with it. The only way I can explain is to compare it to how good you feel when a headache goes away.

You-don't-know-how-good-it-feels-to-feel-good-until-you-feel-like-crap-for-a-little-while.

The last season was the hardest ever, but it was also incredibly beautiful.

I struggled more than I ever have, but I was overwhelmed with grace.

I cried more than I thought humanly possible, but just the same, the beauty of the foothills, or the valley, or the fall leaves glowing would make my heart feel like it might explode out of my chest.

Today, I had a "me day," I sat alone and did nothing. It was just alright; it left me wanting something more.

I remembered my old back yard, my afternoons in the hammock looking at this tree.

It always looked like a dancer to me. A dancer who was reaching out, and It made me want to reach out. God gave me beauty for ashes at every turn.

The struggle I experienced made me a better person.

I embraced the pain, and journaled all the lessons it brought.

So, my question is, now what?

I'm in such a happy place, just breathing deep.

But I'm kind of bored.

I miss the revelation and sometimes I even miss the tears.

The only crying I do is on my emoji keyboard. (holler)

Truth is, there's something about being an emotional basketcase that is slightly redeeming.

It's just the fluidity I guess.

No walls, nothing bottled up.

You actually might pray for the ability to bottle something up, but you can't.

It's just all overflowing at the surface, coming out whether you want it to or not.

I wouldn't want to be like that again.

But from someone who's lived to tell, I can wholeheartedly say, there's beauty in the breakdown.

So, this long, weird, rambly mess of a post is just reminding myself to not stop reaching out.

To always seek the Lord, crisis or not.

I want to be that oak, dancing in the afternoon breeze, all for his glory.

To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the LORD has planted for his own glory. Isaiah 61:3