The Light Went Out of Her Eyes...

Beka had a very fun weekend... she went to doggie day care and got to play with other dogs, including her new "boyfriend," Ace, a puppy near her age who became her #1 playmate.

And boy, was she worn out. She slept and slept and slept Sunday night after we brought her home. I've never seen her that zonked out, other than her brand new puppy stage or after her little operation - Beka 2.IT

Monday morning, back to "normal" - get dressed, gather stuff for the day ahead, then utter the words, "Beka, it's time to go bye-bye..." 

And the light goes out of her eyes. She lays down in her (my) chair, and has to be majorly bribed to go into her crate for the day. After a couple days of freedom, playing, hanging out with others of her kind, and being worn out from the sheer joy of it all, "normal" slams the door and throws away the key.

Vicki thinks she's just still tuckered out from her weekend of fun. I hope and pray that's the case, but I fear... I don't know what I'd do if I saw the light go out of Beka's eyes permanently, leaving her shuffling through the days, losing the joy and adventure she felt so keenly this weekend.

And I fear for me too...

I fear that the light has gone out of my eyes. That I've lost the joy and adventure of the past two years, shuffling through the days as "normal" slams the door and throws away the key.

Upon what do I base these depressing thoughts?

- I've gained 10 pounds.

- I've made junk food one of my major food groups. Now, anybody can go on junk food binges, but when I do, it throws up a HUGE red flag that I'm medicating with food.

- I'm consuming a staggering amount of carbs, which has the double bonus of packing on weight AND making me miserable on the "other end." In fact, Vicki has said she can't understand why I keep doing this to myself, when I know the discomfort it'll produce as an aftermath.

I don't know either.

- I work someplace where any of the aforementioned carbs or junk food is available without blinking an eye. Want to medicate with food? I work at the food addict's crack house.

(The above does not in ANY way say anything about the fine, fine establishment where I spend my days walking around trying to find my way and do something good in the process. It's my issues here, not the place I am...)

- I haven't been on my trike since the first week of August, I haven't been to Tai Chi in a year, and, by my reckoning, I haven't posted anything to this blog in a couple of months which means I haven't been writing, which means my mental plumbing is backed up so bad that Mr. Roto Rooter is saying, "Dude - I'm not touching that..."

- I've stopped believing and living my own story. The stones stand forgotten, neglected, ignored. Life is now a series of go here, do this, go there, do that, sleep, repeat. The discipline of mindfulness, the habit of awareness, the practices and routines that my new life requires have been left behind. Every day brings me a little closer to the life I thought was gone for good.

The old dead corpse still hangs around my neck, it reaches out to move my hands, to shape my actions, to cloud my vision - 

To take the light out of my eyes.

Ever notice how not all of the Psalms are happy-happy-praise-praise-praise? Ever read the stuff from David's "Blue Period?" (which nobody has ever called it, for the record...) Well, I'm in my blue period, I guess. And I haven't gotten to the place where I'm lifting up my eyes, I'm not looking to the hills, I'm not realizing where my help comes from. I'm just trying to get from this place to that place, to do this thing and then that thing. 

Steve, the mental hamster, has stuck me in his wheel, and it's going round and round. 

For Beka, I will fight and move and strive to make sure that we find ways to keep the light in her eyes, to give her the joy and adventure that her little puppy heart so needs.

For myself? I don't know...

When The Bough Breaks

"Rockabye baby, in the treetop.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall..."

And Mom & Dad will get hauled away for child endangerment, assets and all.

In this present life, balance is way high up on my "this is honkin' essential" list. Perhaps even at the top.

Maybe.

Balance keeps me physically whole - keeping track of what I eat, how quickly I eat it, what types of fuel I'm choosing to put in the tank, the payback when I choose inappropriate stuff to eat, and the painful reminders to make better choices that follow.

Balance is the cornerstone of my mental wholeness as well, both in how I think and in my emotional state (which is NOT Iowa, for the record).

(Although the Iowa 80 Truck Stop makes me swoon with joy - I could easily live there, and ne'er be seen again.)

(See why balance is a biggie for me?)

Monitoring my emotional balance is especially important - when something has gone awry, that's where it shows up first. Then we have to look at what's going on one step back - am I taking those essential little pills that give me traction on the path to balance? Am I sleeping well, or fractured? What's my schedule like? Am I keeping a regular bedtime and get-the-heck-outta-bed time? Am I making time to listen to the Daily Audio Bible? To get out on my trike and ride? (Riding to work doesn't count - it has to be a medium to long ride, on the trail, fewer distractions, with sufficient time to allow my brain to slow down and let go of some baggage.)

What about some down time with Vicki?

Have I taken time to write, to try and bring some of the churning thoughts into the physical world, so I can see them and work with them?

That's a lot to have rockin' in the treetop, eh? No wonder da baby come crashin' down like ice off da edge of da roof (said da yooper by marriage).

Most people can get through something like this without having to do CSI: Hamster Brain. They can roll and flow with life, accommodating changes and challenges with grace - at least where anybody can see. What they do in the privacy of their own home is their gig...

... But if it involves punching a life-size cutout of any of a number of celebrities or professional athletes, I beg you - video, please. Or at least let me come over and take a couple swings, eh?

Yah, ya betcha.

I am not one of those people. I am the 1%, not the 99%. No, those numbers have no basis in reality - just a lighthearted attempt at a little humor. Ha ha. Guffaw. Snort.

(Thanks Kassi, for teaching me that no outburst of laughter is complete without a snort.)

I am one of those adults that deals with mental illness.

No, I am not a threat to anyone. No, I am not going to bust out in mind-numbing violence, the kind of which will make headline fodder for years to come. No, I don't use alcohol to self-medicate, which would complicate things considerably, especially with what it would do to my redecorated innards. I also don't use food to self-medicate, although I did. Yes I do drugs - solely and exclusively, they are the ones prescribed by some very competent and kind medical professionals who are amazing and know all kinds of stuff. I take exactly what they recommend I take; I don't forget to take them or decide that I'm doing so good that I can just stop 'em overnight. I am compliant with my treatment plan.

And yes, the very moment that the wind blows and the cradle rocks, I start looking for the reason behind it all, to see if it's something that is just passing through, a change that needs to be accommodated for a season, or a sign of something that I need to bring to the attention of the aforementioned professionals, that we might pop the hood and tweak the engine.

I'm not self-absorbed. But I AM self-aware - I have to be. Vicki's on this team too - if we don't stay on top of it, things get... less than optimal.

Or as Vicki said, "We've seen the promised land - we are NOT going back to Egypt!"

She lived in Egypt a long time. She's glad to be out. So am I, just so we're clear.

So, why the HECK am I writing all this poopy? Who cares??  

Someone else who deals with mental illness - they do.

Knowing someone else who has to stay on top of stuff like this lets us know that we're not alone. And as anyone who has ever dipped a toe into the bottomless lake that is mental illness knows, alone is the worst place to be. 

Jeff Manion once said in one of his amazing sermons, "What if hell is the place where God finally grants the one thing we've asked of Him time and time again -

'JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!' 

Alone with myself? Just my own thoughts, my own nightmares, my own darkness for all eternity? That's hell enough for me."

Someone who has stared into the darkness knows how true that is. To know that someone else - anyone else - has also looked into the darkness brings a little tiny glimmer of light into the blackness. Knowing others that take their pills, watch their emotional state, comply with their treatment, or do whatever other stuff is  necessary to keep the darkness at bay - it makes my little steps and routines and things a bit more tolerable. We can go almost anywhere, if we know we're not alone.

After all, when the cradle rocks, it's good to know others are around to help steady it. And when the bough breaks, it helps to know someone is around to be a catcher.  

When you've dipped a toe into the bottomless lake that is mental illness, the one place you don't want to be is alone. 

Hello, PuppyDog.

On May 29th, I wrote a farewell to our beloved Ezri. And that's the last writing I've done  for a while. I was a little occupied with stuff like weeping, putting away dog toys, crying, getting over how quiet the house is without her, and shedding tears.

And we wondered if that was it. Last time. Final episode in the doggie chronicles. Done with fur, messes, dog sitting, grooming, vet bills, and having our hearts ripped out through our eye sockets at the end.

Sorry if that was a little "much." But if you've never had to take a beloved pet you've spent the last 10+ years with to the doctor for the final goodbye, you really don't know where I'm coming from. It burns, it aches, and it makes you swear that you'll never put yourself through that kind of pain again.

Because the irony is, we choose to do it. Nobody forces us to be pet parents - we decide to bring these critters into our lives, knowing all the while that if all things go as expected, we'll be around when they go.

So we set an appointment for a kick in the chops 12 or so years from now. And the clock starts ticking.

So why in the name of Fats Waller would we do that again? Why would we choose a heartbreak, all wrapped up in a fuzzy package, set to go off just when we've gotten comfortable having them around? Or as my mom put it, "just when you've got them whipped into shape, they're gone."

My mom had a fondness for getting things whipped into shape. In spite of that, she still loved me, the son that refused to be "whipped." Or "into shape" for that matter. Unless the shape was round, pear-like, and huge, that is.

Why would we choose to open our hearts again, knowing that the pain is coming? It's not a question of "if," but "when."

Why?

Any of this resonate with any of you non-pet parents out there? Or single folks trying to make sense of a lonely world? How about you peeps that never feel like you belong, so that in the middle of a crowd you still feel alone?

Can I get a witness? Oh YEAH, Glory! UH-HUH!

Get ye down.

Why? Because we are never ever meant to live in total isolation. Single? Yes. Absent from others for a time? Sure. But totally disconnected from anyone or anything outside of ourselves?

No.

We aren't built that way. Our Father designed us for fellowship - with others, with His creation, and most of all, with Himself. We were never designed to be self-contained.

That might be one reason that being considered "self-centered" is still not a compliment. An achiever, aggressive, self-confident? That's alright, but totally focused on self as the sum and total of your whole world? Not so much.

We aren't designed to dance alone.

The house seems boomingly quiet without the sound of toenails clicking. The silence is oppressive without the thump of a tail, the gentle rhythm of panting breath. You catch yourself wondering where the dog is...

And then you remember. And the sadness hits once more.

Why open up the pain locker again? Why set the time bomb of sadness in motion again? Why be open to love again?

Because that's what we were designed to do. To open our hearts, to share our lives, and to reach beyond ourselves. We reach out, we get slapped, we cry, we withdraw. And even though we decide that we're not going to go through that again, that we are going to protect ourselves and not allow anybody or anything to hurt us like that again, that we're going to build some walls, retreat behind them, and keep what little sanity we have left, we somehow forget or ignore the pain and we reach out again. And again.

Insanity? Nope - we were designed to love. And we weren't designed to be closed up behind thick walls.

In a world that works, that isn't broken and flawed, we can love and be loved free and openly, without concern or fear, just the way our Father designed us to be. In this present broken world, however, there will be pain, there will be sadness, and there will be many tears. So our Father came here, Himself, as one of us. He showed us how much He cares, how deeply His heart breaks when we turn our backs on Him, and how He still holds His arms open, waiting for us to return to Him.

He shows us how to endure the sadness, because He endures the sadness of our betrayal again and again. And still He loves.

So, on June 16th, we opened Pandora's box once again, and brought Beka Valentine Olson into our home - an 8 pound, 7 week old bundle of fur, very sharp teeth, and love. Someday, as time stretches out before us, we'll probably have to say goodbye to her, weeping and enduring the heartbreak once again. But from here to there will be some amazing years, filled with joy, laughter, and love. (There will also be some not-so-fun moments, plenty of cleaning up messes, and quite a bit of bleeding from those razor sharp teeth.) We once again dive into the depths, throwing our hearts out there again in reckless abandon, daring to love in spite of all we know or understand.

Just the way our Father designed us to, like the way our Father loves us.

Hello, PuppyDog. Welcome home...

Goodbye, BabyDog...

 

I keep looking, to see where you are, but you're not here.

I keep checking to see if you're at the top of the back stairs, waiting for momma to come up from the basement, but you're not there.

I keep listening for the sound of your tail on the floor, the secret signal that said "Dad? Belly rub, please," but there is no sound.

I keep hoping for the touch of that scratchy velvet tongue, giving kisses of greeting or licking my toes at the end of the day, but they're gone.

For 12 years, you've been a friend, a packmate, a cheerleader, a source of unconditional love, a whole bundle of four-legged fur therapy, and a giver of joy and laughter, the sort that will never be found again. There will be joy, there will be laughter, but never the special kind you created.

When I nearly lost my mind with grief, you were my link to sanity. You kept me here, you kept me moving, you gave me a reason to be and not to just sit in despair. You were a companion in a lonely season.

12 years? Not nearly long enough.

Thank you, Ezri. We love you, we cry at your departure, and we will miss you.

Run through fields, with no stiffness or pain in those pesky back legs. Smell amazing smells, see wonderful sights, and have all those splendid dreams that made you twitch and move around the living room floor.

Goodbye, BabyDog.

Another Brick In The Wall

(I suppose to avoid legal entanglements, that title should be changed to "another heavy masonry object secured into the large masonry construct." Yeah, that rolls right off the tongue.)

Since April 9th (my "official" hire date), I now have a day job. Actually, it's an every-other-day job. Or a two-days-in-a-row-off-then-unmercifully-early-Sunday-morning job. Or something like that. Anyway, it's a job. Part-time. Much effort for minimum wage.  

Lest I convey the wrong image, it's also a whole ball of mercy wrapped up in a red shirt and a pair of hopefully comfortable and supportive shoes. (I haven't quite dialed that last bit in yet, but am getting close to figuring out what is needed.) It teaches me stuff, it allows me to get out there and shine some light, and it helps me learn the new things my new body and life can do. 

It's six to eight thousand steps, between one and two miles a day, being on my feet for hours at a time, learning to deal with machines and processes and forms and procedures and time clocks and rules and conduct and uniforms and expected behavior and expected output and a whole lot of other stuff that makes me feel like I just got hit by a bus. 

Steve the Mental Hamster is having a field day. I, on the other hand, have been curled up in a fetal position, sobbing into my pillow, "Dear Father, what have I done?"

Ok, that was a little overdone. And overdramatic. And over easy. Yum. Eggs. 

At this point, I hear a great chorus of witnesses crying out, "Suck it up, wimp boy! Welcome to the REAL world, Mr. Sit-My-Flabby-Hiney-At-Biggby-And-Spend-The-Day-Writing-Meaningless-Prattle-That-Nobody-Ever-Reads-Anyway! Join the rest of us, who actually WORK for a living! Stuff a sock in it, toughen up Buttercup, and get over it! Get to WORK!" 

Don't have to. Today is a day off. Nyah nyah nyah! I are not immature! *phbbbbt!* 

Perhaps I are after all. 

So, one might rightly ask,  why I have I been sounding like a spoiled teenager lately? 

"Dude, I have to be there on time, and I have to like, work all day, and -get this- I have to punch in to like, take a break, and I only get a couple of those, and like, I have to punch out to eat lunch, and then I have to like, punch in a half hour later, and I have to like, punch in no later than two minutes after I'm supposed to be there or else I'm marked down for being late, and like, dude, it's just not fair!"  

I sound like a sixteen year old, not a fifty-something. (And if you know some sixteen year-olds and take much umbrage to that last bit, I do apologize. I too know some fine folks of that age range, any of whom are wiser than me by leaps and bounds. Comedy is sometimes stereotypical. Although, you do have to ask yourself about the seeds of truth that blossom into a witty stereotype. Not a hurtful, hateful stereotype - nobody need ask themselves anything about those, except why the heck do I even know stuff like that? Just the witty, tongue-in-cheek kind. Yeah, those ones.) 

I sound like someone who's never had a job before, or at least not a real job with real requirements and real consequences. 

NEWS FLASH: I haven't. At least, not in this present life. 

"Wha'?" 

Yeah, it was bugging me too. After all, I am a fifty-something. Actually, I'm fifty-two going on fifty-three. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I've earned most if not all of these silver hairs on my head through experience, physical changes or mental adjustments, and they're ok with me.

(They'd be more ok with me if they'd all make up their mind to go one color, and quit mixing it up. I'd vote for all white - I'd love to take my place among the white-haired wise of 1st Cov. Or at least among the white-haired part.)

But this chapter in my life is confusing me. And leaving me a little impatient with myself. And making me wonder just what sort of wussy boy I really am. It's like I've flipped back to high school and don't have many more years than that on my clock. 

That sounds disturbingly familiar. Hold on - let me check the underused, over-hyped, non-award-winning archives of that beloved piece of electronic wasting of space, "The Whistler's Wonderings." Steve, would you spin up the archive wheel, please? 

Please? 

What if I give you a Yummy Chewy Crunchy Tasty Hamster Bite?

Yeah - mental hamsters don't eat. I know that. Work with me here, 'k? Thanks.

("The Whistler's Wonderings" is exclusively powered by the awesome computational ability of the Commodore 64 - the personal computing wave of the future. Hamster-powered mainframe optional.) 

Alright, let's see... Hmmm... I know it's here someplace... 

Ah HAH! I knew this sounded familiar. 

"When coming out of addiction, one sometimes goes back mentally to the place where they entered into addiction, and often must learn or re-learn lessons that they missed while they were addicted." (to paraphrase my counselor, She Who Knows Stuff)

Oh - that one again. Poop. 

I hates that one.  

Perhaps 'hates' is too strong of a word. Perhaps 'strongly dislikes' would be better. Perhaps not. 

Perhaps I'm stalling.  

Yeah, that's it. 

Last time I got to saddle up with this particular lesson, we were thinking I was around toddler age, having to deal with flailing motor control and the demon persistence of the single-digited, insisting that "I CAN DO IT MYSELF!" 

It wasn't pretty. 

We were hoping that I'd moved ahead, perhaps all the way to early college and were beyond some of the drama of my teens.

And again, perhaps I'm stalling. 

Welcome to TeenAgeCal, without the raging hormones and all the joy therein. So, to join me on this little journey, think back to your very first job. Think about the things you had to learn about balancing school, responsibilities at work, and a HUGE social life. About how reasonable expectations seemed like a chain around your ankle, how requirements for dress and behavior were an affront to your individual expression, and finding acceptable corners to cut were your major field of study. 

I know - that's awash in stereotypes, unfair to the teens of this day and age, and certainly not how it was when you were that age. You were a fine, upstanding young employee, maintained a great GPA, were elected to various important positions in student government, involved in sports, the arts, still had time to make award-winning projects in shop class, and spoke not only at your high school commencement, but at your rival school's as well, so profound were your oratorical gifts. 

You are dead to me. Just sayin'. 

But mixed into all my pondering and wondering and whining about my new life circumstance is one little truth that changes and balances it all: 

This IS my first rodeo.

I didn't have a job in high school, except for a short stint at a photography studio my senior year, hardly enough to effect a change in either work ethic or life behavior. (The correct usage of "effect" there courtesy of She Who Must Proof, correcting Cal's many spelling and grammar errors since 1982.)

*ahem* 

Yes?

*actually, since we started dating in the fall of 1981, it would actually be "since September, 1981." It could be August, 1981, but I'll allow a month of leeway here.* 

Thanks, really.

*You're welcome. :-D*

(Those of you who know She Who Must Proof well know that I'm really not stretching things too far to paint that picture... In fact, if you were to ask her, she'd probably 'fess up to it. Go ahead - ask her if when she read the words, "Since 1982," she then started doing the mental computations to make sure that was accurate. Really - go ahead - I'll wait. 

....

.....

......

To quote Master Yoda, "Told you, I did.")

Carrying on...

I didn't have a job in college, because my Mom wanted college to be my only occupation and gave me the support to not have to work - support that I squandered, wasted, and generally used to continue my lazier than thou lifestyle and mindset... 5 years, no degree, no actual career path or aspirations, majoring in performance on an instrument that I really despise the solo literature for, and enough issues to fill a few trucks. 

And I never thanked her enough for her sacrifice, nor did I apologize for wasting it. I have since - but it came, as does so much in our lives, too late.

- Grace is a gift from God. Regret is a tool of Sightblinder. Yes, I do know, apply, and show gratitude for that life-giving lesson. -

I "fell into" work in radio, and kept a toe in it for years, though if I were to apply now, I doubt I'd be hired - I just don't possess a "radio voice." God brought me into it full-time, kept me there just long enough to get onto the edge of the cliff, and kicked me off of it in 2006 to begin the long fall into my ReBirth. 

(And for those of you protesting that crack about not having a "radio voice," I'm just speaking truth as someone who has long experience in the industry. My voice worked for kids' radio, and it works well as an overnight voice on WCSG, but it's not a drive-time, mainstream kind of voice. It's truth, not a slam or self-esteem issue. For the record, it kicks tushy as a storyteller's voice... although one kiddo in Children's Church accuses me of "screaming." Heaven help him if I ever do actually *scream* - his head will probably implode.)

So, no - I've never learned the whole thing of balancing work responsibilities, home responsibilities, social life (fortunately, a fifty-something tends to have less need of a social life than a teen, although Vicki and I are waiting for more of our friends to become empty nesters so we can hang out with them and catch up on life, while watching the slide shows of their grandchildren cycle through on their computers), and creative pursuits. I'm a little ("lot") clueless about the demands that a job, even a part-time one, makes on one's mind and body. And I'm very, very inexperienced at how to walk gracefully from one role to another, one responsibility to another, or from activity (like work or chores) into inactivity without interpreting "inactivity" as "hibernation mode." I don't yet know how to keep 'down time' from becoming 'veg mode.'

I'm learning all those lessons that most of you learned many, many years ago. After all, Tabula Rasa DOES mean "blank slate." Mine is starting to have some stuff written on it, but there's still a LOT of blank space waiting to be filled. And lessons still lurk out there, waiting to be learned. Shouldn't catch me off-guard by now, but like the dumb sheep I am, they do. 

The important thing, which has been slow to come as well, is this: I've learned the necessity, the joy, the wondrous freedom of extending grace to myself. In other words, I know how to "give myself a little slack."

Not to be confused with "letting myself be a slacker," just so's we're clear.

Once I finally realize that this isn't a flaw, a weakness, a place where I'm just being spoiled, stubborn, lazy, or any other manifestation of EvilCal, then I can apply the grace lesson and sit back for the ride. I can go into learning mode, ease up on my personal expectations, and open up the space needed to insert some new programming into life 2.0.

As one of my earlier posts states, "I did it before, I can do it again." Which, by the way, is why there even IS an archive for TW'sW's - It's less of a blog or status update, and more of a reference library for the care and maintenance of Cal's ReBirth.

So, open up the space, apply the grace lesson, and mindfully approach the changes, the challenges and the stresses. Step away from being frustrated, and instead look for accommodation - moving gracefully from step to step, from change to change, from challenge to challenge. Along the way, keep the essentials that must not be lost, pick up the important things that have been dropped, set them all into their proper place and order, and continue to move. See the new things added for what they are - a gift, a provision, an opportunity, an assignment. 

Go where God has made it very, very plain that you are to go, do what God has made it very, very plain that you are to do, and become who God has intended from the beginning you should be. 

After all, He's always gone before you, He always walks beside you, and He always knows the steps ahead of you - He prepared them for you. His timing is perfect, His faithfulness is eternal, and He loves His kids. At no time are you ever out of His reach or His care. 

Nothing catches Him by surprise, yet we delight Him when we reflect His light. He smiles when we praise Him with everything and anything we have and are. And we have the ability and privilege to give Him glory with anything and everything we do.

Alright, I'm putting on my hopefully comfortable and supportive shoes, my black pants and red shirt. I'm aware that I have exactly the number of seconds, minutes, hours, and days that He knows I need to be and do what He has planned for me. I can gracefully move from place to place and from job to pursuit to rest to fun because my Dad made me flexible like that. I can navigate the changes and the stresses because my Father goes ahead, holding up the light, illuminating the path. And I don't have to be afraid, because He's right beside me.

And He loves His kids. Even in their terrible teens.