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Shell #napowrimo (day twenty-eight)

Posted on August 30, 2016 by shabbysnap Leave a comment

Body of mine
Why do you fail me?

Shoulder shooting
Lower back rooting
Joints pop and crack
Flexibly that lacks
Muscles that complain
Aches don’t refrain

Body of mine
Why do you fail me?

(Written before my love of yoga began)

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After a while, signs like this become a tool for new people only, but for me, I will never learn. I don’t say that as hyperbole, or even self-negativity, it’s an actual fact. See, the only thing I comprehend when looking at this sign is the placement of it and its colors; I see arrows and wonder why there are only two directions noted—from this location. I’ll take note of the fact that not all colors are represented, based on location. But I will NOT directionally put myself into a map or even think about how to get from one place to another. Dangerous, I know. I only see the space, the color, details, design errors, and depth. I l float in an absent-minded, directionally challenged person’s body. Is this real diagnosable thing? 😂 In my 40s, I embrace my weaknesses, understanding that my strengths are elsewhere. I AM thankful I married a man who has built-in navigation. He never understood my fear of getting lost, back in the days before GPS. And he’s given up on trying to teach me how to see, in the same sense that I’ve given up on him seeing in color. We complement each other nicely. @mdortch

Seventeen years ago. Seventeen! She was making her entrance into this world via emergency c-section after a failed attempt to enter naturally. She was removed from the contaminated amniotic fluid with the umbilical cord around her neck. She didn’t cry, she just game me this look like she was going to be an amazing fighter. Like she knew something the doctors didn’t know. Y’all! She fights! Sometimes she fights within her self, but she can fight and find her way due to the fact that she has Jesus—an enormous sense of justice—in her heart and determination in her bones. Every day spent learning, loving and exploring with Bella is a miracle and wonder. Love her bunches!! Happy 17th Birthday! @bellinilane

Sometimes it’s hard to think she isn’t gonna bound through the door with giggles and requests for food. But look at what this girl is doing: following her heart.

Imprint: A mark that is left behind, on top, or into another matter. Is it light or is it dark? Will it be temporary or permanent? Is its pattern intentional or accidental? Will it speak or will it be silent? Does it change your life or is it ignored? Do you even see it or is it invisible? Will you make a change once you experience it or will you keep on doing what you always have done? Imprint. Ask these questions about your experiences in life. Allow yourself to grow and transform; allow yourself to make an imprint and be impressionable. Allow the critics, allow the affirmation, but turn it all into a nutritious ingredient, not a fleeting image or a dust particle blown in the wind.

While I was out walking today, I was about to post how I felt about last night’s dinner. I got one word typed and began to cry—sob rather. Years and years ago, I never imagined I’d be able to communicate with other birth moms, let alone sit at a table with several. Now, I’ve attended a handful of dinners each one special and unique in its own way, with the addition of new sisters each and every time. But this year I got the chance to host a dinner in my home! What an overwhelming joy it was. The stories, the sweet and safe conversations that organically happened, the pics that were shown ALL have been sitting in my heart—and in my throat— for almost a day. That’s why I cried, you see, the stories unwrapped my heart, they pulled my story out, with all its feels, and they reminded me of how far I’ve come. Not too far to feel. Not too far to cry when I walked by the little boys playing ball in the street feeling as though I missed so much. Not too far to wish. Not to far to dream for the future. And THESE women get it. They’ve ALL felt what I feel. They will feel what I’VE felt. We are one. We are birth moms, despite the differing story details and plot twists. We are one because we all let go of ourselves to better THAT part—even at our own harsh expense. We walk through valleys and we sit on the peaks. We don’t forget that day our babies arrived and changed us forever. We don’t forget #nationaladoptionmonth #joinbravelove #bravelove #adoption #shabbybirthmom

You can HEAR the fog horn, SEE the flashing lights and even READ the sign post of others who’ve stumbled on the same impediments in life. But friends, RISK is something that is invisible—though the waters churn and lap at your ankles—and it washes over, stinging with its enormity, until all you can do is WISH you’d heeded the trusty warnings. Yep. RISK doesn’t FEEL like anything different until it’s too late. Let’s take a lesson or two from the lighthouse, since its design is to guide, warn and sound an alarm to protect the boaters from the rocky coast of life. Shipwrecks still happen, despite best efforts, but almost ALL who heed the warning signs steer clear of eminent danger. ———————I’m a lighthouse.

Journeys take interesting turns through tumultuous impasses, as well as glossy stretches, but one thing remains the same: our love. It’s an automated sounding horn and a light that guides us home. It keeps us safe, protects and signals others to follow. No shipwreck or abandonment here. This boat and sail are together for the long hull. —Said the Hallmark version of me. 😂 But really. @mdortch FYI: I’m the sail, he’s the boat.

Who can predict the feels of life: the tears and sorrow? No how-to book, podcast, speaker series or even our own efforts to plan—though try as we may. Prayer though, now THAT is a way to make an investment in your future, not just for yourself, but for those you love. This past February, #abbythegiglet was diagnosed with celiac’s disease—confirmed by an endoscopy. Yep. World rocked. But guys, ALL my previous prayers for her were already being answered, even though I felt as if God wasn’t listening. AT ALL! He gave Abby unbelievable discernment and ultimately the greatest roommate/suite-mates gift in these girls. This past weekend they hiked, went to a pumpkin patch, went to the farmer’s market and even found @sunnybatters cookies and brownies. Saturday, my phone rang—another blessing—and I heard the giddy voice of my daughter on the other end. The emotion behind her words was joyous, childlike and happy. If you have a child with food allergies, T1 or celiac’s disease, you get what it means to find a food, in a public space or party, that’s safe for you to consume. She wanted me—her greatest champion—to know. Y’all! It’s overwhelming to know these prayers were answered, but it renews my hope in the multitudes I’ve already prayed and in the ones I’ve yet to speak. I couldn’t predict the course of life she’s be on, but through prayer, I rest in knowing I’ve pleaded peace and love to The One who has already mapped it out. These feels/cries are custom to me, and I love them, and I’ll keep writing about them so that y’all know: crying is a good thing. It releases like a valve, cleanses the soul and hits reset, so that you can be filled with more memories and blessings. Don’t be a doubter and don’t give up.

On October 22nd, 1992, my boyfriend left for off-campus lunch with two other friends. It was a sunny fall day in Kansas and he loved to sing, so my guess is the windows we’re down, him sitting shotgun with his right arm out the window singing whatever song was playing at the moment. Opposing this space was an unfortunate force of nature as the wheels were guided upon the median, flipping the car like a pancake. One passenger was ejected, and from what they said, he died on the scene. Rewind to the night before: youth group at church. He had given me a note that explained his true feelings for me and talked in great detail about how special I was. None of which I believed at the time, but ya know, it’s love right? Fast forward. School ends for me and a counselor finds me, asks me to sit in her office and wait until my mother gets to the school. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that something horrible had happened. When I saw my mother’s face, its distress confirmed the devastation, but I didn’t know who it was until her lips parted. It was Jay. Dead. 17. Alone in the median. I’d love to tell you that I didn’t love him, but the truth is, I did. I’ve never *sang with another male since him! He made me sing. He brought out the best in me, and he was gone. At his funeral, I sang Forever Friends, and as I type this I can still feel the pain I had while singing in front of the packed church with my crushed and broken heart spilling out my eyes. This began a spiral that had so many contrasts; a series of things that altered the trajectory of my life, even the way I raised my children. I was driven by its powerful expression of sorrow and suffering. I pushed myself away from death and into growth in life. I love you, Jay. And I know my husband isn’t jealous as I type this because he loves who you helped me become. I thank you. I thank the God who made you. I believe that in this marvelous, master-painted sky you are proud and that makes me smile even bigger than this sunset. And that says a lot. Happy 26 years in heaven with your Creator, the Father that never left you, God. #shabbysunsetti

1) I still am heels over head about yoga. Favored poses to practice now: grasshopper and elephant (thanks to my yoga teachers) Google them. 2) I am learning and growing daily. 3) my home isn’t clean right now and there are piles of sheets that have been clean, yet not on their respective beds, for a week now. 4)my husband is vacuuming the vents while I type this. 5) I love my husband, like a whole lot. 6) I love my kids, all three, more than I can vocalize. 7) my church is riding a wave of expansion and transformation that is mind-blowing. I’m in awe at what God is doing. #shabbyyogalegs

Endocrinologist appointment today. A1C holding at 7.9, down from 8.0 with a fine goal of 7.0-7.5. Due to all the variables of junior year, I get it is hard, but I believe a few small tweaks will get her there. She’s entertaining the G6 before year’s end and we are elated. Any advice from my fellow T1 crew or medical professionals? She’s already prepping for college being on Tresiba, but since college age kids have the highest mortality rate among those living with T1, we are planning on monitoring with the help of technology and others. Extremely grateful for these technological advances. Now let’s get that stem cell research and islet cell study going, folks. #t1dbella #mydoctorseries We need a cure from/for insulin dependent diabetes, the auto-immune disease.

I had no idea I’d rely this heavily on one liquid substance for warmth. Dear Jesus, make the rain stop! We have had enough of the flooding and the chaos. I know You hear our prayers. We trust You will use this water for good, but please, give it to someone in greater need.

Warning: Heavy Content Separation is something I’m used to out of habit, I say to myself often. I became a professional separator 24 years ago when shortly after the day my son was born, I separated. See, I made a plan; a plan that would allow this part of me—I could not pay for or learn to care for, yet already fell completely head over heels in love with—be smothered in love, safety and stability. I wanted what I had received as a child. I wanted so much more than what I could give. Mourning began and lasted for at least 5 full years—in its fullest effect. Almost all of the sweet milestones were passed at a distance, but not without tears of joy and laughter. Heartache held hands with me from then on. God gave me stability, a husband and a second born child. Somehow I knew it would fly by and I’d be separated from her, too, someday. But I’m a pro, right? No. I’m not. I could cry almost as hard as I did when I left the hospital without my son. It feels the same, y’all, and I know it. I know this space. And the stages keep coming. That memory space where Tyler played with Thomas trains and Abby was obsessed with Veggie Tales. Is it their soft and innocent embrace? Is it the magical glimmer of their baby eyes? Is it the questions of life and its peculiarities? Or is it just plain lame old separation? I don’t know, but it hurts. A mother will ALWAYS love, whether near or far, sick or healthy, happy or sad. She won’t forget the birth day and she won’t unfeel the love and connection. Forever. She remembers every pregnancy test, every loss, every victory, every separation and every moment spent loving on some level. I’ve already sent two, I’ve lost two and I have one more left in my nurturing nest. How can I continue being good at separation all by myself? How will I be worth anything as a separated sobbing mess? Y’all. It’s real. Being a mom is the greatest feeling juxtaposition of a lifetime. Always standing at the crossroads of light and darkness with a selfless will, a batch of warm cookies and two open, grace-filled arms to take it ALL in. And at any time it comes.

Isabelle Laney’s Diaversary 10/8/2008-10/8/2018 (Celebrating life lived after diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes) Ten years A decade of life A tenth of life A healthy life More with Than without Ten years Turnabout Carbs and consequences Measure of sweets Caution with exercise Lows to beat Ten years Purses, prom and travel Shopping, dancing Testing with special circumstances Allowances of sleepovers Operation of moving vehicle Ten years Alive and healthy Thriving, laughing Singing, acting Violin tunes Stellar grades Ten years Hold so much inside Continue to the next: College, boyfriend Jobs, marriage Maybe even a child. Isabelle Laney Dortch’s Diaversary 10/8/2008-10/8/2018 Life is sweet and so worth the effort Ten years in a flash. (Pic of her in the hospital on day two of learning how to give shots and count carbs. She didn’t have jammies, so I bought these at the store near the hospital. I’ve never been able to get rid of them and I remember how much joy they gave her that day. Today, Bella got the top out and tried it on. Swipe to see) #t1dbella

Obviously this shot is my favorite. #mellowingwithyellowing

Played a game (oh Snap), read a children’s book (Little Polar Bear), had a good cry and am moving on with my Sunday. Couldn’t resist this robot shot. Glad I took a moment away from robotic tendencies to have a good sob this morning. It felt good.

Homecoming 2018 was made “photo wall” amazing at The Hill. Look at these lovelies! ♥️

When he comes home I feel complete, and this weekend my baby girl came home from Arizona as well. Y’all!!! There is something about waking up on a homecoming Saturday, ALL family members tucked under one roof, that makes my cheeks quiver a permanent smile. Without my handsome teammate, how could I even begin to celebrate properly.

Not gonna lie, this last two weeks were becoming a hard season for me and my vegan lifestyle. Cheese has a memory marker attached to my cozy falls of past. The smell of fall alone makes me want to eat from the time I get up until bedtime. Y’all! But now I have stockpiled my fridge with *good vegan cheeses and I no longer have to feel like I’m living without. I finally bought the non-chicken broth + Violife Parmesan cheese and made the most delicious risotto. I wake up wanting it! So here, we have my dinner and Bella’s dinner from yesterday. She was only gonna be the rice, beans and peppers girl, but I made her sample my scalloped potatoes as well. She loved it! Is food becoming a bigger way for me to connect and serve my family? Yes. And honing these skills with dietary needs and restrictions makes me feel like a superwoman. I smile. I win just a little bit, right? Don’t answer that. #imtheminicook

Until next time. Grow, remain strong, hold onto the good in the crackly dry times and give freely in the cleansing monsoon. Send down roots and look for nutrient-rich life forms on all sides. Life isn’t easy, but there is a fortress of foundation with bones that have been wielded from truth and layers upon juicy layer of memory.

Recent Posts

#Napowrimo2017 Day 2: Disappointment
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To Write #napowrimo (day twenty-nine)
Shell #napowrimo (day twenty-eight)

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