She came up for air. It felt cool on her lungs as she gasped. Then she was slipping again. Back into the darkness, slower this time, she watched the light fade further and further . . . fight back, she thought, this time fight back! She reached upward, willing her body to thrust forward, she fought. She knew she should fight, she wanted to fight, out of the darkness she wished to appear, stronger, happier, lighter . . . but even as she willed herself to fight she felt defeated. Doubt resonated above all else inside her, it echoed in her mind again and again – she couldn’t afford to lose another battle, to lose herself all over again, to lose all hope. Yet she knew not how to win.

My sister is having her baby tomorrow. I can say with sincerity that I am truly happy for her. I am happy that she will have the love of another human being; I am happy that she will be able to experience the gift of life; I am happy that she is having a healthy baby.
My tears are for her happiness. Yet behind them there is pain. I am also jealous, an emotion I feel guilty of, I would like to only feel true happiness for her – making my feelings for her more ‘pure’ somehow, but I cannot avoid the guilt because I cannot ignore the jealousy. As much joy as I know she will feel tomorrow when her little baby is placed in her arms . . .
I am happy that she will be able to experience that joy. I am going to try, diligently, to only feel the warmth of her joy tomorrow.


But for now . . .

Jealousy threatens to take my breath away. I am fighting back the tears because I refuse to let them flow. I refuse to feel their warmth upon my cheek. It may feel better to allow myself to cry, but I will not. I am not worthy of the release that crying may bring. Others would think it silly –tears for something I should have come to grips with, surely by now I should have made an attempt at acceptance – if only they understood the lengths I have gone to in order to make peace with it, even giving up God. At least I no longer question why. I want so badly not to feel. I want to slip into another body or another time, another place . . .

Recently I have found an escape. One I am embarrassed of. I have escaped into the thoughts of a tortured vampire, into a series of books by author Stephenie Meyer. A world so different from my own, a world where the pain of existence has purpose. When I began to read the first of the series I assumed that I would find some kind of solace and companionship with the main character, Bella. I never imagined that I would find myself in the stories monster. I should have known.

She

She had forgotten who she once was. She had forgotten who she once desired to become. She had forgotten her passions. She had forgotten her voice, forgotten how to sing. She had forgotten to see in color. She had forgotten how to live, and far worse, she had forgotten her reasons for wanting to live.
She first believed she had simply misplaced her voice, misplaced her passions and desires, misplaced her dreams .. . misplacement is far from loss and acceptance comes easier. And the loss had been gradual, unnoticeable at first. Days slid slowly into weeks, weeks turned into months, months turned into a year . . . the transformation now visible to others, for the loss had not been contained within, it spread like fire over her now, leaving only ash in the former place of all that once made her good.
Now numb, she had forgotten how to feel. Was this loss a chosen path? Was the change irreversible? These and others are questions she should have asked, yet these words were left unspoken in her mind, her own voice no longer heard. Her loss angered some and disappointed others. If only it angered her. No anger. No desire. No longing. No life. Just a bitter aftertaste of something now so removed it slowly slipped from memory. Forgotten, the feelings of the living. Forgotten, the notes of her song. Forgotten, the intonations of her voice. She would have forgotten to breathe if it had not come forced. She had forgotten to live. Time moved forward. Time and breathe became her world as all else darkened.
She lived in darkness. The absence of light her companionship. The voices heard now and then were not her own.

And then it was heard. One single note.

It's far too late for me to be blogging. I know this. I recognize that I become loose lipped as the night weans on. Yet lying in bed I had this stirring, to rise out of bed, to reach out through my blog. I feel my blog is healing in some sense, I've yet to fully understand the effects of placing ones words into the universe, ones thoughts, ones dreams, ones hopes, ones desires, ones failures, ones sadness, ones grief...placing these words, opening these words, sharing these words, in a way, letting go of these words and the pain behind them. Letting go of grief and dissapointment, letting go of pain and suffering, letting go of loss and sadness, letting go of anger and bitterness . . . my heart has been leasing space to bitterness and anger for far too long now, it's time a new tenant move in.

I miss Lilly.

I stood upon the second step of the Cosco kitchen ladder. This placed me in arms reach of the dough. My very own ball of dough. And my own miniature pans, awaiting the arrival of my misshapen loaves. I can still recall the scent of the rising bread mixed with the floral notes of my grandmother’s perfume.

My own parents have wanted grandchildren of their own for as long as I can remember. My mother began collecting baby things years ago, in anticipation of grandchildren she purchased baby clothes, baby blankets, miniature aprons and child sized rolling pins, a baby bassinet, baby shoes, soft animals, toddler toys . . . the list goes on and on. Years before my younger siblings were even of the age to date my mother was making plans to be a grandmother. Grandparents camp in the summer, special trips to grandma and grandpas house, trips to the zoo, to museums, explorations in the backyard. Her ideas are endless. I stood in her kitchen, now five years ago, and she commented to me on the age of the grandchildren she would have had, if I had given her grandchildren sometime during the first few years of my marriage. “I could have a grandchild turning eight this year” she said. Imagine me, a mother of an eight year old child. Imagine me a mother at all. Her remark was painful. Knowing of my infertility how could she even have the balls to say it?

My childlessness has placed a wedge between my parents and I. I have been deprived of the closeness one has between mother and daughter and grandchild. The forgiveness one receives upon betrothing their parents with grandchildren. The bond formed when a mother watches her own daughter receive her newborn babe into her daughter’s arms. The pride on my father’s face as he watches his grandsons first ballgame. I, alone, am not enough. Neither in their world nor mine.

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Emily Dickinson

Birth. the emergence of a new individual from the body of its parent. the act or process of bringing forth young from the womb. beginning , start. lineage , extraction. to bring forth or be brought forth as a child or young.
to bring forth : bear. the point at which something begins. origination, rise; bearing, childbearing, labor, parturition; begetting, breeding, fathering, generation, mothering, reproduction, siring, spawning; fatherhood, maternity, motherhood, parenthood, paternity.

Birth. Elusive. Unempowering. Loss. Defeat. Pain. Singularity. Fugitive. Unobtainable. Evasive. Removed. Apart. Isolated. Unapproachable. unreachable, untouchable. Withdraw. deprivation, dispossession, penalty; sacrifice; bereavement, agony, distress, pain, suffering, torment; dejection, depression, desolateness, desolation, despondency, disconsolateness, dispiritedness, distress, doldrums, downheartedness, dreariness, forlornness, gloom, heartsickness, joylessness, melancholy, misery, oppression, sadness, unhappiness, wretchedness; regret, remorse, rue, affliction, anguish, dolefulness, dolor, grief, heartache, heartbreak, woe.

I will graduate in May. Five words that I recognize should elicit some sense of joy and relief. Yet in place of feeling joyful I feel panicked. My heart begins to race as my mind sputters one thought upon another . . . I feel it even now, my heartbeat increasing as I think about this semester and the next. Latin, statistics, anthropology, geology, senior thesis, my current schedule is in order, yet it looks and feels foreign to me. What destiny have I put in place? Latin? Why am I learning Latin when I want to speak Italian? This question is easy, the school does not offer Italian, as an aspiring writer Latin is a logical choice. Aspiring writer? When did I become an aspiring writer? It's always been teaching. And I have not taken one single writing class, and when would I write? I hardly have time to place a few words on a blog every now and then. My degree has no room for writing classes, for pots of paint and empty canvas, for literature to inspire or enrage. How did I get to here? Academically speaking I have arrived at a juncture that has me questioning my academic career and the choices I have made.

New arrivals

My sister Heather is having a baby boy in January. My sister Emily is adopting, probably around the same time. We are very excited to have two new members of our family on their way. Perrie is alight with anticipitation, looking forward to baby showers and trips to the hospital, Perrie has also offered her babysitting services!

I neglected to add one very important point about swimming, or perhaps this will be two. First, I have been taking myself to swim alone, without Perrie, this provides a completely new dynamic to being in the pool. And second, swimming in the nude is by far superior to the only other option - the swimsuit. I first swam nude years ago with my sisters, I had taken Perrie to Florida on my family vacation; after tucking her in at night my sisters and I would head to the backyard and swim in all our glory under the stars. I loved it! In fact, it is one of the few moments in my life when I have felt completely uninhibited. Few things in life are better! I would love to find a nude beach.

I have begun to swim again. It feels wonderful, water rushing over skin, the dive into a calm pool of water . . . I had allowed myself to forget how light my body feels in the pool, how calm my senses become, how flexible my body feels, head arched back, stretched in the water I feel weightless . . . euphoric.



I end each night in the hot tub, steam rising in the dark . . . looking up at the moon, water slowly dripping off my body, the experience is one of reverence, one of calm.

I just came home from the country. When I say “country” I am speaking of Southern Utah, Toquerville to be exact, a small town that lies on Zion’s horizon. Through the kitchen window you can watch the sun rise over Zion’s peaks.
Toquerville is a four hour drive south on I-15. A town of folk and farm that evokes images one might call “Rockwell-esque”. It is easy for me to relax there, easy to sleep late and retire early. It feels good to be under the sun and in the gardens. One afternoon picking strawberries, the next making jam. I came home with a bounty, fresh picked corn and carrots, zucchini and squash, tomatillos and Serrano’s, leeks and kohl rabi. Fresh herbs and homemade breads. The afternoon spent making strawberry and blackberry jams and syrups was my favorite.
Perrie loves being in Toquerville, we went to the Tuacahn outdoor theater while we were there. An hour’s drive from Toquerville the Tuacahn sits among a backdrop of red rock, the location sets a stunning stage. Perrie also loves going to the theater, especially musicals, at Tuacahn we saw the musical Les Miserable. We hope to drive down in September and see the Secret Garden, (if I can break away from school for a few days). It felt wonderful to get away from the house and the move and even the dogs. I felt rested.

Passion. That fleeting rise in the heartbeat of anticipation. Passion. The flush of ones cheek. A wet hot heat. Passion. Desire burning steady, the promise of another, the love of another, the heat of another, the presence of another, the passion of another shared, one soul, enmeshed with mine.

Passion, lost in distance lost in time. Moments past, regrets that last. Passions never bridled, passions unexplored, passions undiscovered. Moments lost for fear.

An early morning

Sometimes I wonder, what am I doing here? Wrapped up in life’s daily chores of living I question my choice of path to tread upon. Sometimes I tread lightly, feeling an understanding and belief in the good of the world, but other times my feet are dead weight and the world appears to me unmasked in a state of disrepair. Then there are times when just one small event can give me hope, one smile, one line of a song or just one note, one laugh, just one word or just one touch. There are women in my life who often greet me with an embrace, I am sometimes uncomfortable, but I have begun to realize the importance of touch and affirmation, I have begun to pull down the walls I have so carefully put up – it feels good.

This morning I was up before 8 feeling nauseous, (a medication I’m taking), I came down the stairs to hear a light knock at the door, there stood a neighbor holding out a bag of zucchini and squash, asking if we would like squash from their garden. As I thanked him and he turned away I thought to myself, this is a moment to tread lightly, a moment to feel gratitude for those who extend themselves, their talents and their gifts freely, a moment to feel gratitude for the gifts of the earth.

Thoughts from last week...

So much has been happening in my life lately, in our life, as I recognize my life is connected to so many others . . . so much has transpired that I have neglected my blog. I often compose a blog in my mind, a running journal entry of sorts, only to later abandon transcription.

I am taking a four credit hour photography class on Mondays at Westminster. I am in the class for five hours every week for eight weeks. This has proved a much greater challenge than originally anticipated. First, the cost. I did not envision having to purchase Ilford RC Multigrade paper in bulk quantities, nor twenty some rolls of Kodak Plus X 125 black and white film. Secondly, the assignments for the class consume quite a bit of time, both in and out of the lab. Hours in the lab developing negatives, hours trying to capture the right shot for the assignment. I anxiously await the development of my next four rolls of film; negatives which I pray will demonstrate an ability to capture motion and depth of field. I spent the most beautiful Saturday morning last week in the gardens at Thanksgiving Point. Alone with my backpack and sunscreen I searched the gardens for shapes and textures which caught my eye and then my lens. It was a hot dry day and I was grateful for the four bottles of water I had placed in my backpack earlier in the morning. I will know before the weekend is over if my efforts were fruitful. I have a new respect for the art of photography and even more so for the artist behind the lens.

I moved into my new home, our new home. In fact I’m still technically moving in as there are a dozen or so boxes stacked in the backyard. I knew this move would be a challenge, I anticipated the exhaustion that accompanies any move, yet this move has almost licked me. Balancing school and relationships and Perrie and moving while feeling this constant panic about my senior thesis and the lack of time I have spent in its preparation . . . breath in breath out breath in breath out . . . to say I am overwhelmed would be an understatement. Thankfully I had an amazing amount of support from my younger brothers and their spouses, two incredible sister-in-laws that have been there when asked, when tired, helping me after working all day, and my two younger brothers who gave of their time freely, I feel blessed. My sister Amelia showed her maturity, to my surprise her presence often made the workload feel lighter. My father and Abby and CJ tackled projects I could not face. I have many thank you notes to write and much to be grateful for.

A week before moving in I painted two rooms. I painted Perrie’s room yellow, per her very specific request, and I painted the living room and entry a soft blue. (I could not live inside a living room the color of mud, this is a home, not a bomb shelter.) And we have neighbors! Living breathing thinking neighbors, the kind who stop by and say hello. I have even been invited to be part of a neighborhood book club. Imagine, a neighborhood of women who do not make me feel as if I have stepped into the movie set for Stepford Wives.

Robert Rauschenberg

I have been thinking about my own existence with greater frequency over the last few weeks. Thinking about those who have already gone and those left to go; I obviously included in the latter have the privilege of reflection. And then today I read that Robert Rauschenberg died. Rauschenberg is an artist I fell in love with years ago, more so his paintings than his sculpture. I remember when I first saw a Rauschenberg painting, I had gone to the East gallery to visit ‘Lavender Fields’, only this time I wondered further. My heart drops when I connect with a work of art, like the feeling one gets on the first hill of a roller coaster. This was the feeling I got that day as I stood in front of his work, asking myself, “Who is this man, and how does he know how I see the world?”.

I have found myself in foreign territory. As if I floated to its shore off some far sea. The land is harsh and unforgiving, the skies stay dark at day. The air is thick and breaths are shallow, the sand is damp and cold underfoot. I do not see the sun. I know its presence hangs above, yet visible it is not.

A metaphor for where I am, or perhaps for where I am going. I feel alone. As if I’ve lost my compass and the tour director has gone home for the day.

Distance
in feet or inches
in depth of space
or separation of time
distance to be counted
or to be counted upon
distance in the physical
between you and I
steps to be taken
distance to be reached
distance to be spoken

The deeper the wound the slower to heal, or so it goes something like this. But some wounds heal whilst keeping the injury deep inside. Like a stabbing may leave a knife tip behind, wounds may leave behind grief or pain, words spoken and words unspoken.

I wonder now, who I’ve wounded, what wounds have healed, what wounds have I inflicted leaving something behind?

I wonder of my own wounds, have I enough thread and needle to close them once and for all?

I hate mother’s day. I have fond memories of waking up early with dad to make mom breakfast in bed. Every year a handmade card, until I took a job at a local florist shop and made my mother a wrist corsage each year, seven tiny purple roses, one for each child.

Mother’s day is a grief that can’t be spoken, it’s a pain goes on and on.

These are not entirely my words, some credit should go to Victor Hugo; yet when I feel the grief of infertility I hear his words… a grief that can’t be spoken… how very true. I am not allowed to dislike pregnant women. I am not allowed to show disappointment when my sister, who marries in January, conceives in April. A healthy young woman, once willing to carry my child, now having children of her own, spending her days casually as I struggle to get up in the morning and face the days work that lie ahead.

My sisters have formed a kinship, my childlessness excludes me from this, and this makes me so very sad (difficult to type through tears). I have lost my sisters to motherhood, I have lost my heart to grief, I have lost my soul as it were only a lie, I have lost my hope with each breath took. I have lost my will with each new disappointment.

I have lost.

I found a house. An 1897 colonial. Original architecture around the windows is still intact and original wood floors remain in several of the rooms. Sadly, the bathroom and kitchen have been gutted and 'modernized'. The home has one-third of the square footage of my current home, I would need to give up 75% of my possessions and let go of my own personal space. However, on the upside, the home is 130K less than my current home. I'm excited, yet trying not to become overly excited at the prospect in the event it does not work out. I have conflicting emotions. The stress and headache of moving again, the time and energy expended in packing and purging. What to keep? What not to keep? So many thoughts.

I went to bed at 4am, back up at 9. I have been on my feet for more that fourteen hours, I thought my legs might give out on me. I am physically exhausted,but it is a good tired. The kind of tired that comes from a hard days work in which you see the end product - for my efforts and those of family and friends who came to help, our reward, laughter and smiles. At one point during the evening Perrie said, "I am loved". Yes she is.

amazing the love of a dog, deliberate

amazing the love of a dog, sometimes wet

amazing the love of a dog, without judgment

amazing the love of a dog, kisses

amazing the love of a dog, comprehension

amazing the love of a dog, faithful, loyal

amazing the love of a dog, comfort

amazing the love of a dog, nose to nose

amazing the love of a dog, cheek to cheek

amazing the love of a dog, companion

amazing the love of a dog, my friend

I will not be hushed
with stares and eyes
and telling looks
my voice
my voice
my voice
my voice will now
be heard

my words of joy
and sound of laughter
I will shush no longer after
my voice
my voice
my voice
my voice they want to silence

let them want
let them wait
til last breath take
I will not
be hushed
be hushed
be hushed
be hushed from life
for nothings after

Some run from death
Some march towards death
Some scream at death
Their bellows fall silent

Others fight off death
and swear at death
and beat off death
their arms grow tired

some laugh at death
some cheer at death
some faint at death
their suffering unheeded

others question death
And feed off death
And wait for death
Their pain now ended

I want for death
I hope for death
I seek for death
Anticipations thwarted

Slowly drips upon my cheek

I blink it falls once more

overcome or come undone

move further from the shore



eyelids heavy chest is full

breath is shallow fast

drips still fall as from it all

much longer shall it last


noon day sun full of light

night as dark as day

love is lost deepening frost

words from lips to say

red or yellow locks of sun
curls of black or gold
brown eyes bright lit with light
smiles to always hold

cheeks of summers peach
twirling color under sky
tiny lips fingertips
words reaching to ask why

words that I will never hear
hands empty drawing cold
sky of night no stars for light
lullabyes of silence told

no doll nor ball or teddy bear
no silence profers peace
no small chair or table
no handprint wrinkle crease

written by megan van pelt

Change it comes can be seen in them trees
change it comes with the blowing of the leaves
change it comes when all leaves be gone
cold gray branches rotting in the sun
change it bears the earths floor cold
change it has come the earth is sold

change it comes the earths sky black
change it comes upon my bent tired back
change it comes my hardened heart grey
cold gray brokenhearted scared to stay
change it bears another sun to see
change it has come far too late for me

written by megan van pelt