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One Lady a Leaping...

Hello My Sweet Blog!

Oh, how I have missed you.

I think I'm coming out from behind a creative block, of sorts. I just haven't been feeling the love. And, my attention, time, and energy have been needed elsewhere. I am here now though and I have something I really want to share as it is a bit of a breakthrough, and I looooove breakthroughs.

On February 11, 2006, my life changed in a way I had not imagined. I am afraid I would not have had the courage to imagine the impact, and it has taken years to realize the full effect. On February 11, 2006 I gave birth to my second son, Alexander. I had a very healthy pregnancy and there were no signs that my sweet baby would be anything less than healthy. Until he emerged. He was purple. His cry was very faint. The mood in the delivery room went from anticipatory to grave. I had no idea what was happening. Alexander landed on my belly for a brief moment, and then he was whisked away. I didn't hold him again for 10 days.

Alexander the Great this summer.

Thank God, it was only ten days! Thank God I held him again. Thank God he is healthy, and other than being a very feisty little guy, he bears no scars from his rocky start. We sometimes wonder if his start in life inspired Alexander's intensity, or if his intensity helped him fight for his life? I often think that if in the very beginning someone had said, "This will only last ten days," I would have been better equipped to handle the trauma of the birth of a very sick baby. Ten days doesn't seem very long to me now, but then, as the clock ticked, I didn't know what the future held.

I have told this story many times.

Each time I tell it I think, this is the last time I will have to tell this story. And then, each year since on February 11, I wake up eager to celebrate my boy and over the course of the day I notice a heavy feeling settling into my heart. I feel sad. Maybe even a little hopeless. I need to cry. And I always wonder if maybe this time I am really losing it... I can't figure out why I'm feeling the way I feel.

No matter how well we heal or much time has passed, our bodies remember trauma. Some people call it cell memory. I admit, it sounded a little hokey the first time I heard about it. But it is real. We are surrounded by triggers - scenes, smells, people, places - all of it and any of it can trigger a memory deep in our hearts and cause us to feel the way we felt way back when.

On a normal day, it may not be a big deal. We might make a quick recovery. But yesterday was a doozy. Not only was it Alexander's birthday, but we were also closing on the sale of our last house - the house where our family was made complete. The house Alexander came home to, and where his brother welcomed him. Just two years later, the pair of brothers welcomed their sister. Three years after that, in that house's kitchen my husband told me that my mom just called and said she thinks my dad is dead. We had people over after his funeral.

A huge part of my life took place in that house. It only spanned about six years, but those were six very big and eventful years.  Yesterday we cut ties with that house. It was the day I was called to let go of the house where the memories happened - where the people gathered, where my dad last played Amazing Grace before Thanksgiving Dinner, where my two youngest babies learned to walk and talk and where their big brother woke up on his first day of kindergarten.

I sure do miss this guy.

For someone else, maybe none of these things would matter. But for me, they do. When I was a kid people often said, "You're too sensitive, Anna..." I came to think that was a bad thing. Now I know that my deep sensitivity makes it possible for me to love deeply, and to feel intensely. It is a good thing. A very good thing.

Deeply and intensely I felt the weight of a loss yesterday. I felt the sadness of a good-bye. I felt empty. I was a bit of a wreck all day. I was lost in the muck.

A favorite spot in the old house. A decorator told us this chandelier wouldn't work with the farm table we had here. That made me love the chandelier even more.

I didn't want to wake up this morning. I wanted to stay in bed all day. I got up, I got going, and now I can say that today really is a new day. I feel lighter. I'm finally excited about staring some new projects. I was beginning to wonder if that excitement would come back. I'm writing on my blog... I think the fog lifted.

This was not the time that I finally lost it once and for all. I was triggered, I felt deeply, and I survived. Therein likes my breakthrough. In the thick of it all, when I thought this is it, I didn't see the light. I really didn't see the light. I forgot the light. It's strange how that happens, but for me it does indeed happen sometimes. With the sunrise today, the skies are still so gray here in Michigan, but there is the light of a new day.

I had to share that with someone. I know there are other people out there just like me - who forget about the light sometimes. I want you to know that it's out there. The light is waiting for you.

LEAP into the light.

This is a page I just finished for LifeBook 2013. It's all about Courage - there is  a bear in the background, and this little lady leaping into the light, I think. I'm not real crazy about how it turned out, but I love this lady. She seemed to be calling for a quote I love - "Leap and the net will appear." Julia Cameron said that.  I'm thinking lots of great things can come from a leap. Lots of good things.

In the light there is space for celebration. In the space left vacant by my memories of Alexander's birth, I can celebrate his 7th birthday and his zest for life. He is worth celebrating. In the space freed by memories of the life we lived in that old house, I is excitement for the family moving in there. I am so happy for them! I hope they are as happy there as we were. Even happier. And, like I said, after sitting in the muck all day, feeling what came up, today there is space to get excited about some new creations.   It is all part of the process - the cycle of light and dark and everything in between. Keep going. Keep moving through it, and into the light again. It's always there, somewhere, waiting to greet you. xo