Mary Blake

For the past three days, I have been seeing an image in my mind of me in Warrior II pose. Each time, I would say, “I know. I know. I should get back to practicing yoga.”

But of course, I didn’t. Always there was something else to do.

Today, I decided to listen, if for no better reason than to get the persistent image out of my head. So I stretched out my hot pink yoga mat and fetched some Gatorade and popped in my yoga DVD. But before I could get started, it began to rain. Hard.

Harder and harder it fell. An angry thunder rumbled, and brilliant lightning flashed and crackled. My kids were both a bit spooked, as were our two kittens, but I told them they were safe and to snuggle together on the love seat.

Then it hit. Another flash and a crack which could only be described as an explosion. It shook the whole house. I began to pray to God, and I asked Archangel Michael to surround our home with a dome of his bright white light. I asked him to surround each of us with that same bright white light. Meanwhile, my kids and the kitties were hanging in there.

Tough cookies, all four of them.

I pressed play on my DVD, determined to keep everyone distracted, and the kids grabbed towels out of the closet so they could “do some yoga” too. All at once, I smelled smoke. At first I thought it was something burning, as I was certain something had been hit by that last bolt of lightning. But as I began to wander through the house, I realized I could only smell it in one particular place, right in the midst of where my kids and I had been preparing for yoga. I considered the scent and realized it wasn’t an acrid odor, rather it brought to mind a fragrant incense, perhaps lavender. It occurred to me the scent could be a sign that an angel was near.

I set my concerns about fire aside, and the kids and I began our yoga practice. Many giggles and a handful of poses later, the air pressure changed in the room. It became tense and heavy, and then the atmosphere outside our door shifted as well, becoming violent and ominous; and, somehow time seemed to stop, though only for a moment.

I clicked off the TV while simultaneously glancing outdoors. The sight was grim and gray. “Get the cats and get in the laundry room now!” I said firmly but calmly. The laundry room is the only centrally located room in our house. No windows.

The kids pounced on Butterscotch and rushed away to obey my order. I scanned the room for Max and found him trembling behind the couch. I took the time to thrust him into my son’s waiting arms, closed the laundry room door, told my kids to stay put, and assured them I would be right back. I grabbed a large blanket from my bedroom, returned to the laundry room and tossed it onto the floor so they would not have to sit on the hard tile.

I closed the door and set about playing my part.

I made jokes about how much pottying the kittens were doing (thank goodness their litter box has a cover!). Every time I said “poop” my babies roared with laughter, which, of course, made said kittens need to potty even more. The storm howled and the fierceness of the wind pummeled the garage door, the awful sound echoing louder and louder. After the novelty of all that kitty pottying wore off, and the kids started to unravel, I (inspired by the Divine no doubt as I was at my wit’s end) instigated a game of “I’m going on a trip, and I’m packing my suitcase…”

More giggles.

Two kitties curled up beside me, their hearts beating like mad.

It seemed like forever, but I guess it was only about a half hour. I noticed everything was quiet. Well, everything except my kids.

Opening the door to the laundry room, I went to the living room. I checked out the window. I checked the radar map on-line.

Peaceful.

Finally.

Fast forward an hour or so, and my husband comes in to announce, “You had a tornado!”

Right over our house, apparently. Our next-door neighbor’s trampoline which had long resided in their back yard was now in their front yard…in a tree.

Our garbage can which had been by the road was now by the garage door. The trash blown out and all to pieces in the road.

A few doors down, a neighbor’s house was on fire.

All this to say, I believe my angels had been telling me to do yoga over and over so that today I would finally listen. So that today, I would not be on-line or watching TV or dancing to the Hamsterdance song with my kids.

I would be focused. Quiet. Aware of my surroundings and the very air I was breathing. Attentive. So that when danger came, I was able to listen. In a split second, my attention was caught. I was able to pray, grab kids and kittens, and hurry us to safety. All because the Divine had been prodding me. Preparing me.

Thank God.

Love and blessings,

Mary

Random words from my blog. (Click on the image to see the full-size version.) The word “daughter” pops out at me, not just because its appearance is largest here, but because my internal focus at the moment is building my relationship with my little girl in an effort to ensure the discordant dynamic of my own childhood relationship with my mother is not recreated. When my daughter is grown, she and I will be friends, not strangers. This I know, because it is what she and I both intend. Love you, Baby Girl.

P.S. Love you too, Little Man.

P.S.S. Love you, Handsome.

Today, I surprised myself.

I went shoe-shopping with my daughter.

Perhaps this is not an event many people in our country would consider worth mentioning. But I’ll bet there are those who would say, “I know exactly what you mean!” Others might sigh and whisper, “I wish I could do that.”

The medication I began taking in January for my kazillionth espisode of depression/anxiety/panic disorder suddenly stopped working at the beginning of May. I’m rather convinced this latest crisis in the realm of my mind is due to a ten day course of Cipro prescribed for me to treat a severe kidney infection. Probable cause hardly matters though when you are a mom who cannot stay awake during the day, is tormented by spontaneous panic attacks at night, is afraid to stir out of doors, and is pummelled by thoughts which center around the belief that your small family would be better served if you were to simply disappear.

I saw my doctor two and half weeks ago. Yes, I waited longer than I should have once it had become obvious the Zoloft had ceased to work. He started me on Lexapro; and, I felt good knowing I had taken aggressive action in caring for myself, so I could better care for my family. The problem with starting a new medication for me, though, is the deluge of intrusive, scary thoughts, which inevitably fall upon me with a ceaselessness that would exhaust even the strongest of minds. Somehow I have managed to slog through the muddy, nasty mess my brain had become. Somehow, once again, I am still here, looking back to a week ago, two weeks ago, and I am able to say at the end of a long, deep breath, “I’m pretty sure I’m better today than I was then.”

So, I knew I was improving. I knew the fearful thoughts weren’t coming as often. I knew I had managed not to fall asleep during the day yesterday. I knew progress was being made within my being. I still felt, though, that I was only halfway up the mountain.

Imagine how excited I was this afternoon when I decided to take my daughter shoe-shopping. On a Saturday. At the mall. A place I avoid like the plague. I made a list of the things we needed to accomplish.

First. Shoes. Because her pretty little feet seemed to have grown overnight. So I took my duly shocked daughter off to the mall. I really would like to know what she was thinking when I asked the question, “Want to go shoe-shopping with me?” My best guess is she thought, “Holy moly, MY mommy wants to go shopping??? At the mall??? OhhhhhKaaaaay. I’ll play along.”

Once at the store, we squealed with giddy, delicious delight over the too-cute-for-words pink and white ballet slipper style tennis shoes we found. We snatched up a pair of sporty tennis shoes too. Gray and pink. What? There must be pink. We discussed the odd ratio of blue to pink clothing in her closet. How on earth did she manage to acquire more blue than pink? That is a situation which must be rectified with all due haste, we decided at once.

With her purchases clutched tightly in her precious hands, we stopped at a vending machine for drinks to help us temper the muggy Mississippi heat. Pink lemonade for her. Yes, PINK! And, a Coca-Cola for myself. Hand in hand we strolled out of the mall and into the sunshine. Oh, sure there were clouds in the sky, but we didn’t care. Not a bit. Not even when a drizzly rain began to fall. We were together. Something like the weather cannot compete with such sweet companionship.

Second, we went to my favorite, though not often visited, store. Hobby Lobby. I found a cute pattern for a summery purse. Acrylic paints for a new painting I am planning. My little bunny spotted a book on crocheting Strawberry Shortcake and Friends dolls. Clearance-priced at $2.14. How could we not buy it? And some yarn, too, of course. We’ve decided it will be our summer project. After she gets back from camp next week. Oh, and then we found a snap together model car kit for her little brother. We checked out our purchases and hand in hand once more, we walked down to TJ Maxx. Now, here I hit a bit of a bump. After much perusing, I settled on a cotton pajama set for myself. Unfortunately, only one register was open, and ten people were lined up waiting. Without beating myself up about it, I hung the PJ’s up, and told my daughter we wouldn’t be waiting.

Off again, we drove to the grocery store for the tiny cans of Aristocats cat food our four-month-old kitten adores.

Finally, we took ourselves off to PetSmart, where we puzzled over the astounding selection of pet toys. We finally settled on a yellow, pink, and purple stuffed caterpillar. Then I asked a sales associate for help with purchasing an algae eater for our aquarium. Me. I spoke to someone and asked for something and didn’t worry whether I sounded like an idiot. For once. Nice feeling, that is.

On our way home, my daughter chattered happily in the back seat. I listened with a smile, but then all at once, I started to grin. Big. I had not panicked. The entire time we were out and about. On a Saturday afternoon. Traffic bumper to bumper. Crowded stores. No panic attack. No wanting to run. No wishing I was Dorothy and could tap my heels together and find myself at home. Under the covers. Safe.

The sky is overcast. But there is a glimmer of sun, all the same. And even if there wasn’t, I wouldn’t mind.

Today. Today, I am me. Today, I am myself.

Perhaps even more importantly, today…today, I like me.

My children teach me many things: how to love deeper than I thought possible, how to dream with an absolute confidence of success, how to laugh so hard that my eyes brim with tears, and oh, so much more. The cool thing about how my kids teach me is the manner in which their lessons appear: wholly unexpected, undeniably wise, and overwhelmingly relevant.

During March and April of this year, I made incredible and unsurpassed progress along my journey to wellness. Having passed more than three decades peppered with seemingly inevitable murky periods of deep depression and high anxiety, I have often wondered if mental, physical, and spiritual health would ever be mine to claim. But then I stumbled upon first one book, and then another and another, the words and insight of each weaving softly together to fashion a deliciously cozy cape of comfort and hope. I felt connected to the Universe and to God in a manner which was previously outside my experience. Triumphant, I shed the fear of God which had been bestowed on me as a dark gift from my well-meaning parents and the teachers and ministers of my fundamentalist upbringing. Suddenly, I understood. God is love, and the only real thing is love.

I started meditating every morning and before bed each night. I began exercising four and five times a week, something unheard of for me. I gave up meat. I began eating salads and fruit. And enjoyed them! I lost eleven pounds in four weeks, and I felt amazing. Happy. Peaceful. Loving. Joyful. Grateful.

Then I did what I do so well. I listened to other people. People who mean a great deal to me. I listened to their problems, their worries, their desperation.

I listened. A good thing.

I absorbed it all, made it my own. I felt their pain, took it into my heart, my soul, and mourned with them for their loss of faith and peace.

Not a good thing. Not at all.

Suddenly, my newfound wellness teetered on the brink of an early death. Sadness hung like a fog around my heart, and I began to struggle helplessly against the suffocating grip of depression. The discordant tones of mind-numbing anxiety, which I thought I had set aside, began to batter my now weary brain.

I dragged myself out into the light, my children trailing happily behind me. Settling into a chair, I let the sun warm my skin and hoped it would thaw the blood that seemed to be frozen in my veins. My children’s voices tinkled like bells, and I fought to embrace their music. A little while later, after my son (a.k.a. Lil’ Jeff Gordon) had finished his race around the driveway, garage, and sidewalk, finally and predictably triumphing over Tony Stewart, he stands before me, his smile wide and perfect, and beckons, “Let’s play a game, Mommy!” My daughter, who has been busily decorating foam packaging with chalk, is thrilled with the idea. We settle on “Mother, May I?”

I offer my son his first direction: “Pretend you are a monster truck and you have to jump over three blue vans. Jump three times.”

“Mother, may I?” he asks.

I nod and say, “Yes, you may.”

He giggles and grins and jumps three times.

My daughter waits and I ponder the perfect dictate for my fairy princess. “Hmm,” I say, thinking hard. “Pretend you are a penguin and waddle four steps.”

She laughs and declares, “I love this! Mother, may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

She waddles perfectly and my children look at each other and fight against falling to the ground as laughter bubbles up from their tummies, making them shake with delighted glee.

I smile at my little boy and instruct him, “Pretend you are Max (of Max and Ruby fame) and hop two times to the Red-Hot Marshmallow Squirters. He hops twice, and I remind him gently, “You have to say ‘Mother, may I?’ Go back to where you were.”

He sticks out his bottom lip but scuffles back obediently. My daughter takes her turn, and at last my son gets his chance to advance to the finish line: me. He remembers to say the magic words, as does my daughter, and moments later, I offer one last set of instructions: “Stand back to back and hold hands.” They do this and I smile because they look so darned cute. “O.K. Walk sideways three steps and get a Mommy hug.”

They laugh again, and wobble toward me, finally falling into my lap and our giggles mix together, sweeter than ooey, gooey, cookie dough. We play the game twice more before we go inside, and each journey from the middle of the driveway to my arms is marked with more musical laughter.

When they collapse in a heap against me at the end of the third game, I learn my lesson. I have permitted my recent emotional and spiritual missteps to rob me of my victory. Who cares if I stumbled? Who cares if after eight weeks of feeling productive, worthy, perfect as I am, I have faltered?

Just as my little boy had to take those steps backward before moving toward me again, I, too, am going to have to take two steps back or three or four, as I walk this path. What my children taught me in the midst of our play is that we aren’t meant to make sure and steady progress all our lives. We advance and retreat, advance and retreat. In the end, when we find ourselves in the arms of those we love, we claim our prize. Love.

Because that is all there is.

I have yet to learn how to listen well to those who need to be heard without taking their pain and making it my own. That’s fine. I’ll learn. Someday.

But for today, I know for certain that I love and I am loved.

That is enough.

Thank you, my dear Babies, for loving me as I am, no matter how often I stumble.

Does anyone else have a favorite cookie memory from childhood?

My brother and sister and I often disagreed on things like who got to sit in the front seat or whose turn it was to do the dishes, but on one subject we were in perfect accord. The absolute best cookie ever was the Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies (a.k.a. Boiled Cookies) that our mom made quite often.

I remember the thrill I felt the first time I made a batch myself. This is one of those recipes I wowed my husband with some fifteen years ago when we first married. (He still loves them!) These cookies went over much better than the Chicken and Rice Casserole I made the first week of our marriage, although being the sweet guy that he is, he ate two helpings of the glop and declared it delicious. (A misprint in the recipe called for uncooked rice. Blech! Should have been cooked rice.)

I have long since converted my children into devoted fans of these cookies, too, and I have even made a couple of additions: chocolate chips and coconut. Oh, my, now their taste is delectably reminiscent of a Mounds candy bar.

All right, so I’ve teased you long enough. Here is the recipe for my fondest childhood cookie memory (with my additions included):

Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies

Ingredients:

2 c. sugar                         

4 tsp. cocoa                              

1 stick margarine                       

½ c. milk

½ c. semi-sweet chocolate chips

½ c. creamy peanut butter

1 tsp. vanilla

3 ½ c. quick-cooking oats

½ c. unsweetened coconut

Mix the sugar, cocoa, margarine, milk, and chocolate chips in a large saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Boil for one minute. Remove from heat. Stir in peanut butter until melted. Add oats and coconut. Mix well. Cool for a minute or two, and then drop by spoonfuls onto waxed paper. Cool. For maximum enjoyment, leave some of the still-warm, yummy goodness in the saucepan, pour yourself a glass of milk, and have fun “cleaning” the pan.

Enjoy!

Mary

“You sure are a good helper,” I tell him, genuinely grateful for his eagerness to help.

“Yeah, I know.” He grins up at me, as he carefully rinses a plate.

“Will you still help me wash dishes when you’re thirteen?” I ask him, wondering if these moments are limited to the years before he becomes a teenager.

“Oh, yes, I’ll always help you,” he assures me.

“I’m glad.”

“Even when I get married and have kids,” he adds.

“Will you teach them to wash dishes?”

“Sure!”

“I guess you can bring them to their Grandma’s house and they can help me with my dishes.”

“Yep,” he agrees, rinsing a green cup and setting it on a towel to dry. “You know, I just don’t understand why my sister doesn’t want to get married when she grows up.”

I smile down at him, as I wipe gooey peanut butter off a dinner knife. “Well, she just doesn’t want to, sweetie.”

“When she grows up, a man might see her and think she’s pretty, and he’ll marry her.”

“What if she doesn’t want to marry him? What will he do?”

He shakes his head, bemused for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess he’ll find another girl.”

My boy…logical, as always.

“Mommy, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

“Ummm…let me think.” I hesitate to name my girlish dreams knowing I have not fulfilled them. “Well, I wanted to be a writer…or a teacher…or an artist…or a nurse…and I always knew I wanted to be a mother.” I smile into her luminous hazel eyes, and she grins widely, nodding with a knowing excitement. I wonder what she is thinking.

“You are all those things, Mommy!” she proclaims with delighted confidence.

“I am?”

“Yes! You like to write, so you’re a writer. You’re great at art, so you’re an artist. You teach us, so you’re a teacher. You take care of us when we’re sick, so you’re a nurse. See, you already are all those things!” My daughter looks at me then with a beautiful mixture of love, acceptance, and pride, and I know she has given me a priceless gift. I love you too, Boo Bear.

“Thank you, dear God, for my daughter’s love and the beauty I can see in myself as it is reflected in her eyes.”

“Where could they be?” I wonder aloud when we discover his time-to-go-outside-and-get-as dirty-as-possible shoes are missing from his shoe keeper.

“Hey! I can wear these!” he says, pulling out the new pair of shoes he received as a gift the weekend before.

“If you want,” I tell him.

“Well…Aunt Brooke…she’s the Silly Aunt…she gave ‘em to me, and she might  not like it if I don’t wear them.”

He pauses thoughtfully and adds, “Well, Aunt Benita is silly, too.”

Perhaps he is concerned his father’s youngest sister would be sad if she wasn’t also given the honorable title of “Silly Aunt”.

“Yes,” he decides. “They are the Silly Aunts.”

“It’s too bad there’s no such thing as a Monster Truck Museum,” he says regretfully.

“Yeah, that would be so cool!” I agree.

“You know, plain trucks grow into little monster trucks,” he informs me, willing as always to share his knowledge.

“Really?”

“Yep, and small monster trucks grow into big monster trucks.”

“I see.”

“If a monster truck had just its wheels left and the axles were broken, it would have to go in a museum!” he declares.

I chuckle. “It sure would.”

“But you could see the pieces exactly,” he reassures me.

“That’s good.”

I love his imagination. It never fails to surprise and delight me.

“Mommy, can you fake kissing on TV?” my little girl asks me.

“I don’t think so, Honey. If it looks like you’re kissing somebody, you’re probably kissing them for real.”

She scrunches her pretty, freckled nose, sincerely concerned by this information. “But what if you’re married?”

“I guess whoever you’re married to would have to understand that you’re an actress and sometimes you’ll be kissing other people.”

“Well, Mommy, you know that I’m never getting married, but kissing…it just looks yucky to me.”

I hug her close and smile, kissing her raspberry-scented hair. I remember the first time I kissed her father, and I know someday she’ll meet someone as wonderful as him who will change her mind.