BE DARING, BE DIFFERENT, BE IMPRACTICAL

Consumed with just trying to get through each day, I had forgotten the thrill of trying something daring, something different, something impractical. Something just plain old fun. I was holding onto grief so hard that I was afraid to let go of it. Or even lighten my grip on it. Afraid that if I did, I might somehow be letting go of a part of my son.

So I decided to try to let go of part of my grief. Hopefully that will equate into waking up with a smile on my face instead of a tear in my eye. My Christian wouldn't want me to be sad. He'd want his Mom back that would break out in spontaneous song whenever the mood struck - which was often; the Mom that laughed all the time; and had a smile on her face most of the time; the Mom that looked for and found goodness and happiness in life. I may or may not be successful but I'm going to try to achieve some sort of forward momentum in that direction.

So with that in mind, I made a list of the things I love. I'm happy to report that it is a rather long list. Two of the things on my tattered list - I carried it around for several days adding things as I thought of them - were yellow rain boots and a red umbrella. I don't know why they give me a warm fuzzy feeling when I think about them but they do. Happy things don't have to have a reason.

Two more things are crosswalks and big blue mailboxes. I like pulling open the trapdoor on the mailbox. It's like a big blue mouth opening on a Sesame Street moppet. It opens big and wide and I drop my letters onto its tongue. I shut the door and imagine them falling down, down, down into the belly of the mailbox. Then, of course, I have to open and close it a couple of times to make sure it swallowed all my letters. I try to peer inside but can't see down inside. I always wonder if they fell all the way down or got caught on some metal thing-a-ma-jig half way down. Crazy, maybe; childlike, definitely. But it makes me happy. And crosswalks quite simply keep me from getting run over and I like that - a lot.

I have put it off but now I must think about my new goal. But before I can progress on my journey, the first and hardest thing to do is to overcome my fear. Fear that I might not remember how to live again. I know that my "normal" will never the normal that I once knew. I will never again be that person so I'll have to adapt and accept and learn to live with my new "normal" - whatever that may be.

Be daring, be different, be impractical,
be anything that will assert integrity of
purpose and imaginative vision against
the play-it savers, the creatures of the
commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary."
~~~~~ Sir Cecil Beaton ~~~~~

Be daring, Be Different, Be Impractical

I am uncertain and fearful about moving forward.
I tell myself I will be brave and I will be courageous.
Today I will walk a tight rope between
What was and what is
And tiptoe toward what can be.
The raging River of Life races on far below.
When the current slows and I am ready
I may want to be part of it
But I don't want to fall unprepared into it.

So today I will BE DARING
I will BE DIFFERENT
I WILL TAKE A CHANCE
I will walk a tight rope in bright yellow rain boots.
My beautiful, beautiful bright yellow rain boots
And I will carry my favorite red and white umbrella.
It looks like a miniature circus tent and it makes me smile
But it also gives me balance and makes me feel secure.

I WILL BE IMPRACTICAL
Throwing away convention
(and my mother's words
About always being practical)
I am free to be totally, completely, wildly me.
I will wear pearls and a flower in my hair
And dress in a flouncy iridescent tutu
That looks like the colors of fairy wings.

I begin slowly, carefully
I am still close to the beginning
I could turn back.
I take a deep breath and continue on.
Tentatively I reach the middle of my journey
With a great leap of faith and
Fighting back fear, suddenly I jump
Spinning and twirling in the air.

Landing gracefully, gingerly on one foot
The wire bends beneath my weight
And springs taunt once again.
Momentarily fear seizes me as my foot leaves the wire
Involuntarily I gasp for air and hold my breath
But my bright yellow rain boot lands and holds firm.

I am safe! I scream with delight!
I am jubilant in my victory.
I have come half way
And I did not falter or fall.
Tomorrow there will be a new victory
Because today I was no longer afraid to let go and try.

*******************************************************

Carpe diem - Seize the day

Live your truth. Express your love,
Share your enthusiasm.
Take action towards your dreams.
Walk your talk.
Dance and sing to your music,
Embrace your blessings.
Make today worth remembering."
~~~~~ Steve Maraboli ~~~~~

WILD, BEAUTIFUL, AND FREE

Soaring with the wind ----- feeling so gloriously free ----- wondrous, adventurous, and daring
Silhouetted against the blue of the sky ----- the whiteness of the clouds
----- majestic
----- beautiful.

You knew each wind --- the sound and smell of the rain --- the warmth of the sun --- the cold of the snows of winter --- the luminous light of the moon and the stars.

The sky, the trees, the meadow were your playground.
----- wild
----- beautiful
----- and free.

There is music in the air --- joyous songs at daybreak ---vesper lyrics at sundown --- harmonious melodies --- songs without words. Your songs.

No song was more sweet --- more joyous than yours. No feathers as bright --- none more beautiful --- no flight more graceful. Life holds so much beauty.

Spring arrives on gossamer wings --- love songs carried on the breeze ---- a mate is chosen.

Bits of twigs and straw gathered --- a nest is built. Seeds and berries fed to your mate as she sits upon the nest --- warming eggs which will hatch new life --- the ancient rhythms of life repeated --- so full of promise --- all is well. All is good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A sudden change in the air ----- omens of things to come. An unwelcome stranger is lurking, hidden in the trees ----- The morning sky turns dark ----- a warning cry rings out ----- White turns black ----- Fear stills the skies and silents the forest -----

........ waiting
........ waiting
........ waiting

AND THEN......

Gunshots ring out across the meadow --- the first bullet strikes and rips apart your nest --- The second hits its mark --- And you fall spiraling to the earth.

You lay bleeding on the cold wet ground --- blood spills down and stains your downy breast red --- your heart beats weak --- soft sounds can be heard from somewhere deep within your throat --- and then life slips away and you are gone.

In a moment all is changed. The wounded innocent suffer. Never knowing why life can be so unfair. So brutal. Can be so sorrowful.

Your mother didn't know when she lifted her protective wing and pushed you from the nest, watching you and feeling pride in your new found freedom of independence, that this would be your fate.

Never knew that you would not always be the most brilliant bird in the forest. She could not know that your nest would fall --- your babies would be lost. Your mate, frightened, flies away into the distance. Everything gone in an instant.

Silence.

A sudden eruption of sound echoes through the trees --- the other birds cry out --- mourning their fallen brother.

And your mother looks on numb, making no sound. Not understanding the cruelty of some of the two-legged creatures that walk the earth. The ones that kill or cause harm and hurt just for the pure joy of doing so. How can they be so cruel? Questions do not always have answers.


She only know that her wounded bird is gone. No more will his beautiful song be heard. No more will she enjoy watching him fly with breakneck speed through the trees with such jubilance ---
living life with youthful intensity --- urgency --- living life fully. Never again will she see him lead the other birds in flight Or humbly feed another.


She gathers some of his precious feathers --- places them gently into her own nest --- she will keep part of him forever close. These cherished feathers that were once his pride. All that she has left of her beloved child. She tucks her head beneath her wing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"In the cathedral of the woods
Where the slanting light shines through

The song of a bird enchants the air
and fills the soul with tranquility."
~~ Gwen Frostic

..... She tucks her head beneath her wing .....

....Once Wild - Beautiful - and Free

HOW IS TIME MEASURED?

June 20, 2011

How is time measured? Is it by a clock or by the beats of the heart? What is an eternity? Is it measured in time or in breathes taken? Five a.m. to ten-thirty-one a.m. As measured by a clock that is only five hours and thirty-one minutes but for me it was an eternity. Five a.m. Christian calls me in Nevada; 5:10 a.m. the first gunshots are heard. Time becomes a blur. Only the pounding of my heart tells me that time is passing.

I do not know how much time past between the sound of the first gunshot, a second gunshot, and the phone going dead. I called the home phone over and over and got no answer. How long until I was able to reach my ex-husband to have him contact the police in the town I live in to notify them that shots had been fired. I had tried to call them myself but couldn't get through to the Washington State 911 operators. How much time wasted in that attempt.

How much more time past until Patrick called me to say that he and Christian were okay and were driving out to the ocean to avoid a confrontation with the police. His exact words were to "avoid a shootout with the police". (What am I hearing? The possibility of my baby exchanging gunfire with the police? The world is upside down and has gone crazy!) How long before the first cell phone call from Christian and the second call. When did his girlfriend call and say that she could talk him down. It seemed only minutes before she called back and said she thought Christian had shot himself. I know at least 45 minutes past between the time I spoke to Patrick and he confirmed that Christian had indeed shot himself and the medics were working on him but it didn't look good and the time that I called Patrick back and he told me Christian had died. The coroner pronounced him dead at 10:31 a.m. It would have taken him at least 30 minutes to get from Shelton to the place on the side of the road that would become Christian's Memorial Site.

Five hours and thirty-one minutes burned into my memory. I remember every detail, every sound. But when my mind plays it back, it only takes minutes. All the waiting time is deleted. Those hellish minutes and hours. Time when I was aging and dying, struggling to breathe, and praying my racing heart wouldn't fail. Did I pray? did I stop praying even for a minute? A prayer without words - only agony and fear, no words. The type of pain that only God can understand and feel.

I can remember what happened the first half hour after learning of my beautiful, cherished son's death - making the necessary telephone calls to his sisters and brother - but the hours after that are like I was sleep walking. I was looking at my self from a distance. I could see myself washing clothes and packing but I no longer felt connected with my body. I don't remember being that person getting ready to return home. The next thing I remember clearly is being seated on the plane flying home late that night. I was seated next to a very nice, pleasant man. A compassionate man. That is where my memory picks up again.

It was only today, one year, five months, two days, and forty-five minutes later, that my mind opened up enough to wonder what had happened on that day or the day preceding that made him choose that particular day to die. I had heard from other parents of children that died by suicide that their child was not themselves on the day they made their final decision. That was true of Christian. I had never heard him sound the way he did during that first phone call that morning. His voice was so full of rage and hurt and determination as he screamed into the phone, "Today is the day. Everything ends today!" Later he would sound more composed, more gentle, more quiet, more himself. He told me in his gentle voice that he was going to do it but I began to think that maybe he would change his mind and everything would be okay. He no longer sounded enraged or out of control. He sounded good and as loving as always.

I do not know what his girlfriend said to him that made him get out of the car, put the gun to his head, and pull the trigger. She told me later that she had talked him into it. She said he wanted to die and she had just helped him along - that she had done nothing wrong. Did him a favor actually. I know that she had bragged to others that he had killed himself over her. It reminded me of big game hunters who, after they had bagged their kill, hung their trophy on the wall for all to see. But her trophy was my child ....my beloved child - my heart, my soul, my sun in the morning, the moon in my night, the twinkling stars in my mind's eye. My everything. My son that I had loved and nurtured since his conception suddenly gone. And I wasn't there to cradle him in my arms and look deep into his eyes and tell him I loved him and everything was going to be okay. To press my lips against his warm cheek and close his sleeping eyes.

How is time measured? Is it by the number of times a heart is ripped and torn and left battered and bloody? What is an eternity? Is it the time that passes between one breath and another? One heart beat and the next? When does time end? With the last heart beat and the last breath. I will love you forever my treasure and miss you everyday of my life. Momma

A MIRACLE: A CHILD SAVED

Robert "Bobby" Jorgensen, October 8, 2011

As a mother there is nothing more frightening than sitting beside the hospital bed of your child, regardless of age, watching him lying there unresponsive and still. The only sounds I hear besides my own rapid heartbeat, are those of monitors and machines, his raspy breathing, and an occasional moan coming from somewhere deep inside his chest. Face and neck swollen, lacerations cover his face, arms, and chest. This is all I can see. He is covered by blankets. He lies upon an inflated air mattress to support and protect his broken body. The Doctor says he shouldn't be alive; that only one in a million survive his type of injuries.

It is only today, October 14th, six days later that he is finally able to tell me what happened. The person responsible is aware of how her actions caused the accident. While I might like to rant and rave, I won't. It would serve no purpose but to hurt someone that is already haunted by guilt. My son is alive and will heal from his injuries. His recovery will be long and slow but should be full and complete. The passenger in the car only sustained a sprained wrist.

I sat next to his bed and listened to his story and as the details unfolded, I learned about the miracle of his survival. A miracle. A real modern-day miracle. He had been extremely ill with a high fever that Saturday morning and should not have been driving. He knew it, I knew it, but she was relentless in her demands. (Perhaps I am not as kind about not blaming her as I intended to be.) He got into the car and did not put on his seatbelt - something he always does but on this morning failed to do. About eight miles from home the accident occurs. The steering wheel is grabbed and jerked by the passenger. The car slams into the hillside and goes into the ditch. My son is thrown halfway through the front windshield.

The car is on it's nose and begins to fall over on top of him. He is watching knowing that he is going to be crushed. He thinks "I am going to die." As the car is falling, it is as though a hand from Heaven reaches down, grabs the car, turns it on it's axis, and then drops it down onto all four wheels.

At this point Bobby is fully ejected from the car. His lung is punctured, five ribs, and both collar bones are broken along with numerous internal injuries. His tongue is bitten almost entirely off. He is unconscious and unresponsive and lying in pools and pools of blood. The passenger, who has called me from the accident scene, tells me she thinks he is dead; and thus begins another hellish nightmare of waiting by the phone to learn if my child is still living or has died from his injuries. Just as I did on January 10, 2010 - waiting by the phone for someone to call me and tell me if Christian had died from his self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Almost an hour later the paramedic talks to me from the ambulance. He says while Bobby's injuries are extremely serious, he doesn't believe they are life threatening but will not know until they get him to the hospital for evaluation. I am thinking that his voice is too cheerful and I believe that he is just trying to reassure me. I can hear my son moaning in the background.

Not being there, not seeing with my own eyes is horrible. I don't know who or what to believe.

When he regains consciousness, the panic of not being able to breath sets in. I don't know if the tube was inserted into his chest in the ambulance or at the hospital. At the hospital he is immediately taken into surgery.

Today I sit next to him and we discuss his "miracle". He should be dead. The car should have crushed him. The Doctor said that the bones that were broken on both sides of neck and upper chest should have severed his jugular veins. She said she doesn't understand how he avoided a catastrophe fatal injury. She said it is a miracle.

Twice he was saved from death. He believes that his brother, Christian, saved him. I agree. Christian told me in the note he left for me that he would watch over us and protect us. I believe that he did.

UNDER THE WILLOW TREE

I sit with my back resting against the rough bark of the willow tree - weeping. As the branches fall toward the earth so do my tears. A dove high in the tree coos it's mournful song and my heart mourns in return.

In the beginning my heart, mind, and soul only mourned for the loss of my son. He was the heartbeat of my existence. For days, weeks, months, a year and more my thoughts have been only of him and what was taken from me to the exclusion of everything else. (Of course, if one of my other four children had gone before me, I would have said the same about them. They are each different and I have a different relationship with each. But one thing is the same. I love each of them with all my heart and they are all equally important in their own unique way.) But now I want to be set free from all of this sadness. I want to stretch my wings and fly. I want to soar into the sky and leave this heavy burden behind.

I don't want to forget my son or my love for him - never that - but I do want to cast off these oppressive feelings that wrap around me like some alien strangling vine. Squeezing the life out of me. This isn't natural. Children do not die before their parents. My son should not have died in my lifetime. He should still be alive. Alive and happy and successful. This is all wrong. So contrary to the forces of nature.

You should be here to bury me. I would be old and it would be the way things are intended to be. The natural course of events. You would be sad when thinking about me but you would go on with your life because that is how it is suppose to be. On Mother's Day you might shed a tear for me but is it fair that I break down and lay in my bed depressed on that same day because you are no longer here and my heart is broken? There I have said it. It is not fair. I have struggled to not say anything negative about the way you died or when you died but now I have said the words. It is not fair. Somehow I thought it might be liberating to say them; but it isn't. In fact it just makes me very sad.

I know that you were hurting. I know that life did not always treat you fairly. I understand that you were living a life of depression and quiet desperation. I even understand the feeling of being unable to cope and the desire to escape. And I know what it feels like to be a mother that loves her child desperately and the feeling of helplessness and uselessness because I couldn't find a way to help you. And from this understanding comes the chains that bind me to this earth and to this pain.

Hidden inside me is a woman struggling against herself to be set free. But my love for you cannot be abandoned. I must remain earth bound so I can make sure that no one ever forgets you. I must be here to honor your memory and to keep your memory alive. No, not just your memory but to keep you alive by telling your story. Not the sad, unhappy one but the one where you were so full of life. So full of love. So full of goodness and tenderness and kindness. To keep your laughter alive and your smile and your sense of humor.

To remind your sons of what a great man you were. To tell them how much you loved them. If I am not here, who will do this. I am your mother and it is my job and I will do it willingly and lovingly. This is not a burden. You are not a burden. You were an awesome son and we loved each other so much.

Dry your eyes you silly woman. Get up, hold your head high and be thankful for all you now have and for all you have had in days past and for all you will have in the future. You are blessed. You can relive the joy of past memories and create new memories to serve you well in your old age. Life is good. You have beautiful children, a loving husband, amazing grandchildren, an incredible mother, great siblings, and the best of friends and extended family. You live in a home that you love in a place of breathtaking beauty. Yes, life is good. Very good. And you were part of that goodness. You complimented my life. I love you so much and I am so thankful that you were my darling son. "Oh yes sweet darling. So glad you are a child of mine."