Session One

Well, I survived my first counseling session. I won't share all the details as to how I found this counselor, but I know now that she is the right one for me. (Thanks Steph!) I thought it may take some time for me to be able to open up but I felt really comfortable with her and laid it all out (poor woman). It felt really good to let it all out, without any reservations of who I might offend or upset. I have to say that I am proud of myself for making this big, positive step towards healing (I hope). Although, I have only been home for an hour since being there and I am already feeling the bitterness build up. Of course, something always comes up.... like learning of others "new arrivals" and happy occasions... it always brings me right back to my bitter self.  I really hope that she can help me cope with it all, cause I feel like I am fighting a battle that cannot be won. 

(Don't you think Abram looks like me in this picture? I do... I love it.)

On this historic day, we are grateful for this bit of hope that our new President bestows upon us. We wish our Abe were here to experience this profound event. We surely would enjoy it more with him, but we can't deny that we do feel hopeful today.

God Bless Barack!

My reason's for getting up each morning

I need to give tribute to our beloved doggies, Libby and Lyle. They have kept some love and warmth in our house, when all else feels lonely and cold. 

Our favorite song

When you left, a piece of us died.

Not the piece that lie motionless and devoid,

(the limbs, the hair, the beloved spirit capsule)

but the space within the vessel itself.

When you flew up as swift as a bird,

you shifted the space in our bodies with your urgent wings...

sending us off course, unable to regroup.

A subtle pull in the vacuum of your flight.

When you began your unknown journey

we felt vibrations in our hearts...

involuntary waves of electric song to serenade you to your home.

There is a world with brighter music.

When you arrived we became mute,

no longer able to sing to the tune of your travels.

A fading memory of our greatest composition...
a fragmented, brittle page in our songbook.

Now that you run freely, we stand arrested and dumb.

Humming broken melodies hoping to hit your key...

arduously recalling our masterpiece...

listening for brighter notes...

I still can't believe that this is our reality.

Precision rhythm

What is the mechanism?
Where is the proper tool for the task at hand?
Does said implement even exist?
If so, is it cordial and user friendly?


Is it in the dawn before me,
stretching it's sleepy fingers?
Is the fire in my heart the fire in the sky?


Is it in rooted community,
forever on the decline?
I give you my breath so that I may breathe.

Is it the smile of a stranger child,

connecting me to what I can't see?

Expression is the fabric of eternity...

Is it in the request for silent snow,

granted in the midst of chaotic wind?

muffled silence is a priceless gift.

Is this the mechanism?

The little things indeed are not so little...

Is this the proper tool?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?...

beauty beholden to mood-swings?


The precision is much too rhythmic...

still ragin'

As we left the cemetery on Christmas, I started to say to Josh that I wished we had something or someone, to direct our anger at. WAIT! I quickly reverted....No, I don't. I can't imagine living with those feelings of blaming someone else. We carry enough bitterness as it is. But, it is so frustrating when you have so much anger and rage inside of you...itching to get out and be relieved of it's tension...but where can it go? It has nowhere to go. Instead, it just sits in my already too heavy heart...compounding my helplessness.

So, I tend to get very angry over seemingly trivial things, simply because I can. I seem to gain some sort of satisfaction from stewing over these distractions. I guess because I feel I am justified. So, when you see me getting upset to tears over the fact that a mother in a restaurant is pouring Diet Coke into her baby's bottle and giving it to her... or a father scolding his four year old daughter for being scared of Santa... just know it's my way of expressing my rage. My smothering, endless, exhausting rage over the fact that our ONE AND ONLY child is gone. Never to return to this existence.

It's been eight months to the day since Abram left us and I still can't even begin to express how deep it goes and how heavy it is.