Within Each of Us

Happy Halloween

Twice in a month. That's better..? Right?
I feel like I am ten times busier than I was last year. That's just about it. Then sometimes I'm not at all. But I am recovering from busy in those times. So they are fruitless. Well, besides rest.
Halloween is coming up in a couple of days. We've got a pumpkin. I'm making Tres Leches Cake. Hmm.
I bought candy. Its so expensive. We're gonna have to make up for it with tricks. Sorry kids.
Xana will be Wednesday Addams. Alecia wanted to be a pirate but all the affordable pirate costumes are super cheesy and she wants authentic. So she's going to go zombie.
We aren't all-out Halloweeners. Though I really do embrace the idea of celebrations like Dia De Los Muertos or Samhain. I like the belief that many cultures have that the veil is thin between the living and dead at this time. I can see how humanity drew that conclusion. Cool weather sets in. Leaves die off and fall to the ground. Predators begin to stalk prey more fervently. Evidence of our impermanence is certainly more visible. This time of year I always think of those who have gone on before us. I take time to think on them and dust the cobwebs from my memories. Making a place for the souls of the dead at our table, as in the Gaelic Samhain celebration, is a way to describe what happens in my mind. I am not making a physical place for them at our table, but I am clearing them a place in my mind to think on them and remember them. We light candles in the night and in our jack-o-lantern and tell the girls stories of those who have gone ahead. That is how we celebrate.

Anywho, as a note to what is going on with us this week. I am down a weekly client, after a series of clients that were temporary, so I am down to three days working until I track down more work. In the meantime, I spent that extra day building a menu for the week and a detailed grocery list. I often wonder if other people spend the sort of time that I do on a grocery list. Its a labor of love. And of budgeting. Leaves my head spinning. Currently I am checking out Plan to Eat in an effort to streamline the process. I will let you know how that goes. Fortunately we do have online ordering and delivery for local grocery stores. Sometimes I remember to plan ahead for that even.
Alecia is heavy on the books, though she has been a bit sick this week. She is really loving her Two Roads Charter experience and it is awesome to see her eagerly take on the challenge.
Xana is switching gears and putting off Two Roads for a time. This year has been a lot of change for her and it has not been easy. So we are easing into feeling our way through homeschooling while I am working part time. We're carving our way through. As I have said a million times in our homeschooling experience, I am SO thankful for the internet. Education NOW, anything you wanna learn, anywhere, any time. A feast for the curious mind, and THAT is how we have managed to grow such smart kids. Hungry brains and an all you can eat education buffet via internet.
David is loving his new schedule and has gotten back into biking, as well as made time for new hobbies, so that is great news indeed. He's a man who needs hobbies. A revolving door full of them.

The girls and I are so excited about the next month we almost can't stand it. We are going to see Bastille in a little over a week AND the Bryant fam is coming to see us for Thanksgiving. We don't really know how to contain ourselves.
On that note, I leave you with a Halloween Bastille song. This is one of my favorites. Embracing skeleton lovers, what a great image for Dia de Los Muertos.

The Fickle Fail

So far I have failed to keep up with my blog since moving, or since - well since a while. I am going to once again attempt to remedy that. I am constantly wanting to jot thoughts down and never take the time to do it. Instead I suck up spare time with Netflix, Facebook and Farm Heroes. I am going to try to exchange some of that time. Life is short. There are so many people I would like to keep up with and I am terrible at touching base with those people. So this is a way I can at least share my life with those I love.

Having recently begun my own business in household assistance, I have been getting to know new clients. My Mondays are spent with Sarah, who is a young 20 something with three little ones, one of which is only a handful of months old. She is very sweet and just one of those people who exudes calm, positive energy. I enjoy being in her house. Its very warm, sunny, fragrant and quiet. Like most moms of multiple little ones, she is behind on lots of things at home. Laundry, dishes, regular cleaning, so its good that I can help her and she is very grateful, an added perk of the job. Its nice to swoop in and save someone from the encroaching disaster. It fulfills my own chivalrous senses; plus, what I would have given to have someone swoop in and save from the avalanche that my household has been at times! I know what a blessing it is.  Sometimes I get to amuse her little infant daughter, who is just the cutest little patoot.
Today Xana went with me because school has been really causing her a lot of anxiety, which I do not know what to do about currently. It really just wrecks my day when she has a panic attack in the morning over attending the homeschool enrichment course. Lately it has been almost every time and I am now considering removing her, which kind of throws a wrench in my plans for this year and next, when I had planned to retire from homeschooling. Forunately, I am flexible. I haven't committed myself to too many things and have had success at creating my own flexible work schedule that is subject to my own terms.
I have determined that this has just been too many changes for her in a short amount of time. Moving. An entire new atmosphere at home. A new schedule. The loss of her friend network and the loss of the little 'village' we had going. Then there is puberty, which is coming at her like Miley Cyrus' wrecking ball. Periods. Shaving. Boys. To add to all that a new, more rigorous school experience which has turned out to be nothing like what she imagined. I had thought she would thrive amidst a school environment and as all parents are at times, I was totally off on that. While she adored the idea of lockers and class presidential elections and sports, she has been crushed by the reality of hard teachers and being half a foot shorter than her peers who treat her like a little kid, having come from a homeschool group where she was like the mother hen to a host of girls younger than her. Its all been so hard, I totally get it. I clearly remember the strains of school, though I had no choice or flexibility. I simply had to go. She has not grown up with that idea. And so quick she is to say "I don't have to do this" that it has caused a conflict within me to push her to muscle through. And of course, the more I push, the more the panic rises. *sigh*

On that note...

To sum up my world for the day, I hit home and made my weekly appointed phone call with one of my besties then proceeded to fall into a short binge of Walking Dead. I am not generally a fan of zombies or or dystopian tales, but I am so invested with these characters I simply have to keep watching to find out what happens. Also, the show just has this sort of haunted lens into this whole zombie apocalypse. The characters themselves seem haunted and are so broken that they change from one scene to the next. Will they be tough or will they show mercy. What is it that they have in them this day? We think we  know what we would do in that situation, we think we know ourselves, but really, we have no idea what that sort of trauma will do to us! That is what keeps me watching. Which character traits end up panning out on the show? Which are weaknesses? I have also played the video game, which really expounds on that idea. When pressed, what would we do? The game changes based on your reactions and your decisions. I once clicked the wrong thing and there was no going back. I had a moment of devastation, as it wasn't something I would have done, but then I thought, life is like that. Many times we make choices that we look back on and think 'why did I do that? That's so unlike me'.
I think that ultimately the show finds success not because of zombies but because it wrestles with the fear of an unimaginable situation and the suspense of life-or-death decisions. That is why the show is popular and that is what I always tell skeptics who haven't ventured to watch it.

Before bed, Xana and I watched Once Upon a Time together, which she loves and I find a bit cheesy, but I keep watching because of Killian Jones, aka Captain Hook. You know me. Always a sucker for a dark, handsome, underdog hero.
We then read three chapters of the Wizard of Oz together; the original version, which I have not read til now. I have thus far been surprised by the differences in the classic film. Thus far, it turns out, there are more parallels between the original Wizard of Oz book and Gregory Maguire's Wicked book series.

Well, at this hour I guess I'm up for the day. Woohoo for earlier than expected mornings due to insomnia!
Going to throw some no-knead bread out to go with my slow-cooker lentil soup and get this day started.
Love to all.

Quiet is the Thrush

Quiet is the thrush

beneath the weeping wind.

Aching dull is the sky

to which the soft elms bend.

Heavy is the air

that moves in from the seas,

and laden with a chill

that threatens soon to freeze.

Fallow lay the fields

and broken are the walls,

open are the gates

and empty are the halls.

Useless lay the swords

upon the cobbled ground,

for not one man of valor

in armor can be found.

Weary are the souls

that have measured every hour

with the lonely grieving toll

of the church bell in its tower.

Murdered is our king

and the few left in his stead,

those who still remain

will surely soon be dead.

Breached were our defenses,

and quickly overtaken.

Broken were the treaties,

all the oaths forsaken.

Quickly will we fall

and all will be forgotten,

crosses in the churchyard

under thick grasses sodden.

Blazoned is the victor.

Our destruction is his glory.

Bold heroism remembered,

as time will weave its story

©2014 Eleanor Raif

Reading (Writing) Rainbow (a 15 min. writing challenge)

Haven't written or blogged in awhile, I needed a warm-up so I gave myself a 15 min. writing challenge.
Write for 15 min. Try to ignore your mistakes or over-analyze and just keep going.

After I finished I was reminded of Reading Rainbow. Can't tell you how inspired I was by this as a kid! I remember being glued to that show and riveted by the idea that I can be ANYTHING - in a book.

Born writer. I can’t help it. It just flows from me.

It goes on and on whether or not there is a type pad or keyboard or pencil to listen, it is born indefinitely in the folds of my mind, perpetual creation.
It is not the sound or pentameter, not the measurement, rhythm or balance of words, it is their physicality and meaning.  A constant description of feeling, thoughts, plans, intentions.

Words keep me up. Sometimes words I mean to write, sometimes words that just stream by in a trickle. Thoughts outlined and tamed, as if made physical through the vision of the letters that make them up.

Sometimes they move me to create, sometimes they undermine me.

I say born writer, and I mean it.  Surely from the moment I could express myself on paper I took to it as a fish to water, as a human to the earth. A world unfolded before me and all that passed through my mind could be recorded, shared, remembered.

Drawing never could do it or music despite my adoration for it. Nothing ever expressed what was in me, but words - words quickly became my preferred medium.

I do not claim to be a master, nor do I aspire to be one.

I merely do what I must do. I must write.

Words are my way of wooing my dreams, my careful and gentle descriptions tempt them, and they unfurl before me with eagerness. 

I have read other writer’s blogs and taken note of the pressure they feel.
To write something others will want to read, to market themselves.

As for me, I have a hard time relating.  I mean, sure, I can understand the pressure of critics, the desire to make an impression on readers, to write something that the world might call truly great.

But I write for me. I write because it gives breath to my dreams. I write that I might draw the physical from the illusionary. That I might one day recall all that has been created in my mind by reading. I write so that the story will be told.
That there will be a record of Ronan MacDhughaill’s existence, be it only in my mind. And that Ferran might make his way to Katya and not remain an echo on a scant set of neurons in my brain. That Sulimea can find life, after all he has come so far, from another planet in my mind.

I hope that one day readers will enjoy my larger works, but I am not bound by whether or not they will find them entertaining.

They are, after all, my dreams, worlds of my own creation.  I wrote them not for entertainment’s sake, but that I might capture them as one would capture fireflies. 

I am intrigued by them again and again, and that is why they were captured in the first place.

Everything else is irrelevant.

As a child, I spent a lot of time alone. Have no pity, I enjoyed every second of it. I preferred solitude to company, and still do, because of the treasure trove of imagination in me. I could be anyone doing anything at any time, anywhere, and with the power of writing, I could visit that place again and again and pick up right where I left off.

I do not aspire to change the world with my stories. There are thousands of wonderful storytellers out there.

What I do want to do is encourage everyone to write, or find some means of expressing yourself. You never know what you might discover about yourself.  You may find entire worlds within yourself that you never knew existed, and putting them into words can make them real and accessible to everyone that desires to seek them.

Share yourself.
Write. 

Lessons from A Dog

In January our sweet Barkley died. 

I thought a lot about him today on a walk with Denver, his nervous successor. 

Interesting that Barkley arrived in our lives, unplanned and unintended (as most great things do) at a time when we had no sense of direction and no confidence in ourselves. What we lacked he was full of.  He was meant for us, in every way.  He was chosen.  Whoever abandoned him and dumped him in a field with a bag of dog food could not know that he was meant for us.  That was Barkley’s own journey, his own bit of life we’ll never know about, but when he came to us, it was with providence. Despite whatever he may have faced before us, he came bounding with confidence in US.   

Whatever question we had in ourselves, whatever doubts, Barkley had none. He led us to find in ourselves what we could not, because no matter what demons we had, there he would be, still confident.  When we were nervous about the choices we made with the children, when we were unsure that we could ever feel our way through a real marriage, when we didn’t know even how we would pay bills the next week, he was there. Cool. Confident. “You got this.” He seemed to say.  Reassuring gazes. Following happily with a toss of the tail. Bursting with excitement about whatever was around the bend.  Unflinching.  Wholly receptive to what life had for him, for us as a pack.

When he died he left a tremendous void. A vacuum. Our faithful friend and confident mascot was gone.  However, even in his death it seemed he was reassuring us because he left us at a very hopeless point. We were at a terrible place in our marriage. We had returned again to the lack of confidence, the lack of hope, and in his death we were humbled. The only lesson his existence had left to teach us required the loss of him.  We were reminded of the brevity of life. Reminded that our opportunities to show and give love to each other, at least in this space, are numbered. Ultimately, his loss just might have saved our marriage.

A few months later we acquired Denver. I have now realized that she was the fulfillment of the lessons he gave us.  Her arrival required that the student become the teacher.

She is afraid of everything.  When the air conditioner kicks on she jerks.  Noises scare her. Trash cans scare her.  The garage scares her. The sound of the security lock scares her. Dogs scare her. Cars scare her the most, their sound, their doors, riding in them. The cat even scared her at first.  (Though, he can be intimidating.)

I realize now that all the tools we have to use to help her came from Barkley.  The things we must draw on to reassure her, all the things that we are trying to instill in her are all traces of Barkley.  Through us he is her teacher, as he was ours. Barkley had a way about him.  He could reassure other dogs with his nature.  Calm.  Peaceful. Positive. He could soothe a nervous dog and a nervous person and all the time I am working with her I feel those lessons he gave us working.  Its as if he is here with us, having to teach her all the things that he came to us already knowing. All the traits God gave him so that he could bless us are in turn blessing her and ultimately blessing us all the more because now we must learn again through teaching her all those things.  Through it all we are reminded of who we once were, of all the confidence we lacked, of all the fears we had and all the things we used to let bring us down.  Moving back to Texas has moved us to question all of it, and Barkley leaving us has been the final shove, leaving us to see if we can sail on our own with confidence in who we are, and who we once set out to be.  That we can still be all those things, and not let fear or questions seep in.  To hold to the confidence and hope, and to be like Barkley. Tossing our tail in excitement for whatever may come and not retreating in fear.

Like Denver. She comes to us full of fear. She comes to us afraid of what might happen next. Afraid of what life holds for her. With those things, though, come a heart of solid gold and an ocean of love for us.  She never knew him, but Barkley has given her so much through us, and I am in awe of the lessons within us that these animals continue to bring to us. 

Dogs blessed by a family, a family blessed by dogs.

Second-hand Memories

Recently I had been looking at pictures of my grandfather, Roy Kemper, many taken in the few years preceding his death. He died in his fifties when I was only about three, and I have a faint memory of him holding me on the sidewalk outside of his home and me touching his beard. It was sunny out and my mother was parked on the street. It is odd to have such a snapshot in my mind, as if I knew that would be the only memory I would have, though small and seemingly insignificant, I kept it as a treasure in my heart. 'Remember this man' my mind had told me.

He fathered six children, and lately I have had my nieces and nephew visiting, which makes five kids in my household, all his grandchildren. My mother told me that he would take time outs and go to a quiet room to escape the noise, for the sake of peace in his mind. I completely relate to that and lately have been, during mid-afternoon, retiring to my room for a time just to gather my thoughts and have a moment of relative quiet.  I have thought on him and wondered what he might have thought about. I did not know him well, and the only things I know of him are second hand.  I have seen pictures and have read words written in his own neat handwriting. Rare that he was a doctor with neat handwriting.

So thought provoking it is to wonder about the life of another who came before you. I wonder how others will recount memories of me to others who will come after me. I wonder what they will gather from clues left behind.  In this modern world I am able to record a lot more of my own thoughts, and I think on how useful that is, and how I wish that others before me had left as many clues to what thoughts they had and the insights they had on life.  Not that I would agree with them, but that their memory would be more than a name, and I could feel as though I knew them in some way.

Words are powerful things, left behind to speak for us when we are not there to speak for ourselves.  There is no changing them or amending them after we are gone.  A reminder to use them wisely.

For the family that may read this, if you have any dusty memories of him that you think I might not know, please share them with me. He is a puzzle in my mind I have long been piecing together, among others.

You're not friends.

"You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other until it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood-blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it."

~Spike, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

So very true, this I am learning after 12 years of marriage. It was a help to me. 

(And of course I love Buffy)

Dreaming it all up.

I am blessed to have somehow discovered Dorien Grey and Me a couple of years ago.  I have kept up with that blog on and off for awhile and always come away with something.  This was a long response I decided to put on my own blog.  Thanks Roger.

Friedrich Nietzsche

I have always loved my dreams, they are an integral part of me.  Since a young child I had vivid and very real dreams that often left me confused as to whether I had made it up or was seeing the future, or past life or something that could not be explained.

I had a few specific recurring dreams that faded away at one point in my life, though the setting I have often revisited.  I've had dreams that flickered like old film before me, dreams that went by like slideshows of moments that I could not tell whether real or not, far too realistic for me to accept as made up.
I've had epic dreams with intricate plots and a vast set of characters that left me almost spinning when I woke up to find myself there in my bed.
They are an escape in our mind, and an amazing example of the creativity and capability of our brain to retain information. Some dreams pull up things I never knew that I knew. For example, the other night I had a very long dream, one of those epic dreams.  We had flown to Europe, some colleagues and I - people I don't know, yet their appearance and the personal details I knew about them made them like people I have always known. Isn't it amazing how our brain does that? Or does it? I've often wondered where it comes from.  The people in our dreams often - we already know them. Yet, in our waking conscious mind, we can not place them.  Who are these people?
Anyway, back to the dream. After getting to see many cities from my childhood, as well as other cities I had never been to, we ended up in some town in Germany where I met Friedrich Nietzsche.  I do not recall in my working memory the man's face, or anything about him that I may have learned somehow at some point in my life, but the face of the man was so distinct.  I remembered it as if I had actually seen him.  When I woke up I Googled him (as I am prone to do) and was so surprised that his photograph matched perfectly and he was German, which I really didn't know.
Which makes me wonder if the other things about him would have been the same.  He had a soft way of speaking, very proper and a gentle nature, it seemed.  He was well dressed, but seemed a bit socially awkward.

I have done this so many times, dreamed of people, in particular, in such detail. The stories I write always begin in a dream, and the characters often mainly spring from that same source. When I begin to write about them something magical happens. They visit my dreams again, sometimes often.  This is a wonderful thing to me, these dynamic characters I dreamed up returning to me.

What an amazing vast ocean we have in our minds of possibility! Never ceases to amaze me.
I have so much to say about dreams. Its a subject I'll have to come back to.

Letters to a Girl: Paternal Sexual Abuse

Dear hurting girl,

When I first contemplated writing to you, I wanted to tell you things will be alright. I wanted to tell you it will be okay. 
Don’t get me wrong, those things are indeed true.

But they are only half-truth. 

Now, your interpretation of ‘alright’ needs to be taken into consideration, but for me – it used to mean that one day I’ll forget all this and I’ll feel just like a normal girl, however that feels. Won’t that be great! I thought to myself.

What I didn’t know when I was in your shoes is that my idea of ‘alright’ was completely unrealistic.  You will never forget all this.  There is no forgetting.  Once it comes out, it is there and is as real as a piece of furniture.

Being abused leaves you with a mark.  Not one that you or anyone else can really physically see, but it is a mark you know that you have. You can show it to someone, and they may always see that mark when they see you. Chances are, they won’t.

That mark, it is something you’ve marked yourself with in your mind.  Some people who don’t really know you very well might see that mark.  They might think of you as the ‘abused’ girl.  But they don’t really know you. I want to tell you now to let go of that – there are people who really don’t know you who will never ever ‘get’ you.  Let go of that right now – they will never understand you. Eventually in life you will be misunderstood. Life is not about getting everyone to understand you.  That thought will make you mad.  ‘Mad hatter’ mad, not ‘busted ipod’ mad.  Accept this now: You will be misunderstood. This may seem frustrating at times, or maybe even convenient at times, but it is a good thing, at least for me, though it has taken years to see that. I’ll tell you more about the good part, but first I want to tell you about the truth.

I felt like people expected me to tell you that it would all be okay. Half-truth.  You will never ever ever look at yourself the same again.

The truth is you’ll probably hate yourself for a long time, and you won’t know why.  Somewhere inside your brain is trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle and it makes a lot of assumptions, generally all wrong.
Somewhere inside you are blaming yourself. Somewhere inside you might think this happened to you because you are ugly, or messed up, or somehow you asked for it to happen, maybe you will think you even caused it. None of this is true.  Your brain can (and will) come up with a hundred reasons why this happened to you, working itself into a logistical frenzy, but know this without a doubt: this can not be reasoned out.  Your father is a psychopath child molester. That means you throw out logic and reason.  Logic and reasoning will get you nowhere if you are trying to make sense of why this happened.  It happened because he is a sicko.  Not you. Him.  He is a sicko who twisted everything around in your brain to make you believe that you are also a sicko!  But you aren’t. 

The truth is you may think that feeling beautiful is bad. You may think that feeling all those feelings about your sexuality is a sign that you are a sicko.  This is wrong.  Your brain is back to using its logic and reasoning, and as I have told you, when referring to this sick situation, those tools are useless.  My best advice to you in moving forward with yourself in this regard is removing the association between the sick sexual abuse that happened to you and the sexual development and feelings that will happen to you. That is a bad association that, though you may not know it now, will wreak more havoc for you than any other thought process.  It isn’t at all easy, but when you associate those two things (guilt and sex) you are sliding down a slippery slope that lands you into a pit of self-hatred. You might think you hate yourself now, go down that road and you’ll think today’s self hatred is a walk in the park.

The truth is you may never be able to look at grown men the same way. You will always be wondering in the back of your mind if they are a sicko. You may take to hating them right off to protect yourself (back to the logistic/reasoning that is useless in this situation) but this is not good.  There are good men. This may seem like a jacked up sentence but it is true, in fact it is a terrible understatement. People like us, we don’t know what good men are.  That’s like envisioning a stegacorn.  Yes. A stegacorn. Stegasaurus and a unicorn have a kid (or is it a foal? Cub? Kitten?).  I just made that up.

It took me many many many long  years to learn that there are men capable of a love we could not imagine in our little messed up minds. There are men who would never ever hurt a child, in fact would prefer to inflict physical pain on anyone who tried. There are gentle and loving, fiercely protective men. There are men who will see us in a light we could never see ourselves, who believe in us when we can’t. Who never see that mark that we see on ourselves.  Who would lay down their lives to protect us from harm.  Sounds like a riding off on your stegacorn into the sunset kind of a fairy tale, but it is true and it takes a long time to find that truth.

The truth is, you may even try to blame other people around you. Like your mother.  You may think it is her fault. This goes back to the logistical reasoning that is completely useless. The truth is that she has been right there in that pool of self hatred with you, though you can’t see each other. Its dark in there.

The truth is you will always wonder if that sicko really cared for you or not.  Somewhere deep down inside your mind is trying to find a father’s love somewhere in this mess.
That is another slippery slope.  He is incapable of love. Incapable.  The only thing that even can be construed as some twisted form of love is his own obsession with himself and seeking out what sick things make him happy. He’s a sicko. He’s incapable of love.  The truth is your father never loved you – he doesn’t know what love is.  That sounds terrible, but it is true, and accepting it is the only way to move forward.

The truth is that part of your childhood was lost.  It is gone forever. You will never get it back.  Never ever never.  It’s a loss you will always feel, though it will be faint,almost invisible at times.

The truth is you will think you’ve ‘gotten over it’ a thousand times and you will also think that you are just as messed up as you ever were a thousand times. 

The truth is even when you are 32 you will still struggle sometimes and you’ll still see that mark on yourself, sometimes. But – at some point you will realize this truth.  Somewhere along the line you stop struggling with the abuse.  Somewhere along the line the struggle comes to be with YOUR OWN SELF.

There is a mountain we all must climb and it is within.  See, while other people are going about their lives growing up and seeing where they fit in the world, people like you and me are trying to recover from the terrible things done to us. By the time we come to terms with the abuse, that mountain of self has been getting taller and taller and more precarious.  We have farther to climb than other people do.  Other people have no idea of the treacherous mountainside that we have.  Kilimanjaro has nothing on us. To make matters worse all of our climbing gear is all rusty and trashed. 

There is a silver lining, though.  There is a little God-gift. 

The truth is that mountain top, it is beautiful. As you are climbing it, you will be able to see the beauty.

We have a unique perspective. Now, those other people I talked about, the ones who won’t understand you, it is because they can’t see your mountain. Even people who can’t see the mark on you can’t see that mountain.  Sometimes you won’t be able to see it either, but you’ll know it is there, because you have been climbing it! People close to you who love you, they see that mountain.  These are the ones who will cheer us on, who will tell us that we are wonderful when we can’t see it.  It’s hard climbing mountains.  But we see things others can’t.  We see the soaring height of happiness, we understand and sympathize with the pit of despair, and we understand others, those with marks and scars, in ways that no one else could. We see both light and darkness that others are blind to.  We know and feel the depth of love, and the lack of it. When we get to that mountain top, we are capable of guiding others up their own mountains.  We can help others through the pitfalls that we are all too familiar with.
It is a gift. A God-gift. We are made stronger, though for a long long time we will only think ourselves weak.

Speaking of pitfalls. Once you reach the mountain top, you don’t always stay there. Sometimes you fall down just a little bit and you find yourself having to climb back up.  It will happen again and again and again. Life’s like a jumprope. Now, this is true for everyone, but remember, our mountain is taller and steeper.  It will be hard for us.

The truth is, life will go on. And it is totally worth it!  Life is full of love, art, music, expression, great people and opportunities beyond our imagination. If we don’t see it, then we are standing in our own way! Life is wonderful, truly, and though we may think ourselves broken, we are not. We are just as capable as anyone of living a wonderful happy life, and a happiness we will never take for granted. 

With Love,
A Marked Mountain Climber