I made pancakes this morning.

Is that a "lighter" title?  I've heard that my recent posts have been a little "dark." 

... My first several pancakes were too dark.  I've been having a perpetual pancake dilemma. 

I used to make pancakes just about every Saturday morning.  I'm not talking Bisquick or Aunt Jemima ... I'm talking SCRATCH PANCAKES.  My own recipe, in fact.  If David was home for the weekend (rarely) I'd make waffles, using my mother's antique waffle iron -- and my own scratch recipe :-)  (You have to leave time for mixing the batter for these recipes -- there's more to it than adding a little milk and an egg.) 

Anyway ... I didn't make pancakes much when I was in exile.  In fact, maybe once?  twice?  and waffles a couple times?  It wasn't joyful anymore -- it was work.  I did it for my children.  They're worth it, though my son eats maybe two, three pancakes.  For some reason, he doesn't really like pancakes.  (?????)

One Saturday, a few weeks before they were to go back to college and a nephew was visiting, I decided to wake them with a homemade pancake breakfast.  I got up, got the batter mixed, and heated the griddle. 

I don't have a regular range -- I have a "Barbie" wall oven (too narrow) and a stove top.  I would have changed this scenario many years ago had it not been for the griddle on my stove top.  I love it.  I'm a terrible pancake flipper.  I can never get the heat settings quite right.  It takes me four or five batches to get everything right, but this griddle really helped me succeed. 

Suddenly, out of the blue, the dang thing wouldn't heat.  <snort> This was particularly troubling because I had already lost one burner on the stove and just the week before realized that the lower element in the top oven wasn't heating (the lower oven hadn't been working for a few years!)   I was not ready to buy a new stove.  I was not ready to replace the ovens.  What I really wanted to do was get a real range with a regular-sized oven and put a pantry where the ovens are -- but I was not in a financial position to do that yet!  I was not really on speaking terms with a possible contractor -- and was working to get the house painted.  (One big project at a time, please!)

I had to pull out the old cast iron skillet and hope for the best.  Remember, I was down to three burners! so I had to situate the skillet on the back burner and reach across.  I had no idea what heat setting would be right.  (I knew what heat setting to use for the griddle!)  This skillet is pretty well-seasoned, but I had no idea if the pancakes would stick, burn, or whatever.  I guess, ultimately, they turned out okay.  I don't recall a pancake disaster, but I'm sure the first couple batches were less than perfectly round, golden brown and evenly cooked.  Like this morning ...

Exile or no exile, I cook.  I cook for one and I cook good stuff.  Today, for example, I soaked three kinds of beans and made three quarts of delicious tri-bean stew with kielbasa.  Yum.  Think smoked stock, fresh onion, garlic, celery, carrot, tomato, sweet potato, cilantro and parsley served over tri-color quinoa.  (This was in lieu of cleaning the guest room for visiting college girls.)  Yesterday I made 6 quarts of Harvest Goodness Stew -- I am taking some for the church Soup Cook-Off tomorrow.  It took me ALL afternoon to create that stew and do all the dishes!  When I was down to one 8" burner, it was really a handicap!

I discovered that the oven wasn't heating properly when I was baking Snickerdoodles for another church thing -- and to send to my kiddos at school.  It took over a half hour to heat the oven!  Somehow, I am not sure how, I managed to get the cookies to come out ok.  They should not have!  Only the top element was heating the oven and it was no fun.  I reguarly use my oven to roast and broil fish, vegetables and meats and to bake breads and cookies -- I really needed my oven to work properly!!  I was panicked!  What was I going to do?!  It would be hundreds -- thousands? of dollars to replace the oven and a whole lot more effort to do it the way I wanted to. 

Somehow it occurred to me that I might be able to replace the stupid heating element in the oven.  Now I had been considering purchasing a new burner for the stove for a while -- but it was going to cost me about $80 + shipping and I wasn't even certain it would solve the problem ... but now with the oven, I had to figure something out.  I retrieved the user manual for the oven to get the model number and a web search led me to a great little site that not only sold the requisite oven element, but had a little video showing me how to do it!  I am a bit of a handyman, but electricity freaks me out and I had already shocked myself once when trying to repair the oven light switch (Yeh, I know -- dumb.  Even though I was on the phone with a sister insisting that I flip the circuit breaker, I didn't.  Zap.  Lesson learned.)

So I ordered the oven element.  It was under $40!  I knew it would cost upwards of $200 to get the Maytag repairman to even come out to LOOK at my oven -- and who knew when he'd come! (The year before it was going to be ten days before a refrigerator repairman could come look at my 'fridge.  I freaking fixed it myself, with the final assistance of my good neighbor.)  While I was at it, I ordered the stove burner element, too -- it was half the price that GE wanted!  So I waited for my package to arrive.

Long story short, I fixed my oven.  I had to brave the fear of electrocution, work with wiring, faced one fail -- but ultimately, succeeded in repairing my oven -- and the stove burner worked, too!  But the griddle parts were unavailable ...

So ... this morning ... I pulled out the iron skillet again (I don't really use non-stick pans).  I placed it on my new burner! and heated it up until a finger-flick of water danced.  I oiled the skillet and ladled-out three pancakes.  Oh freak.  The skillet was too hot and they were nearly black!  (So, once again, my blog entry is "dark."  ;-)  I turned down the heat -- ultimately a little too far, as a couple batches were blonde, rather than golden brown, and more eliptical than round -- but, alas, as always that last batch was perfect:  golden brown, perfectly round, flipped expertly.  Since I only ate three of them, I now have a Ziploc of frozen pancakes of miscellaneous shapes and done-ness.  <sigh>

As I stood at the stove, observing the progress of the multi-faceted flapjacks, I remembered my mother standing at the stove doing the same thing in a similar skillet.  Again, I pondered who has her skillet! because it is not I.  David and I purchased and seasoned my skillet the first year of our marriage.  Where is her skillet!?  Anyway, I pictured her using the corner of her cake turner to pop the little bubbles that formed while the pancakes were baking and wondered if she did that because she watched her mother do that and realized that I do that!  I wonder if my daughter will do that.  I also remembered that she made "silver dollar" pancakes.  I wondered if she made those because it was easier to make four at a time in that sized skillet (I will use my larger one next time -- more space to get in there to do the flipping!)  And, again, the heaviness of my losses pressed down on me in that moment.  I flipped my cakes and snapped out of it.

The point here is that I made pancakes.  I made pancakes for ONE -- for ME.  Two steps up ... even with all the frustration.  I hung in there and had an indulgent Saturday ... lunch.  (By the time I had figured all of this out, it was after noon.  Ugh.)  Still!  A little victory.  And I have some frozen pancakes that can easily be tossed in the toaster or microwave when the college students visit next weekend.  I know that's not as Mama B as usual, but it will have to do.  I've got other stuff going on these days!  <smooch>

Gaudete

Yes ... Latin again.  Once I get something in my head, I can't shake it.  I ended my last post talking about joy.  I had been working with Latin words for life and spirit ... and death ... but closed with a nod to joy.  Oh, Joy -- you elusive thing, you! 

As a vocalist, I've sung the "Masses" in Latin -- which are sometimes a little sorrowful, usually reverent and worshipful -- and always beautiful and moving ... but I have also sung the Gaudete, a typical medieval song of praise, and it is wonderful.  "Gaudete" is a verb, I think, rather than a noun.  It means REJOICE.   Basically, it is a sacred Christmas Carol.  I suppose I've happened upon the root of true joy ... the Nativity of the Lord, Jesus. 

I don't want to get all preachy here.  You know I'm not preachy.  But I can't not write about this.  I really wish I had had an opportunity to study Latin.  My high school didn't even offer it.  My father was bereft!  I will always remember him regularly conjugating Latin words for fun! sitting there experiencing a good bit of awe, but also probably exhibiting a little slack-jawed "huh?" due to my less than stellar education.  (Both of my kids took Latin in High School.  I was grateful that I didn't even have to press them to study it!  Silent Coups!)  Anyway ... the Gaudete:

Gaudete, Gaudete! Christus et natus Ex maria virgine, Gaudete!	Rejoice, Rejoice! Christ is born Of the virgin Mary, Rejoice!
Tempus ad est gratiae, Hoc quod optabamus; Carmina laetitiae, Devote redamus.	It is now the time of grace That we have desired; Let us sing songs of joy, Let us give devotion.
Deus homo factus est, Natura mirante; Mundus renovatus est A Christo regnante.	God was made man, And nature marvels; The world was renewed By Christ who is King.
Ezechiellis porta Clausa pertransitur; Unde lux est orta Salus invenitur.	The closed gate of Ezechiel Has been passed through; From where the light rises Salvation is found.
Ergo nostra cantio, Psallat iam in lustro; Benedicat Domino: Salus Regi nostro.	Therefore let our assembly now sing, Sing the Psalms to purify us; Let it praise the Lord: Greetings to our King.

This is where my true joy is supposed to be found ... as a Christian.  And it is!  Really! 

 

It's just a little difficult to translate this to my everyday life.  My life that doesn't have the heavenly host singing Alleluias every day (or are they?) or the blazing, blatant star that I'm supposed to follow (or is it there?)  Oh dang.  I'm backing myself into a corner.

What I really want to talk about is joy.  I've spent over half of my life believing that "joy" takes precendence over "happiness."  Now I'm not so sure.  About the precedence part.  I think they are two very different things and that one can exist without the other, but that experiencing -- no, embracing, both in your life is really good.  More than embracing.  I can reach out and try to convince myself that I'm experiencing joy or happiness, but that takes a whole lot of psychic energy.  If it's true, it shouldn't be work, right?  I'm just not knowing much of either one of them right now and I find that to be excruciating.

A quick web search on happiness resulted in this troubling definition:  a mental or emotional state of well-being characterized by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy. 

The same process for joy yielded:  a feeling of great pleasure and happiness. 

I'm in trouble.

To be more comprehensive about joy, synonyms included:  delight, jubilation, triumph, exultation, rejoicing, glee, gladness, exhilaration, exuberance, elation, euphoria, bliss, ecstasy, rapture.

Needless to say, I'm not experiencing much, if any, of this stuff.  What to do ...

I do know one thing:  Happiness is not one of the "Fruits of the Spirit," but Joy (Latin: gaudium; Greek:  chara) is.

The Greek word for 'joy' is Kevo, derived from the word charis, which is the Greek word for 'grace.'  Chara is produced by the charis of God. This means 'joy' is not a human-based happiness that comes and goes but, rather, true 'joy' is divine in its origin. It is a Spirit-given expression that flourishes best in hard times.

Flourishes best in hard times!!  Such is my luck!  Good grief.  For months now I've been trying to convince myself that simple happiness is okay!  Let's find some.  Go for it.  And every time I really look into it, I hit the joy wall.  ugh.

So where do I go from here?  My daughter spoke about it in her Senior Chapel presentation.  She spoke of being impatient and not listening -- then being still and trying to hear -- waiting better.  And she spoke of Joy.  Her father would have been so pleased.  She read Gibran and truly related her own sorrow and suffering to revealed joy.  I pray she really finds it, for I know it's lurking here and there ... ready to explode on her.  And I want it to!  I'll move back into the shadows of waiting as long as I must to ensure that my kids get their measure of joy -- of happiness.  Show it to me!

On Joy and Sorrow Kahlil Gibran

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater thar sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Kamilah, Kahlil's mother. Painting by Kahlil Gibran


Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

Now to translate that into my everyday life ... as I return (albeit slowly) from this exile of mine ...

Obitus ... or how about a little Vita ... or, better yet, Spiritus

Death.  Obitus is Latin for "death."  I know a lot about death.

I've had my hand in the creation of three  -- four? -- NO!  FIVE obituaries in my short life.  The crafting of an obituary is no small feat.  It is not to be taken lightly (at least in my mind).  It is the last thing "sung" about the person who has died.  It is so very important!  It is so crucial!  And yet, so many formal "obituaries" are lack-luster.  They provide the facts -- the data -- the details -- but so seldomly do they really paint the portrait of the one who has died.  That is, in my humble opinion, the purpose of an obituary ... a GOOD obituary:  To paint a perfect, beautiful, poignant, honest portrait of the beloved who has died.

The basic definition of an "obituary" is a "biographical sketch" or a "record of death" of someone who has lived -- and, subsequently, died.  Ugh.  How limited is that!?  And yet! that is how the majority of obituaries read.  Believe me.  I know.  I used to be a chronic reader of the obituaries.  Every now and then I would rejoice!  A write-up would beautifully portray the value that one's life held in this world -- at least to the portrait-master of the obitus.  Thank you!  Thank you for letting us know how and why this soul died!  Thank you for telling me about how they realized joy -- in the earth (gardening) or in their pets (give to the ASPCA) or in service to their church or the community.  Thank you for letting me know that their untimely death was because of an accident, not a terrible illness -- or because of tragic sorrow.  Thank you for letting me know that they were deeply loved by their children, their grandchildren and by their friends -- by their weekly bridge club!  Thank you for drawing a picture of their life's work in a way that colored them with deep hues and depth, rather than presenting them as sterile -- unremarkable -- all business -- meaningless? 

I suppose I might have ruffled a bunch of feathers there.  I certainly do not intend to offend or hurt or knock anyone off balance ...

I have shared with a few close loved-ones my personal "litmus test."  (Sorry.  I know that's sort of lame, but it does have some meaning ... "a crucial and revealing test in which there is one decisive factor.")  Of course I don't always live up to it!  If I did, then I'd already be in Heaven, rather than trying to do my part in exhibiting God's Kingdom while I'm still trudging around here on earth.  I have told my kids, my sisters, my close friends ... that if nothing else, I truly hope that what they remember about me is that "all she did was done in love."  I don't know if I'll ever live up to that, but it is my goal -- my "litmus test."  I seriously stop in my tracks in certain situations where I might react rather than respond ... and ask the question.  Are you doing this/saying this/whaterver'ing this in love?  Uh huh.  Stops me in my tracks.  Many times I simply fail to ask the question, so sometimes find myself apologizing.  I think that apologizing is done in love.  Redeemed.  I hope!   <sigh>

I don't get the newspaper anymore, so I've had to give up my habit of reading the obituaries.  It has probably been a healthy hiatus, but I sort of miss it.  Sometimes a simple web search results in an obituary link.  As I was reading the brief summaries that showed up on a recent search result, I felt drawn to click on just such a link a few days ago.  It was an obituary for a young woman; she was younger than David when she died.  The few words I could read on the summary included the phrase "... was lovingly cared for by ..."  I wanted to read about who that special person was who had cared for her throughout her illness.  I was crestfallen when I read the actual text.  She was "... lovingly cared for by the hospital staff!"  Don't get me wrong.  I thanked doctors and hospice care people, for sure, in David's obituary -- they were vital to us throughout his illness and the last few weeks of his life.  ... Okay, so I continued reading.  It went on to tell us about her education (impressive) and her job (she was a bunch of peoples' boss).  Then her close and extended family members were named.  They held a memorial service at some church (her church?  dunno).  I felt myself wanting to know more.  What did she believe?  Who loved her?  What were her passions?  Did she paint?  Sing?  Volunteer at a food kitchen?  Did she garden?  Why was her life special?  There had to be more than she had numerous degrees and a fancy job.

I was trying to explain this to a friend on a walk the other day.  We got off on a tangent, which was fine, because I wasn't sure I felt like exploring this any more deeply.  It really made me feel sad -- disappointed.  But we came full circle and my friend went on to say that in writing your own obituary, you can provide that "litmus test" for your life.  She is right!  I've often thought I should write my obituary way before I die because, honestly, how can my kids possibly know enough about me to be thorough!?  (More importantly, I don't want them to struggle with the task.  It is a really difficult thing to do.)  But writing your pre-obitus obituary can serve as a syllabus, of sorts, outlining the narrative and outcome of your living. It really can help you to know what that plan looks like in order to better live it, right?  You might as well ponder it (this includes prayer and learning and relationship and worship and service and fun) -- strive for it -- bring to fruition the masterpiece that is your life.  What would I write? 

One obit I read several years ago was about the life and death of a man in his 50's -- young -- like my father.  I was reading along and when I read that he liked to play Bingo and enjoyed bear huntin', I sort of laughed and thought, "Wow, that's deep."  But you know what?  The writer of the record of that man's life and death KNEW him and cared enough about him to go ahead and tell the world that he freaking liked to play Bingo (probably had a lot of friends there and engaged in super fellowship!) and he enjoyed the sport of hunting bear -- again, probably with a father or son or brother or friend -- someone who knew him well enough and cared enough to tell us about that. 

I don't mean to say that one's job is not important.  It is -- particularly if it is one's true vocation -- something they loved -- and if they made a difference -- and had meaningful relationships through their work.  But I want to know these things.  I want to know about the spirit of the person -- their ruah (Hebrew for breath or spirit) -- that they had vita (life, Latin) before their obitus -- that they had spiritus (spirit or "soft" breathing, Latin).  Soft breathing.  I love that.  Gentleness of Spirit.  Holy.

But there is still the sorrow with which to deal ... of which my daughter so wisely has spoken:  the joy, the gaudium that comes of sorrow, which brings about that gentleness -- that soft breathing.  We who have lost much, have much to give -- much love -- much soft breathing.  More on this soon ...

Return from What? Where?

It has been about 5 months since I have written. A few loyal readers have gently nudged me to start writing again -- so affirming! Thank you. It has been a long and weird five months. I probably won't go into much detail ...  Though, if you read my blog, you know I'll probably bare a lot more soul than you expect and you'll love me anyway, surprised that anyone could be so stupid as to tell such truths! Hmm.

I don't want to write. I don't want to do much of anything. I am seriously in a slump. I do cook -- and I cook good stuff! I may be lazy and unmotivated, but tasty food is very important. As winter approaches, I'm back to conjuring-up my miscellaneous soups and stews -- sauces and grains -- and have a few quarts of deliciousness in the freezer, just waiting for thawing day. Tonight ... probably a flash sauté of broccoli, zucchini and kale -- incomplete without the onion and garlic. To quote a good friend (and a slow and dirty cook, rather than a quick and dirty cook) "The chopping is therapeutic." Now I'm hungry.

"Return from Exile" ... a sequel to "Reluctantly Uncleaving," I guess.   (http://reluctantlyuncleaving.blogspot.com/2012/09/its-all-so-new.html)  Why the title? I've been contemplating a continuation for a while. My first idea for a name was "Returning from Sabbath" or "Return from Sabbatical." But when I really considered the meaning of Sabbath and Sabbatical, it just wasn't right. Taking a sabbatical or recognizing a Sabbath is VOLUNTARY. What I have been experiencing was definitely not my choice! In contemplating these ideas with the slow and dirty cook, the word "exile" was catapulted into my consciousness by that pesky Holy Spirit. Exile ...

ex·ile  /ˈɛgzaɪl, ˈɛksaɪl/ Show Spelled [eg-zahyl, ek-sahyl] noun   1. expulsion from one's native land by authoritative decree; 2. the fact or state of such expulsion: to live in exile; 3. a person banished from his or her native land; 4. prolonged separation from one's country or home, as by force of circumstance.

 

So ... if one's "native land" (home) happens to be their marriage, then the death of my husband basically expelled me.  And prolonged is forever, right?  Ugh.

 

As I struggle with this phase of my "grief journey," <gag> I do try to snap out of it from time to time.  I'm scoffing at myself as I write this.  Physically making that quasi-snorting sound and rolling my eyes.  All my attempts have been so stinking futile.  I'll tell you about one of them. 

 

"Bewildered but Not Lost" was the name of a keynote address at an event called "Seminary for a Day," held at Union Presbyterian Seminary in Richmond a couple weekends ago.  (I think it's fair to say that another sweet friend felt quite smug that I attended in that she's been "telling" me to go to seminary for a long time now.)  I didn't "go" to seminary, but did enjoy the day.  Anyway, "Bewildered but Not Lost" was a presentation regarding the greater church, but I identified with it personally on some levels.  I know I'm not lost.  Too many people are watching over me/watching out for me -- loving me, praying for me, spending time with me ... but bewildered is a really great word.  I wish I could remember to use it more frequently.  It's such a simple, straightforward, basic word!

 

be·wil·dered  /bɪˈwɪldərd/ Show Spelled [bih-wil-derd] adjective  completely puzzled or confused; perplexed.

 

This is how I feel about many people and many situations in my life.  Completely puzzled, confused -- perplexed.  How did I land here?  Almost 50 and alone.  In a house that badly needs to be painted.  Sad.  Unmotivated.  Yet loved and blessed.  And seemingly continuously shaking my head at the words, choices and actions of so many people.  Are they, too, bewildered?  or are they truly lost!?  I mean, seriously ... who would chose to be mean or bitter or isolated when they could be loved, be kind and be in someone else's midst?

 

Anyway, I digress a little, but it was worth it.  Exile.

 

The keynote speaker likened today's Christians to Jewish exiles of the Old Testament, as interpreted by Walter Brueggemann (American Protestant Old Testament scholar and theologian) -- "The exiled Jews of the OT were of course geographically displaced. More than that, however, the exiles experienced a loss of the structured, reliable world which gave them meaning and coherence, and they found themselves in a context where their most treasured and trusted symbols of faith were mocked, trivialized, or dismissed. Exile is not primarily geographical, but it is social, moral and cultural." 

 

This statement took me aback.  It slapped me in the face in yet another one of those unexpected affirmations -- this time of the choice of "exile" as basis for this continuation of my blog.  Though I have not [yet] been thrust into a Bailey "Diaspora," I do feel displaced:  emotionally, spiritually, mentally -- and, yeh, somewhat physically.  Very physically, if you please.  I lost the structure of my reliable world -- the world of being part of a marriage -- of a household -- which certainly gave my life great meaning and coherence.  Gone.  Poof.  And, actually, my children have been sort of "scattered!"  I wouldn't go as far as to say that my most treasured and trusted symbols of faith have been mocked, trivialized or dismissed ... but ... I have been displaced socially and culturally (the moral part would be defined by my own choices, I think). 

 

So just how does one RETURN from such a place?  Good question.  Do you have any suggestions?  I mean, I've dabbled in this and that.  I make myself get up, get dressed, go out, be amongst people even when I don't have to.  I do my dishes.  I stay current with my social media and try to be pertinent and sometimes even a little funny.  I definitely stay in tune with my kids -- I have mailed cookies and Halloween goodies to the college, as I often do.  I see friends.  I drove 150 miles all by myself to attend the Seminary for a Day, for Pete's sake!  I have even gone out on a few dates (ugh).  I have recently endured the excruciating process of weeding through contractors and estimates to have my house painted and the requisite landscaping work accomplished.  And I'm sitting here writing this entry.  But every single voice in my head is telling me to quit and go to bed.  This is a difficult, arduous return.  It  feels like it is only getting more and more challenging!  Is that a third year of the bereavement thing?  It should be getting better, right?  I've entered my fourth year.  But, goodness, would making such an assumption be "mocking, trivializing or dismissing" my exile?  I wonder ...

 

I read a book entitled, "Get Out of that Pit -- Straight Talk about God's Deliverance," by Beth Moore, an American evangelist, author, and Bible teacher.  Boy did I relate to her "pit."  I read this book YEARS AGO.  Way back when we were fighting brain cancer and David was travelling extensively -- I was in my pretty pit.  But I climbed out and was doing okay for a long time.

And then I was exiled again.

I have truly found a home here, in my pit -- all comfy and cozy with a soft sofa (or bed), a nice TV and DVD player (Roku) -- slippers, comfort food, phone (with texting and facebook), gentle lighting and the heavy breathing of my devoted dog.  I have moved back in.  I am solidly back in exile, but this time I voluntarily descended that ladder.  I thought I had climbed out -- little by little these last couple years.  (Remember, if you will, the spread wings and taking steps off into whatever of one of my last entries in "Reluctantly Uncleaving.")  But I guess I never really made it all the way out with my hair blowing in the winds of recovery.  I thought I had found liberation sometime over the last couple years, but I was wrong -- or fooled -- or delayed.  One step up, two steps back ... down the ladder into my comfy, cozy pit that I have decked-out with pretty curtains and soft pillows.  I'm a little embarrassed.  And I know ...

I have to do it all over again:  Climb on back out ... rung by rung.  I have another freaking journey to make.  To return from exile, whether it be by force or voluntarily.

 

So, will you join me on this new leg of my journey?  It might get tiresome!  I know it is for me!  Thank you, Beloved, for walking beside me.  I really need some good company!