Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

I can actually feel my eyes glazing over when I read people lamenting over various issues in their Facebook statuses.  
"Why does Wal-Mart only have three registers open?  Grrr!"  
" The dog chewed up my last good pair of sneakers!"   
" Is it too much to ask that people use a turn signal??"
I suppose I used to be one of these people as well.   I would moan about having too many papers to grade, or not wanting the weekend to end, or how I looked all over town for a new pair of shoes to wear, but couldn't find just the right ones.  It's because I didn't know any better.  I had not yet been taught this very cruel lesson, which is this:
Life is as fragile as a spider's silk web on a windy day.  It is a gift not everyone receives, yet it is so easily squandered and taken for granted by so many who have it.  
Maybe you are not one of these people.   Maybe you realize just how precious your gift is.   Maybe you treat each moment, and the people in it, with the care and respect it deserves.  Maybe you say "I love you" instead of "in a minute".   Maybe you live your life with purpose, and you place importance on every ticking second, because you know those seconds won't last forever.  Maybe you didn't have to learn this lesson the hard way.

I have learned many lessons in the last six weeks.  About friendship.  About love.  About justice.  About life.  From these lessons, I have learned that all those little things we stress about so much - all those daily irritations and inconveniences - do not matter in the slightest.  Not one bit.  We think they do.  We think they are the reason for our unhappiness.  We think they are the reason our life isn't going the way we want it to at the moment.   If only this person in front of me would quit stepping on the brake so much.  If only my doctor wouldn't keep me waiting for my appointment today.  If only I didn't have so much paperwork to do.  None of it matters.  It's all a part of life.  We think life is so intricate and messy.   We think that all these little things add up and come together to shape our days, our months, our years in such defining ways.  We think we have to organize and categorize every piece of our existence.  Making file folders of our life.  File Folders that we will return to one day when we are old and gray - to remember what we have done with ourselves.   In reality, we only have one folder.  It is labeled NOW.   

Life isn't complicated, we just want it to be.  We want to justify how we feel with the thoughts that this is actually important.  Why would this affect us so much if it wasn't a big deal?   It is because we let it affect us.   We allow the little things to permeate our existence to the point where nothing is little anymore.  Everything is an issue.  Everything is a problem.  Nothing satisfies us.

Stop it.  Be satisfied in each moment. When the line at the supermarket isn't moving, take comfort in the fact you have money to buy your groceries.   When your favorite coffee mug shatters on the floor, be happy in the fact that you didn't slice your foot - and that there's still more coffee in the pot.  Be happy with what you have - this amazing gift of life.  You are alive!  You breathe.  Your heart beats.  Your eyes see, your ears hear, your legs walk.  Your mind spins.  As all of us have learned lately, not everyone is bestowed this gift.  Not everyone gets this chance.   But you do.  And I do.   And I can tell you with absolute certainty that I do not intend to take the slender thread of life for granted anymore.  We are guaranteed nothing, so it is up to us to secure each and every moment for ourselves and for the people we love.  

Kenely is not here to enjoy her life.  She cannot smell the fresh, spring breeze.   She cannot see the bright, warm sunshine.   Her life was stolen from her and she cannot get it back.  But, I can live for the both of us.  I did it for eight months - and I will continue doing it.  That is the reason I got out of bed today and the reason I will get out of bed tomorrow.  I will live for her, and so she will live in me.  Who do you live for? 

  

Initial Reaction

Whether on a keychain, a piece of stationary, or a statue on their mantle, almost everyone has something made with their initials.  I have all three.  When confronted with a bin of wooden letters, I always scoured for an R.   I'd do the same thing when coming across alphabet charms or personalized stationary.  I am sure everyone does so as well.   There is something appealing and comforting about having an item that represents who you are.   When I got married, I automatically added an M to my searches.   Now, I obviously didn't buy each and every R or M I came across, but it was always fun to look.   It was always fun to find the letter that was "mine", or "his", and it was always disappointing when they weren't in the mix.   "Awww, man!  They don't have it!"   Not that I actually planned on purchasing it, but I liked to find them.   

In the few times I have been shopping lately, I have come across an opportunity to look for letters, whether in a paper mache display at World Market, or an array of pendants at Urban Outfitters.  I skip right past the R's and M's.  As you can guess, I go straight for the K's.  It's not even a conscious decision.  I don't even realize I am looking for a K at first, but I am.  This is different from seeing owls or balloons.  Those just pop into sight.  Those sneak up on me.   But, the Ks, I seek out.   I look for them.  Automatically, I am searching for my daughter.   

The other day, a few days before the "Owl Incident of 2013", I was in Orlando with two very good friends.  We visited my absolute favorite store of all time, Anthropologie.  This store is very boho chic.  Vintage style dresses with sweetheart necklines and flowing skirts.  Eclectic jewelry. Velvet headbands.  Floral sheet sets. All girlie, romantic, and ridiculously expensive.   I love it!   While wandering through the store, a display of necklace holders caught my eye.   (Until very recently, I did not own nearly enough necklaces to warrant a holder for them, and I rarely wore jewelry anyway.   However, with so many people so generously purchasing me necklaces as reminders of Kenley, I realized I needed a place to put them since I can only wear one at a time.)  The necklace holders were personalized with an initial.  Each letter sat perched on top of a stand to hold the many chains you might place on them.  Obviously, I went right for the K.  There was only one.  I held it in my hand and debated on whether or not to buy it.  Was it weird to buy something with my dead daughter's initial?   Is that too creepy?   Too attached?  Ultimately, I realized that it was fitting to buy the K since I would use it to hold the necklaces that represent her.  So, that is what I did.   And now, all of my beautiful necklaces given to me by several wonderful friends have a happy home.

Until February 25, I had never experienced loss.  Not truly.   My mother's parents passed away when I was very young, so I do not remember the devastation of either of their deaths.  My other close family members and friends are all alive and well, thank goodness.  So, because of this, I do not pretend that I know what other types of loss feel like.  What I do know is that losing a child is like losing a piece of yourself.  A piece so enormous that you aren't even sure you'll be able to hold yourself together without it.   The rest of you caves in upon this hole, crumbling like a dynamited building, leaving your heart in rubble.  You try to take this rubble and rebuild yourself bit by bit.   But that piece is always missing and nothing else fits - and so you can never truly set yourself straight.  And you topple over again and again and again.  When I find a K, for a brief moment, I find peace.   She is with me once again, and I feel almost whole.  But, that moment is fleeting, and she slips away almost as soon as the letter is in my hand - because I realize that this is just a letter.   And a letter won't bring her back.   A letter can't possibly close the gaping hole she left behind.  Nothing can.  Not even time.  Time can erect a few support beams in the building, but those beams will always be exposed to the elements.  The walls will never be completely closed.  The hole will always be there because she will always be missing.  Always.  I try my best to find comfort in reminders, like owls, balloons, and, of course K's, but they are merely pebbles trying to replace a boulder.  No matter how many I find, how many I hoard, I will never be completely sturdy.  But, for now, it's the best I can do.

By the way, did I mention the K I found the other day was in the shape of a tree?  Because it totally was!

A Farewell to Facebook

If you are a Facebook friend who follows my blog, you know that today is the last day I will post my blog links to Facebook, and you may be wondering why.  Lately, I have received a few panicked messages about how someone does not want me to stop writing the blog.  I am extremely flattered that everyone cares so much about these posts, and let me assure you that I am not stopping the blog.   I will continue to write and post as usual.  I need to continue to write for my own personal well-being.  I am just not going to link the post to my Facebook page.  Allow me to explain by first posting two pictures:                        

This is a koala

This is a newborn koala

At the very beginning of my journey, I was like the newborn koala.   Small, helpless, confused, and blind.   I didn't know what to do.  I didn't know how to handle my emotions.  I was searching for support and nourishment.   Facebook was like the mother koala.  I crawled into the safe, warm pouch and was comforted.   My friends rallied behind me.  They sent me messages of love.  They commented on my posts with condolences and words of support.  I felt safe and warm in an unknown and dangerous world.  I could not have survived without my circle of friends.   In the pouch, I was nurtured.  I was given the support, the sympathy, and the time I needed to grow stronger.  But now,  I have grown my first coat of fur.  My eyes can focus and see.   I am ready to leave the pouch and try this on my own.  

I am still grieving, but I am no longer helpless.  I have found my outlet (which is this blog), and I no longer need to turn to Facebook to be nurtured.  In fact,   I do not need to be nurtured anymore at all.  Although I am not healed, I know the direction I need to travel and the road I must walk down.  I will still stumble and fall.  My heart still breaks.  My soul is still heavy.   My journey is not over, and I have come to realize that it never really will be.  

I will continue to blog.   I will continue to share my journey with anyone who cares to join me.   But, I will not continue to post to Facebook.   Facebook has become a symptom of my sorrow, and that is not what I want it to be. It is time for my blog to separate itself from Facebook and from me to separate Facebook from my blog.  Facebook will now return to it's pre-tragedy state.  It will be social, not sorrowful.  I just can't continue to have every moment of my life  filled with loss.  I need a safe zone.  I need to be able to log on to Facebook and see what my friends are doing without being bombarded by blog links,  comments on blog links, likes on blog links, likes on comments on blog links, likes and comments on Kenley photos.   I need Facebook to be free of sympathetic vibes.  While I know I chose to make my pain public, it's enough now.  

Every once in a while, I may post a picture that reminded me of Kenley. I might, perhaps, post a link of a blog post I am particularly proud of - or an update of Kenley Around the World, but that's about it as far as my grieving goes.  This blog is where I will pour my soul, where I will open my heart, and clear my mind.   Facebook is where I will post pictures of the lemon bars I baked.   (And I did bake them yesterday!)

Please, continue to read as usual if you so desire. Comments may be made right below each blog post, if you'd like to do so. I read and appreciate every comment made on my blog. (I do respectfully request the sympathy be kept to a minimum.  I know everyone is hurting for me, and while I so very much appreciate it, I do not need to be reminded of it on a daily basis.)    I will keep writing.  I will keep posting.  This journey is far from over, and I still have a long way to go.   Thank you for coming with me.