Never Alone

There is a saying that goes something like, "You come into this world alone and you go out alone, yet it seems to me you are more alone while living than while coming or going."   I disagree with this statement.   When you come into this world, you are far from alone.   In fact, you are the least alone you will ever be. You are actually physically connected to another person.  You and your mother are tied together.   You shared blood and oxygen.   Not too long before your birth, her food choices affected your activity level.   Her voice echoed within her own body to reach your ears.   You were in no way alone.   

In a way, this comforts me regarding Kenley's death.   When she died, she was not alone - she was with me.   She died surrounded by warmth and comfort.   She died connected to me -  to the sounds of my breathing and beating heart - maybe even to the sound of my voice.   She did not die alone.   

The second part of that quote talks about being alone while living.   While, ultimately, we all face our challenges and successes with only our own consciousness controlling us, we are still not truly alone.  We are only alone if we specifically choose to be.   If we push others away.  If we refuse help.  If we are callous or condescending.   I have learned many things in these past few months - one of them being the nature of human beings.   We need each other.   Like a house of cards, we lean on and support each other throughout our lives.   In the early days, we depended on each other for physical survival - like food and shelter.  Although we still do that today, it's not on such a personal level.   But, we do depend on each other for moral support.  Family, friends, lovers, we all need at least one other person in our lives to keep us going.  Even though we all fight our own battles, we still share the same war.  

Sometimes, it's hard not to feel alone.  It's hard when you feel like you are the only one who really knows your pain.  When you don't think that anyone truly understands what it's like to be you.  While it's true that no one has 100% comprehension of the inner emotions of others, we all want to understand each other.  We do.  We just don't always know how to navigate the walls we all put up in protection of ourselves.  

We have to remember that everyone is really just doing the best they can.  To work through their own pain.  To understand the pain of someone else.  We are all working hard to find our path, to stay in the light, and to find others who will travel alongside us.  

And when it is time for us to take our exit, the connections we made throughout our lives are still with us.  The memories of all the people we've met along our journey swirl in our hearts and souls and wrap around us as we make our way out of this life.  If we are lucky, we live on in the thoughts of those who stay behind.  

So, in my opinion, even though there are moments where we might feel alone and deserted, we are not.  We just have to be willing to see the hands outstretched in the darkness.  We have to be willing to be one of those hands for someone else.  That quote is wrong.   

If I were to rewrite it more accurately, I might say something like this:
"We come into this world completely connected to another human being.  If we work hard enough, we will never lose our connection with others, and when we leave this world, our connection is not severed because those we leave behind carry our memory with them into eternity."  

I know it's a hard feat to accomplish - staying connected.  Feeling connected. I have learned the hard way that life isn't easy and nothing is guaranteed.  My daughter lived her entire life connected to me.  She was never alone.  Neither am I. Neither are you.   And that brings me peace.

Finding Meaning

Did you know that, if not recycled into the soil by earthworms and dung beetles, cow dung can "dry out and remain on the pasture, creating an area of grazing land which is unpalatable to livestock?"  (Wikipedia for the win!)   Basically, if you do nothing to it, cow dung becomes so hard and crusty that it can cause the life around it to cease to exist.  Plants can't grow through it, so then cows can't graze in that area.   However, if the worms and the bugs are allowed to break it down, it becomes something useful.   Full of nutrients, the cow dung helps to fertilize the soil and continues the cycle of healthy grass growing to be consumed by the cows.   Even better, cow dung made into manure is fantastic for gardeners to help their plants grow full and beautiful.   From a disgusting waste product, beauty can emerge.  But, not on it's own.  It needs help.

To me, this analogy helps make sense of the horrible and hurtful "Everything happens for a reason" sentiment.   People want to look at the flowers sprouting out of the soil and say "See!   Here is your reason!  Good has come from bad!  Yay!"   If there was no cow dung, there wouldn't be flowers, right?   Wrong.   If there weren't earthworms or beetles, there wouldn't be flowers.   It's not the event that has a reason - it's what you do with it that creates reason, or rather meaning.  I could just leave the dung where it is.  I could not deal with it and let it dry and crust over.  I could let my grass underneath it die and, as a result, my entire herd of cattle would perish as well.  But, what would be the point of that?  What good would that do me?  Not only would my field be covered in cow poop, but then all my cows would be dead.  So,then I am left with a desolate and uninhabitable area.  

The popular saying is "Sh** Happens", and right now, I am neck deep in it.  But, I am not going to let it just meaninglessly lay there.  Instead, I choose to release the earthworms and the beetles - and make use out of it.   I will break it down bit by bit.   I will work through it and give it purpose.   I will use it to fertilize my field.  I will use it to plant a garden.  I will make it mean something because, otherwise, it will drive me crazy.

This is why so many mothers of loss form foundations in their child's honor.  This is why we all have blogs and causes.  Why we plunge into helping with charities.  This is why I am painting pictures and working on my cookbook.   It's the reason behind my Saturday Spotlights and my Kenley's Krew facebook page.  All of these things are my earthworms and my beetles, chewing through the muck, breaking it down to give it value.  When light comes out of darkness, we don't praise the dark.  We don't find meaning or good in the dark.  We don't say to ourselves "Hey...if it weren't for this darkness, I wouldn't have a reason to light this nice scented candle"  We say, "Hey...I'm going to light this nice scented candle because it's so dark in here."  The difference is subtle, but still there.   Kenley did not die so I could become a greater person or create a different future.  Her death had no purpose or reason, but I'll be damned if I let her death be meaningless.   

Why a blog?

As you know, I use my writing as a way to heal.  I have written as a way of self-healing and preservation for as long as I can remember.  When my life turned upside down a few weeks ago, I knew I needed to write.  The first few days of this storm were so chaotic, I was just holding on for dear life.   Almost the entire first week is a blur of anguish and impossible decisions.  Once the initial whirlwind calmed, I knew I needed to put pen to paper in order to sort some things out.   At first, I thought I'd get myself a really nice journal and a brand new pen.  But then I remembered that when I wrote my goodbye to Kenley in the journal I kept for her, my hand could not keep up with my words.  I have far too much to organize inside this muddled brain to shackle it to a pen.   Typing is faster and easier and I can get more sorted.   At first, I thought starting a blog was based on a need for efficiency.  Then, when I started to analyze my intentions a little more, I realized my blog does not stem entirely from a need to be fast with my thoughts.  After all, I could just type on my computer and save my entries in files.  Why make them public?  Why share my innermost thoughts with the world?   I didn't know then.  I just did it.   I felt a need to do it and so I did.  Now, I know why.

When you become a parent, all the best parts of you are now merged into one beautiful being, and you want nothing more than to share this fantastic creation with the world.  You want to shout it from the rooftops.  "Look!  Look at what I have done!   Look at this wonderful human being I have created!"  Kind of like this internet meme: 

You want everyone to know the wonders of your child.  You do this when you create a Facebook post telling your friends about your 2nd grader's report card.  Or, when you hang your child's fingerpainting on your refrigerator.  Or, when you send out graduation announcements.  You have a lifetime of achievements to celebrate with the world - and you do.

This blog is a chronicle of my journey through this storm.   It is me allowing myself to be vulnerable to you in order for me to not only process what is happening - but to make known how proud of Kenley I am, how much I love her, how wonderful she was.  It is my way of making sure that other people know about her, of making sure that she is remembered by someone other than me.   She may no longer be here, but she is still important.   She will never make me a picture for my refrigerator.  She will never earn honor roll.   I will never be able to post pictures of her when she loses her first tooth.  But I can do this.   I can write about her.   I can remember her.   I can tell the world about her.   That's why it had to be a blog and not just ramblings on my hard drive.   I needed you to know what I know.  I needed you to see me as a mother and Kenley as my daughter.   

I have added a new feature to the blog.  I got this idea from a fellow mother of loss and her amazing blog.  At the top of the page, you'll see a tab for "Kenley Around the World".    Please check it out when you get a chance! 

This is my rooftop.

Act II

Anyone who has experienced tragedy can relate to you the exact moment their life divided into two distinct pieces.   Before and After.  The second they knew their lives would never be the same again.   My moment was looking at that ultrasound machine - and seeing absolute stillness.   All the times before, there was shifting and moving.   There was a pulsating heartbeat.   My moment was at 3:45pm, February 25, 2013, when I realized the life I was nurturing inside me was gone.  That moment is the complete and absolute severing of my life into two very jagged and separate parts.   Everything up to that moment was my Before.   Everything since then is my After.  
It is as if a heavy, black curtain has descended upon the stage between acts. The grieving period is - for lack of a better word - an intermission of sorts.   Act I is over.  While the audience is getting snacks and chatting with each other, the stage hands are feverishly rearranging the set.   Moving this over here - that over there.  It's hard work, and not everything fits together the way it should, but the next act is coming and they need to be ready.   The audience is expecting the show to go on.  And it will.  But, in Act II, everything is different.   The set has been changed.   The actors wear different costumes.  While Act I has the light and airy feel of innocence, optimism, and new beginnings, Act II is darker, harsher, and more reserved.   
I can never return to my Act I.   I am not the same person I was before that moment.  I will never be that person again.  I am forever changed.  Not necessarily for better or worse, but different all the same.   Mike used to tell me I lived in my own bubble, where I knew of the "dangers" of the world, but I didn't pay any attention to them.   He's right.   I knew of horrible things happening to people, but I never thought for an instant they would happen to me.   But something did.  And my bubble burst.   I can never get that bubble back.   
I can never go back to who I was Before - to the life I led Before.   I mourn the loss of that life almost as much as  I mourn the loss of Kenley.
I lost an innocence I can never get back.   There's a certain excitement that accompanies preparing for a new baby, especially a first baby.   Everything is fresh.   You have a sense of tingling anticipation, of butterflies.  You blissfully  imagine the life you will have with your baby - and you find true happiness in preparing for it.  You never imagine anything to go wrong.  You never dream you will be wheeled out of the hospital empty handed and brokenhearted.   That innocence died with Kenley, as did the life I would have led with her.
So, now I scurry behind the black curtain.  Reorganizing, rearranging, reconstructing.   Trying to make some sense of this mess.  I know the curtain will soon rise, and my Act II will begin, whether I am ready or not.   The show will go on, and it will go on without my daughter.   Mike and I will say our lines, sing our songs, and perform our dances with a new perspective.   The perspective that can only be seen through the eyes of loss.
Now, here's the thing about Act II.   Even though Act II is a little sadder, a little wiser, and a little less "pie in the sky", Act II has something Act I doesn't have.  A grand finale.   The show-stopping musical number that encompasses all the elements of the play.   Every emotion, every event, every character comes full circle.  The dancing is frenzied and complicated.  The singing is loud and interwoven with melody.   Loose ends are tied.  Resolution is reached.  When the curtain drops on Act II, the audience leaps to their feet, applauding and whistling.  "What a show!" they say.   "What a show!"
Once my Act II begins, I will be a little more timid with life.   I will not be as wide eyed and unaware.  But, I promise you, once I gain my footing, I will give one heck of a show.   And the grand finale to this part of my life will be nothing like you've ever seen.

Kenley's Krew

Today is my birthday.   I have completed one more year of life - but let's not talk about how many that makes.   A few months ago, I thought this would be the best birthday of my life.   I'd either be immensely pregnant and ready to pop at any minute - or I'd be holding my baby already and we'd be celebrating together.   I never even considered there'd be a third option.  No one does.

It doesn't seem fair that I get another birthday and Kenley didn't really even get one.  On the same day I celebrate my life, I mourn the loss of hers.  But, really, I do that every day.  Every day, I am alive and she is not.

Today, in honor of my baby girl, several friends of mine, along with my amazing mom, are running a 5K in Melbourne.   This 5K benefits the Brianna Marie Foundation, which was founded by a local mother who's daughter died 15 hours after birth due to fetal hydrops.   This 5K was promoted on the Cherishing the Journey Facebook page, which is how I found out about it.   I shared the link with my friends and they all jumped on it.   They had turquoise T-shirts made - an owl in a tree with the phrase "Kenley's Krew:  February 25, 2013"   Mike and I got shirts too, and so now we are heading down there to cheer them on at the finish line.   It really means a great deal to me that I have such a supportive group of friends - and that together we are helping fund research that may one day prevent other mothers from feeling such a devastating loss.   

In her heartbreakingly short life, Kenley has managed to touch so many people.   I am grateful for the time I spent with her.  I am grateful for the joy she gave me and for what I am able to do because of her.  Under the circumstances, I can't think of a better way to celebrate my birthday.

This one's for you, Little Ninja!

A Picture Worth A Million Words

When I first discovered I was pregnant, I knew I wanted a unique way to chronicle my growing belly.   Everyone takes those pictures with signs next to them (13 weeks!  14 weeks!).  While I think those are super cute, I wanted something different than what everyone else did.  (shocker, right?)  One of my friends saw something somewhere that involved tracing your profile on a canvas and then painting it later.   Right away, I knew that was perfect for me.   While I am not Picasso or Rembrandt, I do like to paint and make art when I can.   I also happened to have a three foot by two foot canvas that would be just right for the project.

We started before I really started to show, and then we traced my torso every few weeks - pretty much when we knew there'd be enough growth to show change.  There was absolutely no method to our madness, so each time we pulled out the canvas, we had to remember where I stood, how high we held it, how far back against my arm it was supposed to be.   It drove Mike crazy.  Finally, he just took the eraser of the pencil and drew a line across the canvas where my belly button was.  That way, he knew where to line things up.   Each time we completed a line, it was so exciting to step back and see how big I was getting.  Watching my stomach grow made me look to the future with joyous anticipation.   Each new tracing meant I was just that much closer to meeting my baby.  To being a mother.   The last time we traced my belly was February 22, the Friday before the Monday that marked end of my life untouched by grief.   I knew it would probably be the last time we traced, but I thought it would be because she'd arrive before we had a chance to do it again.   Little did I know that in a matter of days, my bright and sunny world would plummet into the shadows.

When I was in the hospital, my friends took some of the more emotional objects out of my house for when I was more ready to handle them.   My belly canvas was one of them.   The other day, something inside of me needed it.  I needed to paint those layers.   My journey to motherhood was abruptly halted and left unfinished.  Her nursery is empty.  Her clothes are unworn.   I needed to close the aching gap by giving a purpose to something of hers.  I needed to finish my painting.   I asked Mike to get it for me, and within a day it was back in my house.   At first, it was painful to look at.   Haphazard pencil sketches marking my growing joy.  My stolen joy.

I propped it on my easel upright, so it looked just as I would have if I were standing.   It didn't seem right to me that way.   How should I paint it?  What should I do with it?   I had no idea - I just knew I had to do something.  Annoyed with myself, I walked away for a little bit and plopped myself down on the couch.   I don't know how long it was before the idea came to me, but as soon as it did, I was on a mission.   I strode back onto the porch, grabbed the empty canvas, and turned it on its side - so that my traced belly looked like I was laying down, my stomach pointing upward.   I got down to business.   With drying time, it took me about 4 days to finish.  Mostly because I didn't want to smudge one layer by painting another one too soon - and oil paint takes forever to dry.   As I painted, the shadows around my heart lifted.  Each brush stroke was a remembrance of Kenley.   Each piece of the painting symbolized a different part of who she is.  She will not be forgotten.  She will not be pushed aside.   Her place in my heart is permanent.  As I painted, I felt joy again.  I was happy.   I would step back from what I was doing - and I would smile.  I would think about my baby - and I would smile!   Oh, I also cried, make no mistake about that.  My hands were covered in paint, my cheeks covered in tears, and my heart covered in love.  It was a greatly needed release.  Here's the finished product.  

Again, I'm no master artist, but I'm still pretty pleased with how it turned out.   I turned the belly tracings into hills.  On top of those growing hills, is Kenley's tree.   Perched in her tree is a white owl, and above her tree is her pink balloon, floating high and free.    You might not be able to see the words I etched around the hill line.  They are "As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be"

Kenley grew in me.  She lived in me.  I nurtured her and supported her, just like the hills in the painting support and nurture the tree.  She will always be a part of me.  No matter what changes life brings me in the future, Kenley will always be with me.   And that makes me smile. 

Defeating the Darkness

I'm not really sure what I am supposed to do with myself.  For so long, I prepared for this time off, but the plans I made no longer apply.   What once was time set aside to take care of my baby, to bond, to snuggle, to go for walks and outings - now stretches in front of me like a vast and desolate field.   An empty wasteland full of shattered expectations and broken dreams.   How do I spend the countless minutes of my future?   How do I fill the silence that shouldn't be there?
I write.  I clean my house.  I spend time with friends.  I talk to Mike.  I've started a few art projects.  But it is not enough.   It is never enough.   I can't occupy myself completely.   I can't fill all of my moments.  In the end, the emptiness prevails.  There is a hollowness to everything I do - like part of me is just on automatic pilot. It brings back memories of another dark time in my life - a time when my entire self was hollow, when nothing at all seemed to matter, when I was ready to give up on life completely - and it scares me.   It's like looking into an abyss I've already fallen into and narrowly escaped.
In my early teens, a gray cloud developed over me.  In the constant comparison of myself to others, I felt I could never measure up.   I felt worthless, meaningless, and ugly.   I was alive, but I didn't live.   I went through the motions of living, like I am doing now.   There was no joy inside me - and if any from the outside world managed to seep in, it was immediately squashed into oblivion.   Joy had no business inside my darkness.  I didn't deserve it.   What made me fall into this chasm, I still don't really know.   But, I know how I got out.  My writing.
I'd always played around with journals.  Buying one, writing a few pages, getting tired of it, and getting a new one.  I had countless journals that were barely 1/3 of the way filled.   Starting around the time the darkness fell, I began to write more seriously.  And the pages of my journals filled with ink.
At first, I wrote about how horrible I felt about myself, how worthless I was, how I was undeserving of happiness.   I wrote about feeling like I was covered in muck and mud, which weighed me down, pushed me down, kept me from reaching toward the light.  Day after day after day for years, my journals were full of nothing but despair.   It hurts reading them now because I crawled out of that hole, but I remember the feeling of being at the bottom.   Through my writing, I came to understand those feelings for what they were - complete and absolute lies.  Through my writing, the sadness and despair I felt became anger and determination.  I realized I didn't deserve to be at the bottom of this canyon, and I was angry I was down there.   I was steaming mad at myself for what I'd allowed myself to believe for so long.   Through my writing, I discovered who I really was and what I needed to do to pull myself up and out.  My words washed off the muck that covered me.  My words threw down a ladder and extended a helping hand.   I heaved myself out of that hole, and basked in the sunlight of self acceptance.  Finally, I was free.   
This was not an easy task.   It took me a good eight to ten years.   I was well into my twenties before positive thoughts about myself were automatic and not just something I one day hoped to actually believe.  
Why am I telling you this?   Why am I opening this wound when I clearly have another one that needs more immediate attention?   To give you an idea of why I am writing - of what this blog really means for me.  Yes, this is a great outlet to sort my emotions.  Yes, this is a wonderful way to remember my daughter and to share her memory with others.   But the real reason I write - the meat and potatoes of this tragic stew - is to keep myself from falling over the edge again.   I can see into the darkness.  I know what's down there.  And now, my balance is shaken.  I could so easily fall.  But my writing steadies me.  It helps me hold fast.  I write because, if I don't, I will be lost.
Now, you may be thinking, "No...your friends and family won't let you get lost. Everyone is here for you.  Everyone loves you and supports you"  While that is true, anyone who has ever struggled with this type of darkness knows that nothing anyone says to you matters at all if you don't believe it.  I have to keep myself upright.  I have to keep myself sharp.  This is a battle I have to fight on my own.  Don't worry, friends.   I've already clawed my way out of hell - I have no intention of going back.   I will not be beaten.  I will never again let the darkness win.  So, I write.  To sort.  To save.  To never surrender.

Cherishing the Journey

I have been overwhelmed by the huge and sudden following of my blog.   I had no idea that my random thoughts and jagged emotions would speak to so many.  First, I must extend my thanks to everyone for their continued support and kind words.  It means a great deal to me that Mike and I are not traveling this road alone.  Second, I must use this blog's popularity for my shameless promotion of a charity close to my heart.  Cherishing the Journey is an organization based in Melbourne, Florida.  They deal with supporting families who have experienced infant loss.

When I was being prepped for surgery, my nurse asked me a strange question.   She said " Now, you are going to say no, but I am going to do it anyway...do you want us to take any pictures of Kenley?"   The initial shock of that question prompted the answer she expected.  No, of course not!   How strange is that to take pictures of my child under these circumstances.   She smiled at me and said "Ok, but I want you to know I am going to do it anyway."   At that time, I was too distressed to continue to even think about it anymore.   However, later, I was so very grateful to her for those pictures.  They are all I have to remember her beautiful face.

Mothers who lose a baby at the hospitals in our county are given a Memory Box, provided by Cherishing the Journey.   My box has come to mean the world to me because it contains the only mementos I have to remember and honor my daughter.   Some of the items my box included were:  a small photo album with her pictures, the outfit they placed her in for the photos, a teddy bear, a paper of blessing with her footprints, a few locks of her hair, a framed plaster imprint of her hand print and foot print, and a few other miscellaneous items like a candle and a book of inspirational quotes.  There were also a few pamphlets on grief counseling and the book "Empty Cradle, Broken Heart", which helps people deal with the loss of a child.   

The items are purchased with funds raised by Cherishing the Journey and the boxes are assembled and delivered to hospitals by volunteers,  mostly mothers of loss themselves.   I have already contacted this charity to give them my thanks and I plan on helping them assemble boxes this summer.

If you are a giving soul - and I am sure that you are since you are following this blog - please consider giving something to Cherishing the Journey.   You can find their website by clicking here.   It doesn't have to be money.  If you are local, come volunteer with me.   If you are not, just visit their website and share their mission with others, or follow them on Facebook.   In addition to the boxes, they also offer mental and financial support for grieving families.   

This charity is important to me because they gave me what no one else could.  A way to bring my daughter home.

The Domino Effect

Our lives are a series of choices and events that topple into one another like a stream of dominoes.   Each time we are faced with a new choice, we set into motion an entirely different stream that branches of in a thousand different directions.  Each decision comes with its own chain, each chain has infinite possibilities.   Had we chosen differently, we would follow a different path.   All of us can trace where we are today through this chain reaction of our past.   This decision lead to that one, which lead to this one over here, etc.   For instance, let's start with the fact I am married to my husband.   We never would have met if I had not made the decision to to go a birthday party.  I would not have been invited to that birthday party had I never taken a summer job at Kennedy Space Center as a camp counselor.   That job would never had even occurred to me had my friend not mentioned to me that she knew who was in charge of hiring and they needed teachers to work it.   I would not have even known that friend if I had not been working at that particular elementary school in my county.  The decision to move to my county after college was made with a good friend I met my freshman year.  I went to my college because it was small, not too far from home, and had a respectable elementary education program.  I knew I wanted to be a teacher because I had helped my mother so many times in her preschool.  I could keep back tracking, but I think you get my point.   We are where we ARE because of where we WERE.  All of us.  Every moment you are living right now is a direct result of the moments you have already lived - and your future moments are being decided as you read this.  Where will you go today?  Who will you meet?   How will the events of today shape the events of tomorrow?

While this chain reaction of events is not entirely out of our control, there are some things that are.  There are things in our lives that just happen - without reason, without warning.   They stop our row of dominoes in their tracks.   The click, click, click of the falling blocks come to a sudden and silent halt.  We look around, wide eyed and bewildered, and try to figure out where to go from here.  Because now...this is when things get tricky.   Now, we have to make a much more conscious choice.  Now is when life lays out several different tracks of dominoes - and we have to choose which one to topple over.   A crossroad.   Which path do I take?  How will that path change who I am?  How will who I am change this path?

Kenley's death froze my domino chain.  Right now, I sit in the middle of a wide, white room.  Behind me, millions of toppled dominoes from thousands of different decisions lay fallen on the floor.   In front of me, hundreds of new rows stand tall and unbroken.   I have to choose.  Purposefully.  Consciously.  And I am afraid.
I know how I want my life to go.   Her death has not changed my desire to be a mother, to have more children, to move forward in life.  But, here's the thing - because she is gone, the chain of events that would have led to those specific children and that specific life no longer exists, and an entirely new chain is waiting to be started.   Had she lived, we probably would have waited a few years before trying again for a sibling.  Now that she is not here, that effort is being moved up significantly.  Mike and I have discussed trying sooner rather than later.  Whatever child is conceived will be done so because Kenley is not here. (Strictly speaking in terms of timing - not replacement.  That cannot be clarified enough.  She will never be replaced)   How will I celebrate that new life while still respecting the memory of the one I lost?  How can I be entirely happy knowing it is the direct result of a broken chain? Had  that chain never broken, that child would not exist.  Will being happy for that new life also mean I am happy for her death?  It's a terrible paradox.   When I got pregnant so quickly, I knew there was a specific reason and purpose for that child in my belly.  How can I accept that her purpose was to bring me HERE?   

But, here I am.   Waiting to figure out which path I want to take.  Which path will lead me forward to where I am supposed to be?   Which domino do I flick?
Where are your dominoes taking you?