A year of growing.

I've been thinking a lot about this last year. I really enjoy this time of year and...  And I am grateful that it no longer carries any of the perfectionism and comparisons resolutions carried for me in years past. Now, it just feels more like a celebration. "Whoa, look what we survived. Wow, I fixed that one". Or "Well, yeah...I'm still working on that one. Maybe in 2030 I can check that off my list."

2016 started off with a failed IVF.  IVF was hard. And I think it left both Shawn and I a little battle weary and exhausted. In retrospect IVF was like tilling the Earth. Especially in Arizona - that is hard work. Sorting and softening the soil so that seeds can grow there. It tore us up  - in the best way possible - so that we could plant some really important seeds. And I have been watching them grow and bear fruit lately. There is a softness and respect that was worth every hour of tilling and breaking up the "soil" of our relationship.

But seeds don't plant themselves and sometimes we need seeds that only others can give us. I had to learn to let seeds be planted. I'm prideful and independent and have a hard time allowing others to take care of me. On the outside that may sound like self reliance or some other positive thing. But the fruits of that are not always pretty.They are exhaustion and loneliness.  This year gave me a lot of opportunities to humble myself and I was amazed at all the beautiful gardeners in my life who showed up with sacks of seeds. Lynsey flying out in January with her seeds of love and laughter and healing. Sweet friends and a sister who held my hand and planted seeds of loyalty and protection in June as I worked though a tough personal situation. And that surgery in October - whew - it broke the ground up enough that I think I could live of those fruits for a very long time. I felt so so loved and tended to. And found myself once again learning to trust God -The Master Gardener - with my life.

Yesterday my time hop ( Facebook's way of reminding us what was happening in our lives in years past...) showed me the blog post I had written last year at this time when I learned that IVF had not worked. You can read that here. 
I forwarded it to Shawn with the message "Whoa, what a year..."
A part of his response to me was "I don't think I knew how to support you through that experience. I'm sorry. Not that I am hoping for a repeat but I feel so much better prepared to know how to love you through it."

I mean. Who is this man? And how do I raise my sons to be this kind of Father and Husband. I guess I let them have their own gardening experiences. The breaking of the Earth has always been and will always be hard. But that harvest is worth it.

I remember

I love a challenge to write. Its so incredibly therapeutic for me. Can almost feel magical. Like discovering new parts of my brain - my heart...my soul. So in an effort to write more I am joining Ann Dee Ellis in a memoir writing experience. 

From her Day 1 prompt:

Day 1: "I remember when". Set your timer for eight minutes. Go somewhere quiet and get out your writing utensils. Write "I remember when" at the top of your page and start writing. The rules are don't edit/censor yourself. Don't worry whether what you're writing is good or bad. Don't worry who might read it. Just write whatever comes into your head. Try not to think too much. If you get stuck, write "I remember when" again and try something new. Go the full eight minutes without stopping. If you want to keep going, great. If not, great. If you feel like it, comment about how it went. Happy writing!"

I remember. 

I remember my grandpa. His name was Robert. Everyone called him Bob. My grandma called him Robert Leroy on special occasions. Mostly when he tracked mud in the house or when he tickled her. 

I remember him working. He loved work. He would mow our lawn by lamplight after he had worked 18 hours. And then he would mow our neighbors lawn. Always. 

He would plant the most delicious garden and then ask the neighbors if he could plant one in their yards too. He prepped and planted and harvested the gardens for them - leaving them big baskets full of produce - he just wanted to do the work. 

I remember him coming home from a long day at work and sitting on a bench that he had welded, and watching my sister and I put on 'Broadway' performances in the backyard that he had grown, under spotlights that he had carefully hung for us. I can still hear the junebugs, feel the thick sticky air of the midwest and see my grandpa clapping as we pranced in Goodwill ballgowns and sang "Old Blue."

I remember him showing up two times when my heart was newly broken. Once after losing a baby and once after losing a marriage. He drove through the night together with my grandma. He would tinker with my car and change its oil while my body slept off the surgery or while my heart tried to beat again. 

I remember him dying shortly after I met Shawn. He would really love Shawn. 

And then I remember  my grandma crying the day Shawn and I were married - saying Grandpa was there too.