Archive | February, 2013

Interior Design

23 Feb

Today is the 3rd morning after I wrote my previous post .  In that particular writing I had avowed to start my day off with prayer, before even getting out of bed.  Well I am here to tell you that today is the third day I have awoke, jumped out of bed, flew to the kitchen for a drink of water, mozied over to the coffee pot to start my brew, only to remember:  I FORGOT TO START MY DAY WITH PRAYER!  Back to my bed I run…  Run, written in the present tense because it is a present condition until a new habit is formed.

(I am tempted to interject the song, Three Days, by K.D. Lang, but I will spare you the musical interlude–just know that I am a walking jukebox and pretty much have a tune for every word, thought, and occasion)

How quickly I have adjusted to my habit of self focus, how difficult to redirect the interior of my design.  I am thankful for this blog.  It has, even in the slightest, kept me on a track I wish to follow.  By simply being a reminder to my soul of the desire of my heart.  Apparently, I need the help.  I can tell you that going back to bed and forcing myself to converse with The Almighty G-d has truly been an effective method in strengthening, me.  Now if you have been reading my musings for a bit of time, you will know that I tend to not divulge the intimate details of what transpires here at home.  Those details belong to not just myself, but my husband, son, and daughter.  Only after I feel the circumstance is “safe” will I allow myself the freedom to share beyond the ambiguous notion of the end result.  But to help illuminate, for you the reader, the ‘why and how’ of the impact of starting the day off with prayer, I must let you have a closer look into how thin my psyche has been worn.

Example: If one prays for a miracle, and then receives a yes answer to said prayer, one would think that the requester of the miracle would recognize its presence.  At least I would consider that to be true.  Except just the opposite has happened to me.

My birthday came and went like the breeze, this past January.  And on that particular day we received a call (actually my son did), from his doctor telling him that there was an area of abnormality which showed up on the routine MRI’s he had, had the previous day.  I quickly accessed the report myself and sent it off, via email, to his neurosurgeon.  Unfortunately after having spent the last two years inundated in this new world of brain tumors and 4th ventricular ependymoma, I am now educated enough in MRI reports to understand the circumstance of the abnormal reading…but only enough to be slightly dangerous to myself.  At any rate, all fingers (so to speak) pointed to disease recurrence.  And his next set of xrays, which were going to take a closer look at the area in question, were not for another week.  So we Bents, along with the neurosurgeon at the VA, our private neurosurgeon who performed the original surgery, and Cole’s many other doctors were 99% positive the cancer had returned.  Yet for some crazy reason (actually not crazy at all, but indicative of lives living by faith), we were holding onto the 1% chance…hoping for a miracle.

I am happy to report that the follow up tests showed there was no cancer, only an “artifact left over from the original surgery.”  AN ARTIFACT!!!  I can’t tell you how relieved we all are.  The neurosurgeon’s email response to me was priceless, “Whew. OMG!”  But you know what?  I had been so exhausted from the accumulation of stress upon my soul that I didn’t even consider the miracle of the news.  It was actually my brother, who was finally able to get a hold of me a few days later, who said, “well I think we’ve witnessed a miracle.”  My response? …oh yeah, wow, I guess we have.

Now that, my friend’s, is sad.  A girl living by faith, yet so bogged down that she can’t even see her Father in action!  That was my wake-up call.  My trumpet sound, my slap in the face.  A change needed to come, and I am the only person who could(can) enact it.  And that is why, three days ago I wrote the post, “Better Homes and Garbage” about beginning anew.  Redecorating my inner walls.  And why, for three mornings I have run back to my bed to honor the recognition of the doomed state from which I desire to leave.

Now can I get a witness?? 🙂

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Better Homes and Garbage

20 Feb

I am clawing my way out of a hole.  A hole I cannot see, touch, nor feel.  I’m merely encircled in it.  Ever find yourself encircled by a circle?  Entwined in a vine?  Entranced in expanse?  Oy Vey, I shall stop there!  Enough with the quasi rhyme-y, alliteration wanna be(s).

My hole is easily defined, for it is wallpapered with ingratitude.  I shall therefore attempt to remember (this phrase is key, for when one is under a great deal of stress, remembering things–the right things–is a challenge) to set my thoughts upon the Heavenly before touching my feet to the ground.  I shall attempt to remember to greet my Almighty Father first thing in the morning, before I lift my head from my pillow.  And by doing so, the redecorating process begins.

 

Another song to help lift the spirit…

LOST; and in search of my inner Lesley Gore

12 Feb

Have you ever been lost?  Truly in a spot of unrecognized territory?  I have.  Once, while vacationing on the island of Oahu, Hawaii.  I took my husband and two children on an adventure we will never forget.  I am an avid hiker, at least the Rivka I am most familiar with, I can say, is an avid hiker.  So to an unfamiliar trail I took my family, the call of true adventure my thrill.  We began our trek to the hidden waterfall with somewhat of a visible trail to guide our way.  And though at many times we were unsure if our chosen steps were leading us in the direction we hoped to go, we were offered a smidgen of hope from a random passerby to assure us our desired destination did, in fact, exist.  So while we had a successful venture to the pool of water I had longed to see, our hike back to safety took a wrong turn.  The rain began to fall…and fall, and fall.  And with it, the trails were completely washed away.  Banana palm trees lay fallen in the mud.   Our once familiar markers were sailing down the, now flowing, creek leaving us truly lost and in a place of unrecognizable territory.  Gone were the one or two previous people who kept us on course.  Gone was solid ground, only slippery mud and a husband/father with a guitar (because every hiker totes a musical instrument, right?), a wife/mother with a bit of fear lurking inside her, an optimistic boy, and a little girl who promptly spilled the rationed trail mix as if paying homage to the ritualistic offerings from the island’s past.  In that moment, flip-flop bedecked, we the Bent family were considering how it might feel to sleep in jungle-like surroundings with no food or water left for sustenance.  Yet plenty of rain and who knows what else!  We obviously made it out, thanks to the guitar and the little boy.  No questions please.

Well, here I am again.  Lost.

Where is Rivka?  An honest to goodness question circling within my soul.  Hello…anybody home?

Oh the logistics of my whereabouts are accounted for, but the “me” I am so familiar with seems to be missing.  I am not depressed.  I know what that looks and feels like.  I am not oppressed, I have been there too.  I am simply too pooped to come out to play.  Every day for the past three weeks I have awoke in the morning and begun my search.  Or I lie awake through the night unable to properly sleep, thus getting a jump start on my quest.  I am looking for my Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows.  I am hoping for the feelings of “everything that’s wonderful is how I feel when we’re together” to return into my view again.  You know, my Lesley Gore!

Yes I have been lost before.  However, I have never before been in a predicament of unfamiliarity as result of too much pressure.  I have been blue, I have been burdened, I have been overwhelmed, and I have been tired.  But being in a place of enduring the weight of too many difficult circumstances culminating simultaneously equating to a pressurized intensity unbearable to my body, mind, and soul, is new terrain.

Unable to speak.  Unable to write.  Unable to muster up the energy for thought.  Pressurized, and thus, vaporized.

I began to formulate an ‘SOS’ type text to send out to my girlfriends who I figured could handle a cry for help.  But even that weight felt too heavy to lift; end result, delete.  Prayer.  Ah, the Heavenward thoughts which unite the human spirit with the spirit of One.  Key word in previous sentence being, “thoughts”…mine are bankrupt.  Fill in the blanks.

As I sit here in my living room writing, post a three week hiatus, my husband enters into the room to inform me our plumbing has backed up yet again.  We have a root ball blocking our sewage flow.  Tomorrow the dig will begin, at least I will know where to find me…on another path leading toward shit.  I think I’ve written about that in the past.  Sorry, the color brown seems to suit me.  And a statement like that does echo the voice of depression, I apologize.  I am merely utilizing my literary license to invoke the melodramatic.  Truly, sewage problems I can handle…I know how to squat over a bag covered bucket!

Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows…the search continues.  “Lesley, are you out there?!”

P.s. It is a good sign that I was able to formulate a post.  Cheers to that!  Now may you please enjoy the song, and remember it’s that time of year again when the baby king hides out in a cake.  😉

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