where do we go from here?

My heart is breaking because Tara and Brad's lovely black dog, Luke, just died -- he accidentally ate some rat poison and Tara found him, and she and Brad buried him, and have been crying for two days. And it's been a while since I've just let my heart pour out on the page unguarded; the last four months have been an effort to keep some barbwire around my heart; but I just walked up the steps after work -- after already having a not-so-great day -- and Mom just popped out onto the porch, and I started crying about Luke, and Mom started crying, and I just headed inside and sat and petted Ollie and Luna. I'm even starting to cry as I write this. And maybe I'll look back at this freewrite and feel embarrassed that I've put my heart not only on my sleeve but all over your sleeves too!

I've got to be okay with that.

I'm learning not to use qualifiers with myself, like "This is cheesy but...." or "I know I'm a dork because...." I mean, those things are true, but I don't need to keep bookending my comments with those things.

Ever since 2008 started, I've felt this was a year of transformation: and it has been -- but lots of it has been sad. I think about B all the time, and this week he was on my mind because I wasn't sure what to do with my pain. I'd just cupped it in my hands like fragile egg shells, and I feared what would happen if that wind came along and messed with my palms and those fragments. And so I decided I needed a way to set my pain free, and I started thinking about the vast musical compilation I'd made for B, and for others too, and I decided to create a library of songs for the residents of Our House when they're in Active Dying. Many times, staff and volunteers and nurses will take shifts and sit with our residents, and it came up that a particular resident would be leaving us fairly soon, and she was aching for music, and she had some great people to sit with her.....Then everything clicked. And I made "The Our House Diaries" and wrote the residents a letter, and this is my gift. I mention this not for kudos or a need for praise, but as an example of how I took my pain and transformed it and made it beautiful and filled it with grace. It's currently a razor blade grace filled with sharp edges and disappointments and sadness, but bursting out is all the growing hope and love and nurturing mother....

I'm sitting here listening to a new compilation I made -- I decided to start my library over, to kickstart a new era.

My mind and body and heart are tired, but I look in the mirror and I like who I see -- I'm not talking physically (though I have few problems or hang-ups with my looks), but I like the Nathan who is willing to dive into the underbelly of experience, even if that underbelly often involves sad parts and scary parts and transformation through loss. I told Mom, as we both sat here crying about Luke, that I think I've had enough Mac Truck experiences for now. I need to find a new highway or a scenic route or something! And what I've realized most of all is that no one can show me the way except myself -- a part of me, maybe a secret part, has expected someone to say, "The answer is here and here and here." But no.

Thank you all for listening. I'm sure you can relate to some of my words, and I wish you all the best on your own journey. Rosie Thomas' "Farewell" is playing, and I'm thinking about Margot's beautiful email she just wrote me in response to my own. Margot, the CD I'm listening to is for you, and it's on its way soon. It's tailor-suited to your spirit!