I've been doing some remodeling here.
Sorry for the cheesy analogy, but that's truly what it feels like. Trying to give my space a new look, working the elements around a redefined purpose. You are supposed to tackle space planning projects (or anything, really), with a purpose--and as you know, I have been wrestling with what that is for my blog.
Much like Dylan's room in our home (sorry, more analogy), it has been painful and tough to redefine this space. With his room, it took months of brief visits, along with some crying, and eventually we started to make little, incremental changes. Removing medical equipment was the first change--and we were eager to do that, even in our grief. Then giving away medical supplies. Then baby furniture. Then some packing away of his most cherished things. It was hard work. Have you ever felt deep fatigue in your entire body and soul after something?
It turns out that the room has multiple purposes now, and one of them is still to house some of Dylan's memories. We have his Winnie the Pooh doll, his doggy, and a couple of angel figurines on the dresser. Other memories are in a box in the closet. The walls have been painted, and my sewing machine now lives there on a sewing table--the promise of a pleasant hobby awaiting me when I have some time to reacquaint myself with threading a bobbin correctly. With our futon, a dresser and nightstand in place, it also serves as a guestroom--primarily for our mothers so far, which seems fitting. The window provides welcome light into our hallway, so we keep the blinds open.
From that experience, I am slowly learning that I don't want to, or intend to, completely move Dylan's presence out of this blog, just as he will never leave my mind or my heart. But I am starting to feel content with multi-purpose blogging. I want to share how Dylan informed my life to be different, to be better, albeit sadder oftentimes, even after the grasp of grief has loosened. I want to explore ideas that used to stay in my head because I was too busy, or too afraid that they wouldn't mean enough, or be expressed in a way that is eloquent enough. But I have made a place for these thoughts. Dylan taught me to make a place for them, and that they had value, even if it was just to me and a few others who love my family. I think there's still more to say.
I wrote my last post about the butterflies that swarmed San Antonio during October 2013, the one-year anniversary of his passing. Those sweet creatures have crept into this space to lift me up once again, to help me face, head-on, such topics as my fear, my beliefs, longing, love, and whatever else I feel passionate about in this "part two" of my life. You're welcome to join me whenever you desire.
Sorry for the cheesy analogy, but that's truly what it feels like. Trying to give my space a new look, working the elements around a redefined purpose. You are supposed to tackle space planning projects (or anything, really), with a purpose--and as you know, I have been wrestling with what that is for my blog.
Much like Dylan's room in our home (sorry, more analogy), it has been painful and tough to redefine this space. With his room, it took months of brief visits, along with some crying, and eventually we started to make little, incremental changes. Removing medical equipment was the first change--and we were eager to do that, even in our grief. Then giving away medical supplies. Then baby furniture. Then some packing away of his most cherished things. It was hard work. Have you ever felt deep fatigue in your entire body and soul after something?
It turns out that the room has multiple purposes now, and one of them is still to house some of Dylan's memories. We have his Winnie the Pooh doll, his doggy, and a couple of angel figurines on the dresser. Other memories are in a box in the closet. The walls have been painted, and my sewing machine now lives there on a sewing table--the promise of a pleasant hobby awaiting me when I have some time to reacquaint myself with threading a bobbin correctly. With our futon, a dresser and nightstand in place, it also serves as a guestroom--primarily for our mothers so far, which seems fitting. The window provides welcome light into our hallway, so we keep the blinds open.
From that experience, I am slowly learning that I don't want to, or intend to, completely move Dylan's presence out of this blog, just as he will never leave my mind or my heart. But I am starting to feel content with multi-purpose blogging. I want to share how Dylan informed my life to be different, to be better, albeit sadder oftentimes, even after the grasp of grief has loosened. I want to explore ideas that used to stay in my head because I was too busy, or too afraid that they wouldn't mean enough, or be expressed in a way that is eloquent enough. But I have made a place for these thoughts. Dylan taught me to make a place for them, and that they had value, even if it was just to me and a few others who love my family. I think there's still more to say.
I wrote my last post about the butterflies that swarmed San Antonio during October 2013, the one-year anniversary of his passing. Those sweet creatures have crept into this space to lift me up once again, to help me face, head-on, such topics as my fear, my beliefs, longing, love, and whatever else I feel passionate about in this "part two" of my life. You're welcome to join me whenever you desire.
Thank you for your sharing of your thoughts. I find such peace in what you post. 40 years ago in March, my first baby girl was stillborn and even though I never got to hold her, I totally understand what you are talking about the presence never being extinguished. God blessed me with 2 other wonderful daughters. Again thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteLinda, thank you for your comment! I'm glad to hear my words can mean something to a fellow angel-mother.
DeleteTeri, I look forward to the Part Two as it has been a privilege to know you in Part One!
ReplyDelete