One poem of many about suicide

March 5, 2012 will never be forgotten. I miss you, uncle Peter.

One

One bullet:

A thousand echoes

Phone calls

An obituary

A life in four hundred words.

One bullet:

A thousand pieces

Our shattered world

My broken heart

A family torn apart.

One bullet:

A thousand tears

A hundred handshakes

Mourning and night

Grief never rests.

One bullet:

One less.

Hope 2012 Relay

Hope is elusive, but I saw it once.

The summer after I graduated from college, I lived with my best friend (bestest friends since middle school) for a summer in an eccentric town in the Adirondack mountains. We described it by saying, "where the men are men and the women are men." That kind of town.

I am an idealist, so I always thought Hope was a positive trait. Helpful. Inspiring. Motivating.

In college, I had been shocked to learn that according to the Greek myth, Hope was in Pandora's box. I audibly gasped at the thought. How could hope be a bad thing? Since then, I think Hope becomes toxic when the desired outcome is simply not going to happen. Unfortunately, Hope does not have a sell-by date nor does it stink when it morphs into resignation.

Thank you, Google maps.

Meanwhile, back in the charming Adirondack town, I saw Hope.

It was the summer of 2005. I was walking on Ampersand Avenue. I glanced at a street sign and immediately stopped walking. In brown and gold, I saw "Hope St." The road began to climb upward with one side street and then a stone wall at the peak.

Who would name a dead end street Hope?

I immediately began to walk upward. This time, simply gasping to breathe.

As I approached the top, I saw the road curve to the left, continuing;  I laughed.

Hope often feels like a dead end path, but we will not know what is waiting for us at the top unless we start walking. Call me if you need a walking buddy.

Hope 2012 relay credit to Melanie Crutchfield: http://melaniecrutchfield.com/2012/07/27/hope-2012-a-blog-relay/

Introducing my poetry

I remember visiting my grandmother's house as a child. She always had a pile of scrap paper and a coffee mug full of pens. I used to draw until I learned how to write. I never advanced from my standard sunset, squiggly ocean waves, and a sailboat sketch. Words are my palette of colors.

Recently, I shared a poem with a dear friend. She, in turn, shared that poem with other people whom she knew. The feedback my friend reported was perspective-shifting. I was described as intelligent and brilliant based on my poetry. I've been called smart before but not for my poetry. My writing has always been therapeutic for me. A place where I can release the emotions built up within me.

So, I think I'm going to start sharing more of my poetry on my blog. I've withheld mostly because I want to be published. I have had this dream since I was young. Well, younger as I'm still young. It just seems silly to have my poetry sitting in a binder, unread. Perhaps, it will stir up some words for your feelings. Perhaps, you will say, "Yes! That's how I've felt!" Perhaps, you will even say what I've written is hogwash. That's fine, too. I write for me. Besides, most of my poetry I don't like. I write a variety of poems. Some I actually have an idea and a plan for, others are therapeutic, and others still are a gift from God. He often reminds me of the gospel and of His love for me.

I'm going to begin this new phase by sharing two poems. You see, I'm on a journey with God. He's stretching me thin and reshaping me. He's retaining my essence but making me stronger. There are days when I feel like I've made no progress. Then, there are days when I reread an old poem...

Originally written April 27, 2011 (it has been edited twice since then)

I silence the voice within me:
It is choked, suffocated, buried alive.
The painful pleasure at play in my mind
A swingset of needles,
Daggered monkeybars
I merrily go around and around.
A voice desperate to speak

...and compare it to one I've recently written.

Originally written April 12, 2012, entitled

Alternative Communication:

My soul has a voice.

Sometimes it is silent,

A single tear sliding down my cheek.

My soul has a voice.

At times, it is demanding,

A wailing torrent of tears.

Even still, it is joyful,

Tears responding to Love and beauty.

Other times, it is angry,

Frustrated sobs for injustice.

My soul has a voice.

When needed, it cries out in exhaustion,

The final tear yields rest.

When moved, it expresses sorrow,

My pain and that of others.

My soul has a voice,

Sometimes, in my shame, I silence it.

My soul has a voice,

At times, when feeling safe, it speaks freely.

My soul has a voice,

Praying with or without words.

My soul has a voice,

Even now.

Eyes glistening.

Suck it up

I decided to run the La Jolla half marathon earlier this year. I have been looking forward to it. I never thought I'd run this race as the course goes up Torrey Pines. Twice a month, I have run (or walked) up that hill.

Thursday at work my throat felt scratchy. An hour later, I had sore throat. Friday I stayed home from work and nestled in my bed. Today I am feeling better. My sore throat is gone, but I am congested and lacking energy.

I had to make the difficult decision to NOT run.

Perhaps you're wondering why it's a difficult decision. Perhaps it seems like a no-brainer: If you're sick, don't run.

For me, however, my gut reaction is to suck it up. Do it anyway. Adapt. Find a way to make it happen. I don't shy away from things that seem impossible or improbable. I believe one day I will set fire to the rain (or more likely, God will let me witness rain setting on fire). I don't like to give up. I don't like to admit I cannot do what I planned to do. I am human, and there are times when I hate it.

So, I am learning to receive grace. I can be human and still be forgiven. Good news, indeed!

Tomorrow morning I will sleep in. I will go to church. I am thankful that God provides for me, even if the race fee seems like a waste (or just a really expensive t-shirt). I will remind myself that it's ok to be limited in what I can do. That's it's better to take care of myself than to chase after idealistic expectations.

I'm human, and that's ok.

Poem for April 9, 2012

(title) A void

I ache for something more than what I find in a store.
I ache for something less than the pain in my chest.

I yearn to burn the fears expressed as tears as they sear my heart:
Tattooed-black and blue.

My beating heart wants a meeting with God.
Impatient, I let idols win,
Capturing my attention
The rupture of innocence
Lost in the crowd
Seen by the Son of God
My Savior--a brave warrior
Nailed to a cross
Bail for my sins
Mercy for my heresy
Grace for when I want to hide my face.

Yes, I ache for something more and God won't give me anything less than Himself.

Hidden Gems

Every day is a new adventure. Every day typically has it's ups and downs, highs and lows, smiles and frowns. Today was no exception, but it was certainly a very sweet day.

Before school starts in the morning, I walk/jog with the students on the lower field. One student is absolutely wonderful. She's the kind of student you want to always have around when you're having a bad day or a sad moment. Every time she sees me, I'm greeted with an enthusiastic "Miss. Desautels!" Quickly followed by a hug. "I'm so happy to see you," she adds; some days, she even says, "You're my favorite speech teacher." I consciously overlook the fact that I'm the only speech teacher she has ever had. I feel I can do this, because sometimes she will say how she wants to be a speech teacher just like me. Anyway, this particular student accidentally called me "mommy" this morning. She was embarrassed, and I giggled. I was reminded of the few occasions I have called a teacher "mom," but also of my friend who in, fourth grade, called her male teacher "dad."

My co-worker brought me leftover pancit and adobo chicken from her daughter's birthday party. Delicious!

In the afternoon, one of my other favorite students had something to tell me. He told me all about how he was going to get a new bed after school. His enthusiasm was absolutely darling. I wish I had recorded him. He then leaned in to inform me that he had a secret to tell me. The other student and I leaned in closer. He'd whisper his sentence and add how it's "so cool" and "awesome." I cannot tell you secret as I promised I would not tell anyone. If the other teacher in the room walked by, he'd stop talking about his secret. My heart melted. The entire speech time was spent talking about the new bed he was going to get. Except for the last few minutes. I gave the other student 3 directions to follow. Turns out, he did not know what a sit-up was. Equally interesting, he could barely do one. Neither of them could without someone holding their feet down. It tickled one of the students. It was a highly amusing session and not at all what I planned, yet I heard a fantastic language sample.

There was a low or two during the day, but I'll just sweep them under the rug.

I serve on the youth ministry team at my church. Tonight, all 3 of my small group members were present. It was great to see them all and catch up with what's been going on in their lives. Our discussion was honest and our prayer earnest.

I was asked to give a 2-3 testimony about my time serving the youth ministry at our Easter service. I'm excited to share (or at least try to put into words) my experience serving the teenagers.

To top it all off, I had the opportunity to love my neighbors tonight. One of my neighbors was performing with a friend at a nearby bar. I went to see some of the show. Sometimes being a Christian is tough. :) No, really, sometimes it is, but God's grace is enough, even when it feels like it isn't.

If only the highs of today would motivate me to get out of bed tomorrow morning. What new adventures will there be tomorrow? And will I ever feel motivated to jog after work? I am, after all, running a half marathon April 29. And why is it that I feel awake right now yet I was exhausted after work? America needs to add a siesta to our schedule. Perhaps if we were all rested, we'd be healthier. Perhaps.

Good grief

Oh Charlie Brown, is grief really good? It's a serious question. Nothing about it seems "good," but it seems to be healthy.

Before my uncle died, I had such a different view of death. It was very naive. Despite the sadness of death, I thought it should be a happy occasion. Going to heaven is a good thing. It is. Yet, what is there to comfort those on earth? Yes, that is what I learned. Death is sad no matter what. It sucks. It's this awful reminder that we live in a sinful world where death is the penalty. Yes, Jesus conquered death, so death is not the end, yet it is to those who are still living and missing whoever died.

I still want a dance party after my funeral. Yet, that cloud of sadness just doesn't dissipate. It lingers. It hovers. So, if the dance party doesn't work out, then it's still required that "Baby got back" by Sir-Mix-A-Lot is played at least once. And that's another thing, death brings about morbid, yet factual thoughts of what is yet to come.

I mean I'm used to feeling sad. I'm an emotional roller coaster. I've gotten better at being steady, but this sadness, this grief, hurts. It's physical and emotional. It's this constant ache, sometimes dull and sometimes pounding. I have moments of relief. I have moments of peace. Then, I have moments of absolute anger and sorrow. I amuse myself by saying "the anger stage of grief really pisses me off."

I don't even know what words to use to describe this AND I'M A WRITER! I'm speechless. I feel lost in a pasture I've never seen before. In faith I wait for my shepherd. I'm so glad He knows where I am, because I don't even feel like I can cry out to Him.

I miss being surrounded by my family. I wish I could just hit pause. How do I reconcile life before my uncle died and life since he has died? I started the month of March thinking it was going to be very stressful because of work. Now, work is the least of my worries. Sure, work is still stressful, but I really don't care. It's a blip on the radar. I'll get the work done. So what if I have 15 kids to test (and that number is hardly an exaggeration).

I appreciate people being supportive, but how do I reach out? Show up teary-eyed on their doorstep? Really?

And you wouldn't believe the conversation I heard yesterday at a coffee shop. This guy is telling his friend how he hasn't done meth since the 23rd--since the day he tried to commit suicide by stabbing himself. A few tears leaked out of my eyes.

I just want to scream. Yet, nothing will bring my uncle back.

Bad grief? Healthy grief? I don't know. I just don't know.