it hurt because it mattered

I do not know if there is anyone left to read my words, but I am filled with an unexplainable need to be heard. Even if my voice is small and my words only have meaning to me.

You have not heard from me at all in a very long time. And that is because I had no words. No things I could say, no insight in a time that for me and many close to me was black as pitch. I did not need to speak then, but to grieve. But now I am tired of tears and silence.
 I cannot give a full report on all that has left me paralyzed -- I still don't have the words and neither is it something to foist upon the ears of passing strangers.
 But I can tell you the last straw in a string of sharp, heartbreaking events that broke this camel's back.
My Charlie is dead.
 Just like that.
Momma's cancer therapy dog, he was. The puppy that brought smiles even to the bleakest of days is somehow gone.
 All because one boarder at my neighbor's barn was late for work and sped on our gravel road.
I still don't get it.

Do you ever feel like Job?

Two months and two-thousand miles removed from all that, I have, for the first time since, picked up my novel and pen. Only to find I am extremely out of practice. Oh, for a magic key that will let me back into what I once believed was my own world! Or better yet a magic pen that will write my story for me. That is every writers' dream, right? My favorite quote on the subject remains, "I don't like to write, I like to have written." I know there are those who enjoy the actual process, hacking out the details and so on, but I confess I am not one of them.
 I quit writing, drawing, music, and even taking pictures for the month of September. I had no desire for any of it. But now that Black September is over, I want to come back to my art-loves only to find one of them — my favorite, writing — a stranger.
 I need a new start so I was sent to visit my sister, where I am currently writing from. But even here, in perhaps the most inspiring city in the States, there is no magic cure.

 'It's hard to wait around for something you know might never happen;

 but it's even harder to give up when you know it's everything you want.'

 So I'm going to roll up my sleeves and try again. Because that's all I can do.

A chill winter mourning

Hullo to one and all!
 That looked incredibly peppy and enthusiastic, didn't it? But I'm afraid I'm not. As you may or perhaps may not know, this week has been my Grandpa's funeral as well as a memorial for my Grandmum who passed this spring. Three days of prayer, tears, laughing with family, and moments of lonely silence. Longing for some normalcy,  a sense of stability, amounts to nothing more than a heavier blanket of grief.
 Grief cripples me.

 I cannot function under it. It's like I need to be perpetually happy and light hearted. Or at least have control over what I call excess emotion; anytime I feel overly - perhaps even vulnerably - angry or upset or excited, I can take a walk or a ride, or even just write in order to get a grip and stabilize my feelings. Maybe that's why I'm writing now.
 But I just cannot fix grief. And it frustrates me. {I suppose its my German engineer side coming out.} Yet it fascinates me and compels me like no other emotion. {If that confused you just now, don't worry, I'm a bit lost my self.} Of all the blithe jigs and reels in the history of Celtic music, it's the heartbroken songs of mourning and loss that I love the most. All the tales of adventure and bravery are lost on me unless there is a great and beautiful loss in it. Something that makes the characters vulnerable; their world fragile. Yet I hate being there myself.
 The majority of my own characters have incredibly sad or at least stirring backgrounds. And if they don't, they soon will. *insert evil laugh here*
 I'm strange, I admit it.

 Right now I'm mediocre. Neither glad nor sad, stuck instead in a sort of limbo between them.
 I am glad my grandparents are together again, as they always were, and now it's even better with no pain and with Jesus. Can you even imagine what that must be like? Right now, the same Grandmum and Grandpa that watched my soccer games are now viewing the heavenly throne!
 At the same time I am acutely aware of the fact that they are no longer here, no longer touchable. It takes time to heal wounds, and prayer and petition to heal the heart.
 Mum says times like these, when grief is near and the stress of musical performances is hovering with certain doom, build character - and they do. But to me they are more faith-builders. Without them I would still be the same stubborn daughter of Eve trying to piece and patch together everything herself. I am in no way saying that I'm no longer stubborn - heaven knows far better than that! - but I am growing. And learning.
 It will take more than a lifetime to learn, I'm sure. But you must start sooner than later, right?
Hmmm. I feel infinitely better, now that I've wrote this. Even if nobody reads it all the way through :)

The pictures are from our Christmas tree hunt.

Until next time {hopefully then we can begin the giveaway!},

-Gwyn

Sooo much better

Thank you all once again for supporting me and my family with your thoughts and prayers! It's a wonderful feeling to know some one{even if you don't know them by their real name} is out there praying for your comfort. And believe me, I felt your prayers. After the funeral this incredible sense of peace came over me, and now, I'm not sad anymore. I mean, yeah, I still get a twinge when I realize I'll never talk to my grandma again in this life. Or hear her laugh or paint with her again; but it's much easier to bear now. So thank you all.


It's raining torrents here. The pond is flooded and the normally dry creek after which my road is named after is running quite fast. I'll have to take my little brother out when it stops pouring to sail a few bark boats. And of course the dogs will love a good swim. It's a pity none of our horses like water. Besides Corona who I can't ride anyway. I love riding through streams and ponds, and someday I want to ride in the ocean :) That would be awesome.
Since we are taking a sort of break after the emotional and hectic past week{the funeral, my elder brother's graduation, music performances, homeschool group activities, and extended family visits} and because no one{I know} wants to work out in the rain all day, I'm doing my Spring Cleaning today. I've finally finished my walk-in closet and most of my room. And land sakes! I've got a bunch of junk! I also organized all my story notes, pictures, information, maps, drawings, ideas, and references into one huge binder that's zipper hardly, well, zips. :P Going through all that really got me excited to start writing again. Yay! At last I'm feeling happy and creative again.

~Gwyn

Tears

Yesterday -- Was it only yesterday? -- my dear, dear Grandmother passed away. I was not surprised; she had took a turn for the worse. And since I had an idea it was coming I guess it wasn't so bad for me. After all, I know she's in Heaven for she was always a devout believer in our Savior.
  Yesterday was also a big music day for us and since we couldn't cancel, we went ahead and did the performances{two in all}. It wasn't until after my brother and I played our Calliope House/Cowboy Jig duet and the MC of the Fine Arts Fair stood and said that our Grandma would be proud, that her absence really hit home for me. And the MC telling us that... I couldn't stay in the building anymore. By the time I got out to the truck I was flat out sobbing. I know I have that song on my playlist "Cowgirls Don't Cry", but I guess if that's true, I'm not a cowgirl because I cried like I never had before. This is the first time that someone really close to me has passed away. And I miss her, I miss her so badly! The rush of memories was indescribable as I cried in the truck, at times for lack of a better outlet for my emotions, punching and kicking the seat. Not out of anger, but out of raw grief. I repeated the memories out loud as they came to me. No one was around, and even if they were, what did I care if they heard me?
  The ones that stood out most were the time my brothers and I painted her deck just last summer in the hot sun while she sat in a chair and told us funny stories of when my Dad was a teenager, or when she was teaching me to paint; when I was little and we went to the park and played games and then stopped by the movie store to rent a "horse movie!". She and Grampa came to all my soccer games and we always went to the Purple House {a purple snack shed on the fields} to buy a candy. And Sundays, every Sunday, up till January, we would have a special Sunday dinner.
  There are so many more memories that I hold dear. But... I really wish I had asked her about her life growing up on a farm during WWII. And her Dad: he was a story just waiting to be written, being a stowaway from Ireland on a ship bound for freedom in the United States. And of course her mother who died when she was only three. There's so much I wish I'd asked her, but I wrongly assumed that the chance to learn about her past would come of its own accord. I cannot stress enough how important it is to ask your grandparents about their lives before you no longer have the option. Likely enough, they'll be willing to tell you everything.

My cousins are all flying up tonight for the funeral and vigil tomorrow and Friday. I'm to play Oh, Danny Boy, a song my great-grandpa used to sing to Grandma when she was a child and one she loved dearly. I wonder if I can play it at all.

I am already tired of being on the verge of tears, I want to be happy again. I want everything to go back to normal. I want my Grandma back.
 I told God last night, God, I know your time is perfect, and that Grandma is much better and happier where she is now, but Lord, I already miss her so....
 I really don't know how I'm going to get through both services. I wish there was only one.

 I beg that you pray for my entire family. Especially for my Grandpa. He has not been without Grandma for any long period of time in sixty-five years. I am comforted by my Lord and his wonderful creations, horses. Whom I am sure he granted special, you could say, "powers".

In memory of my dear Grandma 

July 1925 ~ May 4th, 2010

 {these tulips were her favorite}

::Hospital Visit:: please pray

The nurse behind the desk pointed out my grandmum's room. "737, bed two."
  My Mom, brothers, and I shuffled past the first bed occupied by a sleeping elder woman. Her husband sat close by reading a book. He wore a mask and when he looked up at us... I've never seen such raw hopelessness.
 At the dividing curtain, I heisitated. Mom had told us before we entered the hospital that Grandma would look different; that her illness had taken a toll. I was afraid. I was afraid to see what was behind the curtain. I can't remember if I whispered a prayer or asked for strength from the Lord without thinking, but I followed my family past the the cloth divider. I promised I wouldn't cry.
  My aunt sat next to the bed holding Grandma's hand.
  Grandma was always a little woman, "five foot two with eyes of blue" as the saying went. But what she lacked in stature, she more than made up for in iron will and selflessness. Now laying in the hospital bed, her form was frail, all but swallowed up by the stark white sheets. Her eyes were closed from weariness. The doctors had given her some sort of breathing mask to help her lungs rid themselves of carbon dioxide.
 My aunt gave my elder brother her chair that he might hold Grandma's hand.
 "It's August," she whispered.
 Grandmum's eye flickered open for a moment and she smiled briefly. "Hi, August," she breathed, it was a great effort to speak at all. But what I noticed at once was her eyes: they no longer had the Irish smile, or sparkle. I had never known that spark to go out. Not in Grandma's eyes.
  I promised I wouldn't cry, I reminded myself, turning quickly to the window. Below I could see the parking lot. Pigeons flew all over. Should have brought a slingshot, I thought, trying not to listen to "You Raise Me Up" now playing softly on the small stereo next to the bed. My aunt was talking to Mom about the doctor's last orders.
A nurse came in and checked Grandma's vital signs.
 I took August's place and held her hand. It was small and frail, but it was the same hands that had taught me to paint, that had placed band-aids on my scuffed knees, held my own when I was small. And now here she was, hardly able to speak, slowly wasting away before my own eyes.
  I never knew heartbreak was so literal.

I feel as if I'm standing on the edge of a cliff; below me is the sea of grief, behind me, the valley of joy - the way things used to be. I stand looking at the Father wondering what He will say. Will He allow my grandma to get well and let me go back to the valley? Or will He call her Home, sending me below to the sea until time dulls the pain of loss and I may go into new fields of life.
  I wait for what seems eternity. I know that whatever He may choose, it is and can only be, the best for my grandma.
  But the waiting...

His will be done.
Please pray for my whole family. ~Gwyn