When God is (not) silent

Do you ever feel like God isn't listening?  

Lately I've been taking notice more than ever when people share how God has spoken to them through prayer- to give assurance of a path, to guide them in a new direction, to give hope or solace.  I wonder, "How do they know God's voice?" I have prayed, prayed so often, so long, so sincerely and have felt that on so many of my deepest questions and laments God is silent.  I long to hear a word of assurance, to feel led in a direction- (really I'd like God to send an angel down here to tell me His plan in person...)  Yet, despite my most earnest pleas, God has remained silent...  Or... has He?  If I reflect honestly enough, I realize (or am shown) that while God may not give me clear signs when I pray, "Show me the path and I will follow," He does reveal Himself to me in quiet ways- not in thunder (as I wish!) but in a whisper.  

Over the past few weeks I've been laboring over decisions concerning whether we should continue the same treatment, whether we should change treatment plans, whether we should discontinue treatment and focus on adoption, or whether we should give up on our hopes to be parents, sell all of our belongings and live as vagabond world explorers.  If only I knew what God intends for us, I could feel comforted in knowing we are doing the right thing.  If only money for adoption would magically appear.  If only someone would approach us to adopt a child.  If only I knew whether I could even actually get pregnant.  If only a clear direction would manifest.  Instead, I am left wondering if every step we take is leading us closer to or further from what God's will for our lives is.     

My most faithful friends always say, "Take your prayers to God," knowing this is our only recourse on some matters.  And I've rebelled thinking, "But!  Why does God make me pray 1,000 more than other people!?" ...And suddenly the question repeats itself back to me only not of my thought...  "Why does God make me pray 1,000 more than other people?"  And suddenly I realize God is asking me to contemplate this question, to reflect on my prayer- to recognize that He is calling me to pray more for a reason, and to seek what He is trying to reveal through it all.  

And you know what else God reminded me of?  He is never silent because He left us Scripture!  I've come to desire it more now than ever.  I've come to realize this week that in His silence, He has been leading me to seek Him in new ways- to read Scripture with a different mindset, to practice patience, to learn to listen, to prepare myself for letting go.  It is possible that if God seems silent for you, too, He wants you to ask, "Why does God make me pray more than others for the desires of my heart?" and to seek the answer.  In His silence, He has been teaching me to look for Him everywhere, not just in praying the same prayer for the 1,000th time- to the point that even at its most genuine it has lost a part of its authenticity.  So for now, I will not ask, nor will I despair.  I will open the Bible, receive the words within, and I'll continue waiting.

Has God spoken to you in clear ways?  How have you been confident in knowing His will for your life?  

"Ignorance of Scripture is ignorance of Christ."  -St. Jerome

When God is (not) silent

Do you ever feel like God isn't listening?  

Lately I've been taking notice more than ever when people share how God has spoken to them through prayer- to give assurance of a path, to guide them in a new direction, to give hope or solace.  I wonder, "How do they know God's voice?" I have prayed, prayed so often, so long, so sincerely and have felt that on so many of my deepest questions and laments God is silent.  I long to hear a word of assurance, to feel led in a direction- (really I'd like God to send an angel down here to tell me His plan in person...)  Yet, despite my most earnest pleas, God has remained silent...  Or... has He?  If I reflect honestly enough, I realize (or am shown) that while God may not give me clear signs when I pray, "Show me the path and I will follow," He does reveal Himself to me in quiet ways- not in thunder (as I wish!) but in a whisper.  

Over the past few weeks I've been laboring over decisions concerning whether we should continue the same treatment, whether we should change treatment plans, whether we should discontinue treatment and focus on adoption, or whether we should give up on our hopes to be parents, sell all of our belongings and live as vagabond world explorers.  If only I knew what God intends for us, I could feel comforted in knowing we are doing the right thing.  If only money for adoption would magically appear.  If only someone would approach us to adopt a child.  If only I knew whether I could even actually get pregnant.  If only a clear direction would manifest.  Instead, I am left wondering if every step we take is leading us closer to or further from what God's will for our lives is.     

My most faithful friends always say, "Take your prayers to God," knowing this is our only recourse on some matters.  And I've rebelled thinking, "But!  Why does God make me pray 1,000 more than other people!?" ...And suddenly the question repeats itself back to me only not of my thought...  "Why does God make me pray 1,000 more than other people?"  And suddenly I realize God is asking me to contemplate this question, to reflect on my prayer- to recognize that He is calling me to pray more for a reason, and to seek what He is trying to reveal through it all.  

And you know what else God reminded me of?  He is never silent because He left us Scripture!  I've come to desire it more now than ever.  I've come to realize this week that in His silence, He has been leading me to seek Him in new ways- to read Scripture with a different mindset, to practice patience, to learn to listen, to prepare myself for letting go.  It is possible that if God seems silent for you, too, He wants you to ask, "Why does God make me pray more than others for the desires of my heart?" and to seek the answer.  In His silence, He has been teaching me to look for Him everywhere, not just in praying the same prayer for the 1,000th time- to the point that even at its most genuine it has lost a part of its authenticity.  So for now, I will not ask, nor will I despair.  I will open the Bible, receive the words within, and I'll continue waiting.

Has God spoken to you in clear ways?  How have you been confident in knowing His will for your life?  

"Ignorance of Scripture is ignorance of Christ."  -St. Jerome

Reflections on Hope

It's been a while since I've committed the time to put my thoughts to words in this designated space, but not for lack of things to share.  On the contrary, like my thoughts life has been a progressively more intense torrent of work, moving, settling in to a new home, figuring out our new life here, fixing things in the house, preparing for Christmas, recovering from Christmas.... Oh and all of the treatment I've been doing in my seemingly more and more futile attempts at conceiving- driving 1.5 hrs to see the doctor, monthly ultrasounds, blood draws, injections.  So many, many things to think about.  So much to reflect upon, but more often than not no grounding in that reflection.  My thoughts  shoot around like the flares of a sparkler on the 4th of July- propelled by a flurry of emotion.  I reflect on myself, my relationship with God, the hopes and dreams I had that seem so out of reach, whether I have any hopes and dreams for the future, whether investing energy in future hopes and dreams is worth it.  I've come to recognize that HOPE. IS. EVERYTHING.  Anything is tolerable with even the smallest bit of hope.  But without it, disappointments and failures are magnified into disasters that paralyze me and trigger days of unshakable melancholy.

Of course, the majority of my disappointments stem from being infertile.  You'd think the sting of not being pregnant month after month would have softened by now.  But as hope dwindles, disappointment fills the void it leaves behind until disappointment is the lens through which every experience in your life, I mean EVERY experience, is filtered.  With each passing month, hope's ability to drive my purpose has faded until I now persist in treatments because I feel I owe it to myself and what I've gone through to keep going.  [two surgeries, two long recoveries and still recovering, countless appointments of poking and prodding so that I have no dignity or modesty left, uprooting my life and moving home in an attempt to reduce stress, keeping a crazy vegan-kosher-lactose intolerant-celiac-diabetic diet, thousands of dollars spent, and the elimination of every beauty product I've ever loved from my life:] It would be an insult to just stop my journey now.  What would all that have been for?  That is why I continue.  Not because I maintain a strong sense of hope.  My hope has become like a fragile flower struggling to survive against a merciless terrain.  

I often feel isolated from all my TTC sisters.  As someone for whom IVF is not an option, I can't find complete solidarity with women going through that treatment; I can bond with them over our shared frustration, and rejoice when the desire of their hearts is fulfilled.  Yet I can't find hope in reading their testimonials, knowing I cannot walk down that path.  Many of the Catholic women I know appear to be handling their infertility with more grace than I could ever dream to find.  I don't relate well with women whose perpetual mantra is, "God's will, not mine."  I'm just not there in my relationship with God right now.  It is fractured and something I am cogniscient of constantly working on, but as someone who, worse than feeling forgotten by God, feels completely ignored, I don't find myself bearing this burden with grace and gratitude like my admirable Catholic sisters.   In that sense I feel like an even deeper failure than what my physical state has imposed on me.

When you feel alone, it is very difficult to hope.  And let me iterate it is entirely unproductive and pointless to say to someone in despair, "Don't lose hope!"  I've heard this countless times.  And I think, "Why not?  What has hope done for me so far?  It has made some aspects of daily life more tolerable, but so would the relief of finally giving up."  Telling me, "Don't lose hope!" is as effective as saying, "Stop breathing!"  Since I'm not ready to give up yet, however, hope seems the only thing with the potential to lift the dark cloud that's surrounded my heart and soul.  But I don't see hope as a voluntary action, like patience or temperance would be.  For me hope is a reflexive, visceral emotion that either exists or does not.  Certain things stir hope within me despite the voice in my head which says, "There's no point."  I can feel it when it's there and suffer terribly in its absence.  How to find that hope though?

Hope is the answer, I know it is! So rather than attempting to convince someone to hope when that flame has turned to ash, let us say to each other, "Don't give up, friend.  Find things that may renew your hope.  They are somewhere, don't give up.  When your hope is renewed you will feel joy again.  Don't give up."  Telling someone to not give up validates the difficulty of the journey and encourages fortitude.  So I am focusing on things that will renew my hope.  Talking to women who were told they'd never conceive who are now expecting or are now mothers (without IVF!) is a great source of hope for me.  And when I hear them, I feel the spark of hope igniting deep within me, and then life suddenly becomes more tolerable.  And I feel more strength in continuing my treatments.  And so I continue sharing my thoughts and HOPE that someday I will have a success story that will be that light through the dark cloud of someone else's journey.  <3

Reflections on Hope

It's been a while since I've committed the time to put my thoughts to words in this designated space, but not for lack of things to share.  On the contrary, like my thoughts life has been a progressively more intense torrent of work, moving, settling in to a new home, figuring out our new life here, fixing things in the house, preparing for Christmas, recovering from Christmas.... Oh and all of the treatment I've been doing in my seemingly more and more futile attempts at conceiving- driving 1.5 hrs to see the doctor, monthly ultrasounds, blood draws, injections.  So many, many things to think about.  So much to reflect upon, but more often than not no grounding in that reflection.  My thoughts  shoot around like the flares of a sparkler on the 4th of July- propelled by a flurry of emotion.  I reflect on myself, my relationship with God, the hopes and dreams I had that seem so out of reach, whether I have any hopes and dreams for the future, whether investing energy in future hopes and dreams is worth it.  I've come to recognize that HOPE. IS. EVERYTHING.  Anything is tolerable with even the smallest bit of hope.  But without it, disappointments and failures are magnified into disasters that paralyze me and trigger days of unshakable melancholy.

Of course, the majority of my disappointments stem from being infertile.  You'd think the sting of not being pregnant month after month would have softened by now.  But as hope dwindles, disappointment fills the void it leaves behind until disappointment is the lens through which every experience in your life, I mean EVERY experience, is filtered.  With each passing month, hope's ability to drive my purpose has faded until I now persist in treatments because I feel I owe it to myself and what I've gone through to keep going.  [two surgeries, two long recoveries and still recovering, countless appointments of poking and prodding so that I have no dignity or modesty left, uprooting my life and moving home in an attempt to reduce stress, keeping a crazy vegan-kosher-lactose intolerant-celiac-diabetic diet, thousands of dollars spent, and the elimination of every beauty product I've ever loved from my life:] It would be an insult to just stop my journey now.  What would all that have been for?  That is why I continue.  Not because I maintain a strong sense of hope.  My hope has become like a fragile flower struggling to survive against a merciless terrain.  

I often feel isolated from all my TTC sisters.  As someone for whom IVF is not an option, I can't find complete solidarity with women going through that treatment; I can bond with them over our shared frustration, and rejoice when the desire of their hearts is fulfilled.  Yet I can't find hope in reading their testimonials, knowing I cannot walk down that path.  Many of the Catholic women I know appear to be handling their infertility with more grace than I could ever dream to find.  I don't relate well with women whose perpetual mantra is, "God's will, not mine."  I'm just not there in my relationship with God right now.  It is fractured and something I am cogniscient of constantly working on, but as someone who, worse than feeling forgotten by God, feels completely ignored, I don't find myself bearing this burden with grace and gratitude like my admirable Catholic sisters.   In that sense I feel like an even deeper failure than what my physical state has imposed on me.

When you feel alone, it is very difficult to hope.  And let me iterate it is entirely unproductive and pointless to say to someone in despair, "Don't lose hope!"  I've heard this countless times.  And I think, "Why not?  What has hope done for me so far?  It has made some aspects of daily life more tolerable, but so would the relief of finally giving up."  Telling me, "Don't lose hope!" is as effective as saying, "Stop breathing!"  Since I'm not ready to give up yet, however, hope seems the only thing with the potential to lift the dark cloud that's surrounded my heart and soul.  But I don't see hope as a voluntary action, like patience or temperance would be.  For me hope is a reflexive, visceral emotion that either exists or does not.  Certain things stir hope within me despite the voice in my head which says, "There's no point."  I can feel it when it's there and suffer terribly in its absence.  How to find that hope though?

Hope is the answer, I know it is! So rather than attempting to convince someone to hope when that flame has turned to ash, let us say to each other, "Don't give up, friend.  Find things that may renew your hope.  They are somewhere, don't give up.  When your hope is renewed you will feel joy again.  Don't give up."  Telling someone to not give up validates the difficulty of the journey and encourages fortitude.  So I am focusing on things that will renew my hope.  Talking to women who were told they'd never conceive who are now expecting or are now mothers (without IVF!) is a great source of hope for me.  And when I hear them, I feel the spark of hope igniting deep within me, and then life suddenly becomes more tolerable.  And I feel more strength in continuing my treatments.  And so I continue sharing my thoughts and HOPE that someday I will have a success story that will be that light through the dark cloud of someone else's journey.  <3

When I was a kid I had the kind of naive, unquestioning faith and trust that having "faith like a child" really means.  It really was more faith like a dog.... Every time I tell my dog, "Daddy's home!" or "There's a squirrel outside!" or "I'll be right back," or "It's okay," he believes me.  No matter what.  100%.  The trouble with that kind of faith, though, I reflect as I pat his sweet little head, is that sometimes I'm tricking him.  Sometimes he lingers too long outside and won't even come in for turkey, his favorite treat.  Only for "Daddy's home!"  Sometimes it's time to go outside and he won't budge from the couch.  That's when an invisible squirrel is on the loose, and one second later he's at the end of the yard barking up an empty tree.  Yet despite how many times I lie to him he believes me.  He trusts me completely.

I remember the feeling of being overwhelmed by my love for God, for Christ, for the Church.  Inspired by my feelings of devotion and the example of saints and martyrs I was thoroughly committed to a glamorized idea of suffering.  I wanted to be one of the lucky ones to be stricken with the stigmata.  In fact I'd pray to receive it, along with many other useless prayers- for Snow White to come alive from my book, or for a particular boy to like me.  (I wasn't all Jesus and piety.)  After all, Christ said "Ask and you shall receive."  And I trusted those words as my dog trusts me.  I believed in Him and I believed in miracles with all my heart.  And as a kid, being told that God always answers prayers even if the answer is "no" was enough for me to escape the unanswered with my joyful, loving heart intact.

But life is full of doubt and disappointment, isn't it?  And faith inevitably takes a predictably different shape.  I have not escaped my blows unscathed.  When you pray so fervently, with such trust in the power of that prayer and the answer continues to be "no," you start to feel like there is no power in your prayers, and if they are powerless they are pointless as well.  I see now that prayer doesn't always have the power to bend God's will.  And if God's will is supreme, then what role does prayer play in the intersection of human existence and the supernatural?   And if the answer is "no," what recourse do we have when desires persist?

I never understood the prayers that end with "Not my will but Yours be done, Oh Lord."  While beautiful in their conviction, I find them to be quite unrealistic.  Why should I pray for God's will to be done when ultimately it will transpire regardless?  What if I don't want His will?  What if I can't trust in Him?  I want to.  But if I'm being completely honest, I do not entirely.  I'm no longer like my dog in that regard.  I'm skeptical; I'm wounded; I'm scarred.   

As a child in the midst of a blossoming spiritual relationship, and still in the infatuation stage, I often mistook my feelings for "God's will."  If I felt strongly about something, it must be because God was guiding me toward a certain end, and I'm sure I made many childish decisions using "God's will" as justification.  In truth, I have no idea what God's will could be- and so I am afraid to pray for it.  I don't know if God's will is for me to never be a mother, to never fulfill my musical dreams, or to even live beyond tomorrow.  And when I think of those possibilities, I find no comfort in the notion of "God's will."  One thing I do know is God has called me to suffer, as we all must in some way.  I thought I would be the kind of disciple who, with gratitude in my heart, would offer my suffering for the benefit of others and in doing so join in the suffering of Christ.  But that was also a childish fantasy.  I do offer up my suffering when I have the presence of mind, but there is no gratitude involved.  More an attitude of "well it's here so I might as well not waste it."  And then the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I have been gifted the stigmata after all.  It is in a different form, and certainly not as glamorous as I envisioned.  If only I could find the humility to bear it like a saint...

When I was a kid I had the kind of naive, unquestioning faith and trust that having "faith like a child" really means.  It really was more faith like a dog.... Every time I tell my dog, "Daddy's home!" or "There's a squirrel outside!" or "I'll be right back," or "It's okay," he believes me.  No matter what.  100%.  The trouble with that kind of faith, though, I reflect as I pat his sweet little head, is that sometimes I'm tricking him.  Sometimes he lingers too long outside and won't even come in for turkey, his favorite treat.  Only for "Daddy's home!"  Sometimes it's time to go outside and he won't budge from the couch.  That's when an invisible squirrel is on the loose, and one second later he's at the end of the yard barking up an empty tree.  Yet despite how many times I lie to him he believes me.  He trusts me completely.

I remember the feeling of being overwhelmed by my love for God, for Christ, for the Church.  Inspired by my feelings of devotion and the example of saints and martyrs I was thoroughly committed to a glamorized idea of suffering.  I wanted to be one of the lucky ones to be stricken with the stigmata.  In fact I'd pray to receive it, along with many other useless prayers- for Snow White to come alive from my book, or for a particular boy to like me.  (I wasn't all Jesus and piety.)  After all, Christ said "Ask and you shall receive."  And I trusted those words as my dog trusts me.  I believed in Him and I believed in miracles with all my heart.  And as a kid, being told that God always answers prayers even if the answer is "no" was enough for me to escape the unanswered with my joyful, loving heart intact.

But life is full of doubt and disappointment, isn't it?  And faith inevitably takes a predictably different shape.  I have not escaped my blows unscathed.  When you pray so fervently, with such trust in the power of that prayer and the answer continues to be "no," you start to feel like there is no power in your prayers, and if they are powerless they are pointless as well.  I see now that prayer doesn't always have the power to bend God's will.  And if God's will is supreme, then what role does prayer play in the intersection of human existence and the supernatural?   And if the answer is "no," what recourse do we have when desires persist?

I never understood the prayers that end with "Not my will but Yours be done, Oh Lord."  While beautiful in their conviction, I find them to be quite unrealistic.  Why should I pray for God's will to be done when ultimately it will transpire regardless?  What if I don't want His will?  What if I can't trust in Him?  I want to.  But if I'm being completely honest, I do not entirely.  I'm no longer like my dog in that regard.  I'm skeptical; I'm wounded; I'm scarred.   

As a child in the midst of a blossoming spiritual relationship, and still in the infatuation stage, I often mistook my feelings for "God's will."  If I felt strongly about something, it must be because God was guiding me toward a certain end, and I'm sure I made many childish decisions using "God's will" as justification.  In truth, I have no idea what God's will could be- and so I am afraid to pray for it.  I don't know if God's will is for me to never be a mother, to never fulfill my musical dreams, or to even live beyond tomorrow.  And when I think of those possibilities, I find no comfort in the notion of "God's will."  One thing I do know is God has called me to suffer, as we all must in some way.  I thought I would be the kind of disciple who, with gratitude in my heart, would offer my suffering for the benefit of others and in doing so join in the suffering of Christ.  But that was also a childish fantasy.  I do offer up my suffering when I have the presence of mind, but there is no gratitude involved.  More an attitude of "well it's here so I might as well not waste it."  And then the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I have been gifted the stigmata after all.  It is in a different form, and certainly not as glamorous as I envisioned.  If only I could find the humility to bear it like a saint...

in case you forgot....

Lately I've been in a state of numbness.  A certifiable walking, running, talking, singing, laughing, playing robot.  The stages of my journey so far:

1) Shock
2) Denial
3) Anger
4) Despair
5) Numbness (punctuated by momentary lapses into hysteria)

I'm not really sure what comes next, but numbness is actually a very useful coping mechanism- usurped only by when you happen upon this on Facebook and sob uncontrollably for 30 minutes.  Being in this stage of numbness, I kinda forget how much this all sucks.  I forget I'm in pain.  I forget I'm not a mom, I forget how badly I want to cradle my very own little one in my arms, hold her to my cheek, stroke her hair.  I actually forget that I'm broken and may never be fixed.  That girl?  Oh, she's someone that I read about somewhere once.  Poor thing.

And, you know, that's not a bad way to exist.  

So I'd like to thank the brilliant waitress who asked me if I was pregnant at dinner tonight.  When I begrudgingly declined a glass of wine (anticipating a weekend of concert singing and wanting to treat my voice right) and opted for decaf coffee after our meal, you blurted out, "Wait, are you pregnant?!" with unrestrained enthusiasm.  (You were sure you'd guessed a secret I was keeping.)

Well, Brittany, you know, I'd actually forgotten that I'm not pregnant.  And when you followed up with "'Cause like, all my friends are pregnant so it's on my mind because I swear there's something in the water," it was THEN I realized that for the evening I'd forgotten how much it stings to hear someone else's joyous news.  Over. and over.  I'd actually forgotten the shame I feel for all the years I took fertility for granted.  (You really just don't expect these problems when you come from a giant family in which children are abundantly abundant.)

How could you have known what a poignant question that was to me?   You were sweet.  So "I'll have some of THAT water, hahaha!"  I said instead of what I wanted to say.  "No. I'm infertile."  With a deep, bitter stare.  This really feels like being the best one at the audition and not getting picked because you don't know the director.  Then everyone else you know keeps asking you if you're in the show.  Just in case you forgot that it's not your turn.  The whole world surrounds you with a resounding reminder.  "Not you. Not you. Not you." Well, Brittanys of the world, I won't take your blissful ignorance from you.  I long to have that same ignorance returned to me.  To not be the poor girl whom the world would pity if they only knew the torment I feel.  So for your sake, I'll get back to my robot-ing now.  

in case you forgot....

Lately I've been in a state of numbness.  A certifiable walking, running, talking, singing, laughing, playing robot.  The stages of my journey so far:

1) Shock
2) Denial
3) Anger
4) Despair
5) Numbness (punctuated by momentary lapses into hysteria)

I'm not really sure what comes next, but numbness is actually a very useful coping mechanism- usurped only by when you happen upon this on Facebook and sob uncontrollably for 30 minutes.  Being in this stage of numbness, I kinda forget how much this all sucks.  I forget I'm in pain.  I forget I'm not a mom, I forget how badly I want to cradle my very own little one in my arms, hold her to my cheek, stroke her hair.  I actually forget that I'm broken and may never be fixed.  That girl?  Oh, she's someone that I read about somewhere once.  Poor thing.

And, you know, that's not a bad way to exist.  

So I'd like to thank the brilliant waitress who asked me if I was pregnant at dinner tonight.  When I begrudgingly declined a glass of wine (anticipating a weekend of concert singing and wanting to treat my voice right) and opted for decaf coffee after our meal, you blurted out, "Wait, are you pregnant?!" with unrestrained enthusiasm.  (You were sure you'd guessed a secret I was keeping.)

Well, Brittany, you know, I'd actually forgotten that I'm not pregnant.  And when you followed up with "'Cause like, all my friends are pregnant so it's on my mind because I swear there's something in the water," it was THEN I realized that for the evening I'd forgotten how much it stings to hear someone else's joyous news.  Over. and over.  I'd actually forgotten the shame I feel for all the years I took fertility for granted.  (You really just don't expect these problems when you come from a giant family in which children are abundantly abundant.)

How could you have known what a poignant question that was to me?   You were sweet.  So "I'll have some of THAT water, hahaha!"  I said instead of what I wanted to say.  "No. I'm infertile."  With a deep, bitter stare.  This really feels like being the best one at the audition and not getting picked because you don't know the director.  Then everyone else you know keeps asking you if you're in the show.  Just in case you forgot that it's not your turn.  The whole world surrounds you with a resounding reminder.  "Not you. Not you. Not you." Well, Brittanys of the world, I won't take your blissful ignorance from you.  I long to have that same ignorance returned to me.  To not be the poor girl whom the world would pity if they only knew the torment I feel.  So for your sake, I'll get back to my robot-ing now.  

la vie en rose

Today I listened to “La vie en rose” on repeat for about 35 minutes.  Yep.  That’s where I am these days.  Something about the music, the way it sounds both melancholy and happy at the same time, appeals to me on the deepest level. That’s what I feel all the time.  Melancholy.  AND happy.  How is that possible?  Can hope and despair coexist?  For me I think they do.  Of course they can.  If we can feel both terrified and excited at the same time, then hope and despair can occupy the same realm, right?  

Though I live in what feels like a constant state of disappointment and frustration, the compulsion to hope persists.  I have no control over it.  Even when my brain says, "hope is futile.  and it's exhausting.  and makes you die a little each month," it's there, lingering in the back of my consciousness.  Kind of like when you are in a SUPER awful mood, I mean the WORST mood and you have some dopey, happy song with a killer beat stuck in your head and that makes you even more mad because it kinda makes you feel a teensy bit happier when you REALLY don't want to.  I’m hard-wired to GO GO GO, keep trying, and I NEVER, EVER quit.  EVER.  I literally don’t know how.  So what that I got word from the doctor that I have a “large” cyst on my left ovary.  And not even a year after a most invasive and traumatizing surgery my body is just as broken as ever.  And the pain is back, the bloating, nausea, and all the other fun things that come along with cysts are back.  And that I expected the surgery to fix me.  I mean, it wasn’t even hope back then, it was certainty.  I was going to be a success story, a testament to the wonders of NaPro Technology- I knew it must be the reason we were called to suffer this.  

Slowly my brazen assuredness dissolved into hope- I hope… 

Now, after the years of tests, invasions of my personal space, medications, shots, waiting, hoping, frustration, tears, and disappointment I don’t feel hope anymore...  I don’t really feel anything...  

But the hope is still there somehow, I can sense it despite not feeling it- an undercurrent to the rocky waves propelling me somewhat aimlessly through this reality.  

Like the song it gives clarity to the melancholic gray in which I currently exist.

la vie en rose

Today I listened to “La vie en rose” on repeat for about 35 minutes.  Yep.  That’s where I am these days.  Something about the music, the way it sounds both melancholy and happy at the same time, appeals to me on the deepest level. That’s what I feel all the time.  Melancholy.  AND happy.  How is that possible?  Can hope and despair coexist?  For me I think they do.  Of course they can.  If we can feel both terrified and excited at the same time, then hope and despair can occupy the same realm, right?  

Though I live in what feels like a constant state of disappointment and frustration, the compulsion to hope persists.  I have no control over it.  Even when my brain says, "hope is futile.  and it's exhausting.  and makes you die a little each month," it's there, lingering in the back of my consciousness.  Kind of like when you are in a SUPER awful mood, I mean the WORST mood and you have some dopey, happy song with a killer beat stuck in your head and that makes you even more mad because it kinda makes you feel a teensy bit happier when you REALLY don't want to.  I’m hard-wired to GO GO GO, keep trying, and I NEVER, EVER quit.  EVER.  I literally don’t know how.  So what that I got word from the doctor that I have a “large” cyst on my left ovary.  And not even a year after a most invasive and traumatizing surgery my body is just as broken as ever.  And the pain is back, the bloating, nausea, and all the other fun things that come along with cysts are back.  And that I expected the surgery to fix me.  I mean, it wasn’t even hope back then, it was certainty.  I was going to be a success story, a testament to the wonders of NaPro Technology- I knew it must be the reason we were called to suffer this.  

Slowly my brazen assuredness dissolved into hope- I hope… 

Now, after the years of tests, invasions of my personal space, medications, shots, waiting, hoping, frustration, tears, and disappointment I don’t feel hope anymore...  I don’t really feel anything...  

But the hope is still there somehow, I can sense it despite not feeling it- an undercurrent to the rocky waves propelling me somewhat aimlessly through this reality.  

Like the song it gives clarity to the melancholic gray in which I currently exist.