my life in facebook status updates

I can't seem to get my head together for a blog post. Call it what you will, laziness, end of year malaise or PMT, the result is the same - my head feels empty and I simply cannot pull together thoughts and feelings in any sort of a meaningful way. My mind is, however, awash with myriad moment-by-moment, shorthand facebook status updates such as:

• Cecily is disappointed the skirt she made looks decidedly less attractive in real life than it did in her head. Salvos here it comes.
  
• Cecily wonders if it is inhumane to hope the sick chicken will live instead of putting it down to spare it the misery.
• Cecily holds a scrunched up pit of pain inside her at everyone else's baby joy.
• Cecily is about to play the piano in church for the last time.
• Cecily loves that the sun is shining but wonders why she hasn't sat and enjoyed it more.
• Cecily is struggling to remember how to relax and jumps out of every chair almost as soon as she sinks into it.
• Cecily is an aunty to the most beautiful niece in the world.
• Cecily wishes she was staying home for Christmas so she could just sit and vegetate.
• Cecily feels upset with the lack of appreciation expressed by the school regarding chaplaincy.
• Cecily thinks 'while both of us are alive' might be a long time.
• Cecily wishes the chicken would just stop breathing and die.
• Cecily is relieved she does not have to go to work tomorrow.
• Cecily wonders why she did not look after herself better this year.
• Cecily says 'thankyou Frank for scraping and varnishing the skirting boards and picture frames. They look fantastic.'
• Cecily wishes PMT didn't get her every time.
• Cecily just listened to an old Shania Twain CD and it seemed incredibly shallow and vapid.
• Cecily discovered a hidden chicken nest with seven eggs in it today. Woohoo - scrambled eggs for tea tonight.
• Cecily could sleep for a hundred years.
• Cecily wishes she could wake up and find Christmas already over.
• Cecily is about to belatedly plant a zucchini plant or three plus some cucumbers.
• Cecily can't figure out where her healthy eating endeavours disappeared to.
  

A few common themes, maybe I'll expand them later. But that's all I got for now folks.

i'm still dying here

I realised this evening just how much I am still hurting and hating after wounds inflicted. A full year on and I remain mid-process in the forgiving, accepting, loving stakes. It has been a difficult time. I feel like I am on someone's altar, somewhere, being sacrificed for some greater good I cannot understand. I'm squirming, trying to free myself, fighting against whatever is about to happen, but I don't even know what that is.

Some of the truths guiding me through are these:

Hostis, a Latin word from which we derive 'hostile', meaning not hospitable, relating to an enemy, marked by malevolence. Hospis, a Latin word closely linked to hospitality. If I follow Jesus, I am called to hospitality, not hostility. Can I rise above my feelings to choose the better way of hospitality, generosity, kindness?

I look around and see people climbing over one another in an effort to reach the top. Revenge is a norm. Do good only if you expect a return on the giving. Look out for yourself - noone else will. Jesus calls me to a different way of living, one in which love is all and in all, where kindness is key. Denying myself is central to this way of being. Others first.

I wasn't imagining it. I am on the altar - not in a way that sees me lose myself, but in a way that will bring new life... it is too lofty to imagine I am like Jesus, but somehow, mysteriously, by giving his life he gained life. Perhaps by giving up myself, my defenses, my endless need to explain myself and justify my pain, I might find the key to the transformation of this ball of darkness rolling around within me. This is my prayer for today.

i'm dying here

A few weeks ago I had consistent abdominal pain for almost two weeks. Super nurse that I am, I diagnosed myself with various diseases dictated by my state of mind or the direction of the wind. Ovarian cancer, bowel cancer, inflammatory bowel disease, crohns, endometriosis, ulcerative colitis - you name it, I had it. In the end I was suffering little more than a dose of good old constipation that eventually resolved when I consumed sufficient quantities of prunes, but at the time I wondered if this might be the beginning of my dying. Strangely the prospect did not scare me - I like my life and what I have done and I am quite at peace with the thought I might cease to walk the paths I currently frequent.

It occurs to me now that as I contemplated a hardly imminent physical death I was in the process of dying in other less discernible ways. So hidden was this dying I did not at first recognise it. Only now do I realise the anguish and torment gripping my soul was in fact the fading of once vital dreams.

I am speaking of my relationship with my church. Having never experienced divorce I can only wonder if my recent journey mirrors the decline of intimacy within a marriage. Clinging to hopes and visions of what might or should be, tangled up in the messiness of what is, struggling to sort what never can be sorted, gradually giving up in the face of insurmountable misunderstandings, slowly discovering beauty and allure has turned to dust. Anything that remains is too thin to hold onto and so it is released, sadly, but with the recognition the past cannot be changed. There are too many layers of mistrust to clear. It is too hard, not worth the pain and effort.

I sit in this space with great sadness. It pains me that events which occurred nearly twelve months ago have led me to this point, but my purest ideals cannot stand up to the reality of what has happened in my church to my husband. I want to see the best in people, I want to forgive, I want to be faithful to my brothers and sisters in the spirit, I want to be part of an institution moving to a place of greater relevance in the world. But I just cannot do it.

Every Sunday morning an empty space beside me screams Frank's absence louder than any worship song. People kindly asking after Frank do not cancel out the hurt of what others did or failed to do twelve months ago. I can be as idealistic as I like, but wrong happened and I cannot shake the sense that my decision to cut ties is the inevitable playing out of past realities. But in the cutting of these ties a part of me will die.

We live in a broken world. Bad things happen. We make the best of it, reaching deep within, finding strength to move on as wisely and carefully as possible. The reality is though, the best may still not be all that good or right. Thus the pain. Thus the dying.

Perhaps I should rewrite my title: Part of me is dying here. Another part of me will go on, a little wiser, striving to achieve the ideal, filled with new dreams. Life from the ashes. Hope for the future. Which reminds me of something Jesus said, that in order for a seed to bring forth new life, first it must die. So I am dying here, but it's not all bad.

drowning

I feel like I'm kind of drowning here. In busyness and stress, but mostly in sadness.

Our former neighbour was found dead last week. He was, by choice, a homeless alcoholic and they don't really know when he died alone in his van. He was 36.

Then there was the cyclone in Burma. 80,000 people dead? More than a million homeless? Can someone please tell me what that looks like? I cannot comprehend it.

And now more than 10,000 dead in an earthquake in China? Again, my little head is struggling to wrap itself around such wide scale devastation.

We live in a tragic, sad world and right now I cannot gloss over the the pain of our combined brokenness. Yet I can't quite figure out how to embrace (that's not the right word... validate? appreciate? express?) the depth of pain and sadness I feel for these people. I suppose a donation might be a good place to start.

TEAR seem to be getting the aid to the people by partnering with local Burmese aid and development organisations which already worked in the area. Their website has good information on what has happened and what is being achieved if you are interested.

both/and as opposed to and/or

My Dad phoned last night after I had gone to bed. He was in Darwin and forgot how late it was in Tasmania. Frank took the call and informed him of my whereabouts before coming to bed himself. I fell into a fitful sleep fueled by fanciful dreams of telling Dad exactly what I thought of his remarriage. Our imagined conversations followed the usual dreamy vein of things, never quite going to plan. I woke up muddled and tired.

As a holiday treat I bought a new Jodi Picoult book, Songs of the Humpback Whale. Personally I like it least of all her books I've read. Something just didn't sit right with me; too much sex, overtones of warped incest, too rapid a fall into earth shattering love. The story struck me as unlikely, the daughter was implausibly wise for her years, and while the mother may well have been exquisitely unsure of herself so was the lead character in the last Jodi Picoult book I read. I laid the book aside with a taste of ash in my mouth.

What did pique my interest was the way both the main character and her daughter had no love in their hearts for their fathers.

Is this possible? With enough provocation, do daughters just stop loving their fathers? Or do they carry around in them a buried love that is almost impossible to locate, a forever longing for a connection not marred by violence or sex?

I don't know... for me, I still love my Dad. I also long for a better connection.

ugly betty speaks. again.

You know you have to deal with an issue when Ugly Betty speaks. Yes, it's getting trashier and trashier, but somehow Ugly Betty still speaks t me. (And besides that, Marc makes it all worth watching)

Daniel's mother, Claire, realising that by killing Fey Sommers she killed her family and possibly herself, is attempting to escape overseas. Betty has been trying to pretend she doesn't love Henry by asking out an eager alternative date. They're sitting on the couch together attempting to come to terms with reality when Betty says, "We have to stop running. We need to face up to our lives and be brave enough to deal with them as they are" or something like that.

Profound.

Stop running Cecily. Face up to your life and deal with it. It is killing you.

inner rumblings

We know there is some connection between prayer and silence, but if we think about silence in our lives, it seems that it isn't always peaceful - silence can also be frightening.

Henri Nouwen With Open Hands

Phhhhhheeew! There's been a lot going on in my life lately - hardly a chance to catch my breath really. Between decrying the pulp mill, anguishing over dental examinations, earning money and playing church I've paused once or twice here and there, but only for a moment.

Deep in my soul has not been a place of rest either. Rethinking my theology of Jesus and the church (don't worry - it's nothing too heretical!), composing letters to politicians, composing blogs, facing down my workplace demons, considering different counselling approaches... between analysing this and pondering that I'm feeling slightly off balance, as if I'm a cargo ship whose inner containers are slipping, dragging me perilously close to tipping over the edge.

There's good and bad in that. I'm certainly not in a place of complacency or lethargy! My mind is busy, pushing its limits, testing its boundaries. I like that. I'm growing. Of course, the bad side of this is that I never stop. There is no space in which I can examine my heart or tentatively feel around my body to ensure I'm intact. It would seem that at the same time as I'm growing - I'm running.

Running from journalling, running from silence. Running from pain. For the sad truth is that I'm not intact. There is a broken part inside of me that I do not wish to expose to myself, to God, to the light of day. So I run to escape from it. But the brokenness tags along with me. So I run faster, harder. And still it's there, staring at me, pleading to be explored. I hiccough as the pain starts to leak out and over the edge of my self control. And then I suck in quickly, drawing the pain back within myself, hands grasping and reaching around the cracks and crevices of the brokenness in an attempt to hold myself together. And off I run again, hoping that by sheer effect of movement, the pieces stay intact.

Well you can run, but you can't hide. Sooner or later it catches up with you! Tonight it caught up with me as I sat with my spiritual director. Somehow we started talking about silence and as I admitted to avoiding silence the tears began to fall. Why? Because I'm afraid. Afraid of the pain.

It's here that I see God's perfect timing, as if he's been preparing me for this. All that soul searching, cataclysmic adjustment of well established thought patterns, facing down my fears has set me moving. And now that I am moving, I can't stop. I have to face the pain and brokenness - in silence I believe.

Dear God,
Speak gently in my silence.
When the loud outer noises of my surroundings
and the loud inner noises of my fears
keep pulling me away from you,
help me to trust that you are still there
even when I am unable to hear you.
Give me ears to listen to your small, soft voice saying:
"Come to me, you who are overburdened,
and I will give you rest...
for I am gentle and humble of heart."
Let that loving voice be my guide.
Amen

Henri Nouwen With Open Hands

I hope in God's gentleness. I can't do this otherwise.

sleep in the family bed

Two nights ago I woke around midnight to a rapidly beating heart that no amount of deep breathing would steady. I lay there tense as a set mousetrap ready to spring, vainly attempting to calm myself before finally admitting defeat and getting up to read the bible and complete the hardest Sudoku puzzle ever. Eventually I closed my eyes and slept.

I suppose it could have been indigestion from that amazing chicken vindaloo I consumed at high speed earlier in the evening that woke me. However I think it more likely that stress wrenched me from my dreams because, come to think of it, I haven't been sleeping well for the last few nights.

I'm not someone who normally lies awake for hours trying to nod off. Sheep in the backyard or not, I rarely resort to counting how many times they jump in and out of our yard. Nope, my head hits the pillow and I'm away to the land of sleep and fantastic fantasy, and not much will wake me.

Yet here I've been, night after night lying in bed unable to fall asleep. And, come to think of it, there have been significant stressors to weather in the last few days: Frank's birthday, for which I procrastinated so long over the choice of present I ended up with nothing; my new job; adjustment to shift work (I swear it's not natural to run around on cement floors until 10 o'clock at night); and... the visit of the mother-in-law.

Bingo! I think we're onto something here.

I don't go for all those stereotypical relational patterns, so I always imagined that when I obtained a mother-in-law I would just be my usual cheerful self, chattering away with disarming amiability and all would be well. We would get along nicely and in the process blow all those in-law fables out of the water.

It is with much sadness that I report it IS NOT SO!

I was naive - those stereotypes exist for good reason. They are not fables. Mother-in-laws are not nice. Or at least mine isn't. I do not have a good relationship with her and I confess I do not want one. She is a hard, humourless person who spent four days dishing out insult after insult. She invaded my space, passed subtle judgement on just about everything Frank and I do and scrubbed my stove.

OK. The stove was a good thing. It needed scrubbing.

Without consulting me, the cake-baking-queen, she went out and bought Frank a birthday cake and insisted that it was for him and not to be shared with anybody. At one point I became so angry I heard a distinct buzzing noise in my ears as the scene before me moved in and out of focus. It's really no wonder I wasn't sleeping!

Where does this all leave me now, with the mother-in-law gone and sleep covering me like a blanket once more?

Sad. I feel overwhelmingly sad. For myself, as I lay my pleasant mother-in-law dreams to rest. Sad for my mother-in-law, who has chosen hardness of heart over deep relationship with those she loves. Sad for my husband, who loves his mother and his wife, and is torn between his own dreams and the reality of in-law relations.

I'm also thankful. Thankful for the strength to hold my tongue. For increased awareness whereby we strive to understand ourselves and others and so work to build more meaningful relationships with one another. For my husband, who sees where he came from and longs to be different. I'm thankful for the relationship Frank and I share, a relationship that is ever developing into something more deep and caring.

Yes, it was a tough few days, but all is not lost. While we're apart I'll work up the courage to keep holding out olive branches of peace to my mother-in-law. Hopefully we'll learn to understand each other better. Over time, maybe we can move closer to that pleasant relationship I once dreamed of. Maybe.

meeting god

Spaghetti.

You can't quite pin it down, no matter how hard you try. It slips and slides away, a tangle of slimy plastic that cannot reconciled by knife and fork.

So, also, is my head. Spaghetti head.

I can't quite pin them down, no matter how hard I try. Those thoughts and feelings slip and slide away, a tangle of loose threads whose ends never quite meet up. As I track along the length of one notion, I lose it in the cauldron of seething emotions that bubbles inside my head: Angry, broken. Self righteous, penitent. Forgiving, furious, vindictive, loving... swirling, lunging, ducking, diving, in and out and around each other.

What exactly do I feel? Where is clarity? Which words express my thoughts precisely? Would a tantrum be acceptable? No? What would you suggest is appropriate behaviour then? If I must behave, why must not everyone else also behave? Is there no standard? Are we all drifting in an inexplicable fog?

How do I fit fractured relations into a soul designed for love and wholeness? Their shapes will not be reconciled. Must I forever live with pain, the haunting loss, the grief over what will never be?

What about truth? How do I explain when people of truth tell lies? Must I accept their slur or should I expose their deceit? Should I allow my indignation to fade away, declining to seek vindication for myself and those I love? Or am I justified in pursuing truth, forcing it from their lips for the sake of a principle? Is the principle even important or should I let it rest?

And what of unfulfilled desires? My dreams? Am I simply selfish if I cling to them or can I lean on people to make them happen? Should I lay them down in the dust and walk away, or remain strong in my hope? Can I remain strong in the face of continual disappointment?

Spaghetti. So many thoughts and emotions slipping and sliding across each another.

And yet God speaks.

In a soaring bird. "Cecily, see it does not only soar. Sometimes it must also flap its wings to stay aloft. Right now you too must flap your wings as you chase your thoughts and seek out clarity. That is not bad. Ride it out. This time will pass and you will soar effortlessly once more. And while you wildly flap your wings, I will keep you airborne. You will not fall." Ah, thankyou God. You are my assurance.

In a caring friend. Cecily, I am going to pray 4 u today for some clarity + peace of mind. God will help you. "See, God whispers, I am with you in the thoughts and prayers of your friend. I have not forgotten you." Thankyou God. You are my comfort.

In a book. "Prayer helps correct my myopia, calling to mind a perspective I daily forget. I keep reversing roles, thinking of ways in which God should serve me, rather than vice versa... Prayer raises my sight beyond the petty... Prayer allows me to admit my failures, weaknesses, and limitations to One who responds to human vulnerability with infinite mercy." (Prayer, Philip Yancy) "Look up Cecily, look up to me. You do not need to know all the answers, you do not need to sort every thought and feeling into a catalogued system of understanding. I understand. I know where every thought and feeling fits. I know you. I love you." God... You accept me with all my frailty and failings? You take me as I am? You're big enough to handle all your business and mine? My business IS your business? Incredible, I breathe, Thankyou God for your greatness coupled with compassion.

Yes, God is good. Lifting my eyes from the spaghetti, I see him. And he is all clarity and beauty.

the news reader didn't smile

I didn't want to think about it.
I didn't want to write about it.
I wanted to pretend it didn't happen.

If I didn't acknowledge it, maybe it would go away, turn out to be a dream.

The horror is too great to comprehend, the grief and madness might sweep me away.

But the news reader did not smile.
I could not ignore what really happened.

I wept.

For young lives, quick minds, hopeful dreams. All lost.
For lifeless bodies, glassy eyes, shattered dreams.

Too awful. Too tragic. Too hideous.

How can this be?
Who could do this?
What possessed them?

To the dead staff and students of Virginia Tech, may you rest in peace. For we cannot.

the legacy

I've been thinking quite a bit about legacies lately. Not legacies in a money sense, but more the legacy of life that I've been given. I'm talking about my childhood. What is the legacy I have been left by the environment I grew up in?

It's a little bit like culture I suppose. I grew up in Australia, generally oblivious to all the values and beliefs that make us culturally unique. Sure I knew meat pies could almost be considered our national dish and tall poppy syndrome remains as a lasting relic from our convict past, but I couldn't have elucidated much more than that if asked what made us Australian. Only when I went and lived in a different culture did I become aware of our willingness to embrace anything new, our casual attitude to life, our persistence in the face of adversity. Once exposed to a culture that clung to old ways of doing things, and approached life very seriously I began to recognise my uniquely Australian view of the world.

Similarly, since Frank and I established our own home last year I've become acutely aware of the way of life in my childhood home. As we seek to establish a culture of respect within our own four walls I can recognise how little my family was characterised by respect. It hasn't been a particularly pleasant awakening.

Frank must be the sweetest man on earth. He is generous, patient, and kind. He offers me unconditional love and acceptance. I am forever amazed by his willingness to forgive my continual failings. (Most of the time!) Despite growing up in a broken home that wounded him deeply, he made a choice to look for the value in people and respect them. In Frank there is a depth and beauty of character that touches my heart in its simplicity. (He unfortunately begs to differ over my glowing report)

And me? Well I am the most curmudgeonly, selfish person on earth. I pounce on anything that does not align with my idealistic picture of how things should be. I hone in on the tiniest annoyance and tear the perpetrator to shreds. (Slight exaggeration for literary effect) Unconditional love? Only when you meet my conditions! Acceptance? After you've become just what I want you to be! Generosity? If you give me something I might return the favour!

Marriage has highlighted the worst in me. With a husband who is nigh on perfect I can hardly ignore my failings.

What is more troubling to me than my acerbic wit or cutting tongue is the way my behaviour goes against what I rationally believe. I believe in the value of people. I hold generosity, patience and kindness close to my heart. I want to pour out unconditional love as a soothing balm on wounds of the soul. I love my husband and want to cherish him dearly.

So why is my behaviour so abominable? Why do I lash out at a moments notice over the most trivial offence? Why don't I turn a blind eye to the every day irritations of life with another?

It is here that I return to my legacy. My childhood held little of respect. I was never good enough. My words and actions were critiqued or worse, criticised. There was scant generosity or helpfulness. Patience was in short supply.

I'm wary of blaming my sinfulness on my childhood - I know I have choices about the way I behave in the here and now. But somewhere deep inside, my soul has been seared by the harshness. My desire to be kind and gracious is too often short circuited by the past. Before I know it, I've followed the time worn path of meanness, and venom spills from my mouth just as it did all those years ago.

Oh what a legacy. I shall battle it all my life. (And if I'm not battling that I'll be battling downright sin!) But beat it I will.

One day I will find healing. One day I will be beautiful, generous and kind. One day I will encourage and build up the people in my life. One day I will cherish and nurture those around me. One day I will pour out love on wounds of the soul. One day I will have a family and leave them a legacy of love. This is my dream.

another ugly betty moment

I was starting to get a bit tired of Ugly Betty. It filled in a pleasant enough hour but it was predictable. It stopped touching my heart and I began to contemplate giving it up - of what benefit was watching it?

And then I cried. Again.
Caught unawares. Again.

It all started when Nico stood in the cavernous foyer of the Mode building, protesting against fur in fashion. Enter Wilhelmine wearing nothing but a fur coat, her winning words leaving Nico deflated and humiliated. It was a classic case of dysfunction - two people loving each other but with no clue as to how to express their love.

It struck too close to home, and the tears trickled freely down my face. Again. Frank did his best to cheer me in the ad (I'm sworn to secrecy on his methods - it included singing) but I couldn't brush off the spectre of the past hovering over me.

I liken my family to a giant onion - in the very centre is the love we hold for each other. The love is real, but it's buried beneath multiple layers of faulty communication - terse words, denigration, argument, manipulation. We don't know how to express our love because if we ever knew how to communicate in a healthy way, we've certainly forgotten now. I stumble and trip over the words "I love you", instead resorting to time worn patterns of blame and resignation.

So when Wilhelmine and Nico collapsed into a heap of recriminations and anger, I understood exactly where they were coming from, and their pain was my pain.

One day I hope to peel back the layers of the onion and find the love we hold in our hearts for each other. One day I hope to say "I love you" to each member of my family without feeling self-conscious and false. One conversation at a time. One layer at a time. I will get there.

can somebody please tell me how to respond?

My dad got married today. Not to my mother.

I don’t quite know how to behave. What does a daughter do when her dad finds somebody new to hitch up with? Is there some protocol I can follow? “Smile now. Offer congratulations at this moment. Step forward and welcome your new stepmother with a brush on the cheek. Smile some more.”

Can somebody tell me how I should feel? Mostly I feel like weeping. Weeping for what isn’t. Weeping for what never really was, but should have been. Weeping of a broken heart shattered by pain.

This journey into family breakdown began when my mother decided enough was enough, and left my father. I fully support her decision – 30 years of abuse is a long time. That was four years ago, but in reality the journey began long before Mum left… it began before I was born, and was travelled every day of my life.

Growing up, we had a semblance of normalcy as we played happy family for the outside world. We did the things families do – fun excursions to Royal Australian Navy ships, visits to the Royal Easter Show in Sydney, scrubbed faces and best dresses in church every Sunday. We knew how to act when we were on show: smile and laugh in the right places; never give away the traumas experienced behind closed doors; jump to one another’s defence if anyone dares to hint something might not be quite right.

To everyone else we were a tightly knit family - on the inside we stuck together because we were brainwashed and cowed.

In my mind our family was like a magnificent Faberge egg. Gilt and beautiful on the outside; a fabulous specimen of fine art. Hollow on the inside with no real substance, no nourishment.

Somewhere along the way each of us became gradually aware that life in our household was not what it should be. Where there ought to have been love and laughter we were at odds with one another; unable to relate meaningfully; tearing each other apart as we struggled to survive the onslaught to our souls.

Despite all of that, when Mum left I was devastated. The pretence was over. Before she went there may have been wounds and pain, but technically we were still a family. Now there could be no pretending. The treasured Faberge egg fell to the floor and smashed into a million pieces, and with it, my heart.

You’d think that after four years I might have worked through some of the pain. I have (all credit to God and his infinite love), but like Humpty Dumpty, things can never be put back together again. Especially when I want them put back the way they should have been right from the start – with love and respect and patience and generosity and joy.

I’ve learned to accept that there will always be places in my heart that will never heal, that will never recover from the tearing. Mostly I hide the wounds, sometimes I uncover them in order to allow myself to feel the pain, occasionally I reveal them so I might offer healing to others. (Henri Nouwen, The Wounded Healer)

So where does that leave me on this day when my father has married another woman?

Obviously in pain!
Confused.
Constrained by how I think I should feel:

Millions have walked where I now tread… I am not the first to experience the advent of a stepmother. This is normal for the world today so surely I can accept my reality amongst the greater reality and respond graciously with a welcoming smile?

Besides, since when was my father ever accountable to me? He is his own person. He makes his own decisions. I am a child, and children don’t tell parents what they should or shouldn’t do. Let him make his own decision and live with the results. It’s not my business. Butt out and let the day pass without too much bother. His life, not mine!

This normalising tool sounds good in a counselling text but it does nothing for the ache in my heart. It doesn’t hide the feeling of betrayal. It doesn’t give me back my family.

Deep down inside, my Faberge egg has been ground into dust. If it could have been put back together before, it certainly can’t be now.

Ah the pain.

I don’t know how to behave. I haven’t figured out the protocol. All I know is that once again I feel terribly wounded. I can only sit with that pain until the way forward becomes clear.