Resurrection of a Marriage

It's only fitting on this Good Friday of Holy Week that I can claim that my marriage has been resurrected.
Fifteen days ago my husband walked out on me. The night before that, I came home from my internship unexpectedly early and he was drunk. This is after living with him during a 1 1/2 year relapse after 5 years of sobriety; after a 4 day detox which included watching him have a seizure in the Emergency Room; after a month of residential treatment an hour from home and running myself ragged trying to visit him whenever I could, keep up with my school work, my internship hours, and provide therapy to my clients; after what I thought was 57 days of his new sobriety. Hurtful things were said by us both that evening. Then the next morning, after showering and dressing, at 9:25am he walked to his car and drove off.
I won't - actually I don't think I can, describe what the past two weeks have been like. Only those who have lived it really know. Some days I was all "I-don't-need-no-man" bravado, other days I felt like I was getting hit by the same bag of bricks, over and over again.
He and I didn't see each other or speak to each other during this separation, and all I kept hearing from the few people he was talking to was that "he wasn't ready to come home yet." Some days I felt like I would keep the door open forever, other days I felt like this door ain't gonna be open for much longer.
After much deep prayer, meditation, and contemplation I came to my decision: the door wouldn't be open forever, but knowing that my husband is an alcoholic, it wasn't slamming shut anytime soon, either.
It's not a coincidence that all of this thinking and feeling was happening during Holy Week. I often contemplated my pain in light of the pain God felt, having to sacrifice his only son for the forgiveness of us all, and Jesus's pain of having to sacrifice his very life for our, for my, salvation. I was betrayed by my husband and the most insidious disease I have ever encountered, but I had to consider where my compassion and my forgiveness lay. I am by no means a New Testament scholar, but I imagine that the list of crap humanity had accumulated by the time Jesus was crucified way out measures my hurt, my pain, and my sense of betrayal.
So my husband came home today. Within days of his leaving, both of us had taken off our wedding rings. Earlier today I placed his band back on the ring finger of his left hand, and he did the same for me.
I can't explain the unconditional love I feel for this man and that I know he feels for me. In 5 1/2 years of marriage, this is the first true "rough patch" (that grossly under-describes it, by the way) that we've encountered and we've endured. In my mind, it defies logic and reason...it's something more like faith.

On the Precipice of 40

I will turn 40 years old in 29 days. Several of my close friends have already crossed this barrier into the unknown of "middle age." Does 40 even count as middle age anymore? If you listen to people in their 50s and early 60s, it doesn't. "Life begins at 40" has been a popular saying since the bulk of Baby Boomers began to turn 40 two decades ago. I think Baby Boomers latched onto that saying out of a shear sense of denial, which has defined much of the average Baby Boomer's existence.

One of the reasons I think turning 40 doesn't mean much more to me than any other birthday is the fact that I don't have children so I can't compare my lifetime milestones to theirs: I can't say, "Oh I remember when I started kindergarten" while watching my own 5-year-old hesitantly entering elementary school for the first time. I also can't say "Oh, I remember when I got my driver's license" as I watch my own 16-year-old tear out of the driveway. I don't have anything or anyone in my daily life to compare my aging process to, which in my mind keeps me thinking, "I don't feel like I'm 39 and 11/12, I feel like I'm 22." Which has both it's benefits and it's drawbacks. On this point I think I have inherited that Baby Boomer denial mechanism.

Being close to turning 40 has made me question some of my physical abilities, however. I often wonder if I don't feel like taking the puppy for a daily walk because I'm 16 years older than the last time I was responsible for walking a puppy, or if it's due to something more sinister like depression. It's hard to tell some days.

As I am a self-disclosed hopeless romantic and enjoy a heavy dose of schmaltz to mark certain milestones, I imagine I will do a lot of reflecting on my life thus far over the next 29 days. All I know for sure is that I have no regrets, because if I hadn't done what I did at any given time, I wouldn't be who and where I am today. Whether I'm 40, 20, or 60 years old, that much I know for sure.

Happy 1st Birthday Apollo

1 year ago today, in a miserable puppy-mill in Georgia, a wire-haired terrier mix & his sister were born. That little puppy had no idea in what direction his life would go. He didn't know that a family in Wisconsin was beginning the mourning process of letting their 14 1/2 year old dog go in the most gentle, peaceful way possible. He didn't know that he would be driven to Wisconsin & rescued by that family only 1 month after losing their precious life-long companion. He didn't know he would be named Apollo, ancient god of the sun & healing. He didn't know how much sunshine he would bring to this family & how much healing he would provide. Happy 1st birthday Apollo.

Super Bowl XLV

It's been 12 days since my Green Bay Packers (I can authoritively say "my" because I am a Packers Shareholder) won Super Bowl XLV in North Texas and every time I look at one of the 176 pictures I took, my ticket preserved forever with a 4x6 snapshot of my family at Cowboys Stadium in a frame with green and gold matting, or the pin that came with my ticket lanyard which states "I WAS THERE", like Tim Layden's tribute piece in Sports Illustrated reads, I too believe that Aaron Rodger's 26 yard pass traveled a far greater distance.

For me and my family, it traveled back to the early 1980s with a picture of my parents in the parking lot at Lambeau Field, my mother sporting a number 10 Lynn Dickey jersey (which hung in her closet for decades) and a green and gold cowboy hat. It traveled to a pre-season game I watched alone in the old Foxboro Stadium when the Packers played the Patriots my senior year of college in Boston, MA and none of my college friends would go with me. It traveled back to December 20, 2009 in Heinz Field where my family watched Ben Roethlisberger march down the field in under two minutes and steal a snowy, road victory certain to be ours. That pass traveled over my Wisconsin family's history of Packers wins and losses, glory and heartbreak, 60 degree games in December (against the Bears) and minus 4 degree games (against the Lions), surprise at receiving Packers stock for Christmas, and elation with the Super Bowl XXXI victory.

Two years ago when Green Bay lost the NFC Championship to the New York Giants, my father off-handedly commented, "If they had won, we would have gone to the game." Within minutes of the end of the Chicago Bears game on January 23, 2011 (my parent's 40th wedding anniversary) my sister and I simultaneously phoned home and our dad made good on his off-hand comment: we were going to Super Bowl XLV. Went came, we saw, we won and we brought the Lombardi trophy home.

That 26 yard pass covered a lot of ground, a lot of time, a lot of memories, and a lot of love: within a family and it's hometown team.

The Importance of the Dvorak Cello Concerto and Lessons Learned

One of the two high school teachers I learned the most about life from was Gary Wolfman, my orchestra conductor. Every spring the final concert featured senior symphony musicians, choir singers, and composers at the chapel of Lawrence University. With stars in my eyes I auditioned with a cello concerto, not just any cello concerto, but the Dvorak cello concerto. You have to understand that my stand partner was an amazing talent and is now a professional cellist, but at that time, in my opinion, he lacked the passion for the music that I exuded. Of course he auditioned and won a spot and played a beautiful (if someone stiff) version of the Saint-Saens cello concerto number 2. I did not get a soloist spot and I was crushed. I cried when the list of soloists was posted and it was lacking my name. The next day, Mr. Wolfman said to me, "I've been thinking about your response and I think this is a realization for you that you're not as good as you think you are." WHAM! I admit that I had not experienced a lot of rejection in my life up to that point, but the lesson I learned is that life isn't fair, and sometimes we're all not as good as we think we are, and that’s ok. No matter how much spirit I felt, how much I believed in myself, how much passion I exuded, sometimes life smacks you in the forehead. It was delivered to me by someone I very much respected and wanted to make proud, and by eventually accepting my lesson with grace, I think I did.
The senior concert came and went and during the Saint-Saens, I sat first chair of the cello section, the highest rung I would musically reach. There are still times, though, when I put in my earbuds and the Dvorak cello concerto comes up on my playlist. Every time, it immediately brings me back to the Lawrence University Chapel on that May day in 1989, only this time, I’m the soloist. After my chair and music stand are arranged on stage, I walk in from stage right, weaving my way through the first and second violin sections, in a gorgeous full-skirted gown. I sit down, settle my cello in, tighten my bow, adjust my music stand, and when I look to the conductor’s podium to indicate that I’m ready to go, standing there is Gary Wolfman.

Been away for awhile

I've been less diligent about blogging recently. That's mostly due to our 10 days in Hawaii from 03-17 to 03-26. It truly was paradise. After being home for a couple of weeks now, what I miss the most is listening to people speak the native Hawaiian language. For 10 days everything was "Aloha" and "Mahalo" and when I say it now it sounds so foreign. When Peanut takes his medication every day I say, "Mahalo" to thank him and just so I can hear the word.
Of course the snow that fell overnight isn't helping me re-adjust to being at home either. Only one day was the weather pretty lousy in Hawaii, it was very windy with a high temperature of 68 degrees on our first day on the big island of Hawaii. They say there's always rain somewhere on the islands due to the volcanoes and when we traveled up into the higher elevations touring the volcanoes we found the rain.
The fascinating thing about Hawaii for me is that it is so different from the rest of the U.S. At one point there was a ruling monarchy located in Hawaii which is not something any other U.S. state can claim. Of course the original colonies were under the rule of King George of England, but his court wasn't located in the U.S. Hawaiian history is unlike so much U.S. history, I find that very interesting. I recently finished reading a book I bought while on vacation titled Hawaiian Journey which gives a general overview of the Hawaiian way of life before and after colonization and statehood. I recommend it to anyone interested in a general overview of Hawaiian rule and history.
Maui was my favorite of the three islands we visited because it truly is paradise (to me), but one of the biggest highlights of our trip occurred on the second day we were there when our tour group went to Pearl Harbor. There is construction happening on-site to update the Visitor's Center and other parts of the park, but taking the ferry to the USS Arizona and spending time on her remains is a somber and thought provoking experience. My great-uncle Carl Krause was in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 and survived. There is a 30 minute movie watched before touring the park and heading out to the Arizona, part of which discusses what it was like for the rest of the island on December 7th. I had never thought about that before. Pearl Harbor is technically located in Pearl City, which now bumps right up against Honolulu. It's not like the attacks happened in a remote location or on a fleet of ships that were out at sea; there were civilians surrounding the naval base and those people too were effected by and victims of the attacks on that Sunday morning. It was a good reminder that war takes place in the context of real people, and that perspective is sometimes lost when bombs are dropped from thousands of feet up in the air and there is no ground contact with the affected populations.
So there's snow on the ground in Wisconsin on April 8th, but I'm sure the sun is shining on the island of paradise.
Enjoy.

Eric in the Dark

I wrote this poem in 1993 about one of my best friends, Eric J. It was actually published that year in a local literary magazine. Enjoy.

Such a lonely sight
was the boy who sat on the street corner
smoking a cigarette.

Half hidden in street light shadow,
his doubled over denim frame looked almost frail
sitting there alone.

He thought and
took a long drag off his cigarette.
Exhaling the smoke,
raising his eyebrows and
tossing that thought away.

Only one long drag remained on the smoke and
he took it...
then shot the butt across the street.
The little rocket landing, then sputtering out,
invisible in the darkness.