"I dwell in possibility -- " *

In the early 1990s, I started what became a two decade wrestling match with depression that took me into dark places of my mind that I never knew existed. I fought back with prayer, counseling, and medication. When those failed to deliver me, when I developed psychotic hallucinations and delusions, I fought back in psychiatric hospitals. Seven times I was admitted to a psych ward between 1996 and 2005; six times I thought I had conquered the darkness. Today, I know that the depression was due to bipolar disorder. Today, I know that I do not conquer it once and for all, but continue to overcome it every day for the rest of my life.


My long battle with the depressive part of bipolar began in 1992 at the end of a difficult pregnancy which resulted in miscarrying twins. Following closely on the heels of that was a major move and change in lifestyle. From 1992 until 1996, I sought help through counseling within my church and talking with friends and family. There were times when the fog lifted, but for most of those three and a half years, I was bathed in despair. I always felt I was a failure as a mother, wife, and Christian. There was nothing I set out to do that I felt I accomplished with success. That those thoughts were untrue never occurred to me. Part of the delusion that bipolar depression brings about is that of abject failure.


I often thought of ways to die; frequently envisioning violent, gory images involving knives, claws, and other sharp objects. I then spent lots of time alone in my bathroom, sitting in the tub and running water to drown out the sounds of my crying. I was also trying to wash away the things that made me so objectionable to others, though those things were not at all the thoughts or intentions of others. I had many of the classic symptoms of depression: feelings of hopelessness and worthlessness, inability to sleep all or sleeping all day by turns, difficulty in accomplishing everyday tasks, irritability, and fatigue.

The first time I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital was in 1996. The mental images of drastically hurting myself were at an all-time high. I constantly saw images of bloody knives and scissors. I worked with scissors at my job, as well as an industrial sewing machine, and I fought an overwhelming onslaught of imagery involving slicing myself or ramming my hand under the needle. Work became impossible.

One day, I left my machine and called a friend for help. My plan had been to run naked down a busy street in the next town in the hopes of being arrested and locked up where I would be safe. Instead, my friend took me to see a psychiatrist on an emergency basis. By nightfall I was in a locked ward with a dozen other women all dealing with some form of mental illness.


Over the next eight years, I continued with bouts of depression and was eventually started on a years-long course of anti-depressants. Because I never presented to a hospital with problems other than depression, no other diagnosis was entertained.


I started back to school in 1997 and excelled, pulling a 4.0 in spite of dealing with serious stress at home. I landed a job from my externship and did well, but I was having more and more difficulty concentrating, couldn’t sit still, and would behave in very unprofessional ways at work. One of my bosses wondered if I didn’t have adult attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder. I wondered, too. I also wondered if I might have bipolar because I would start the day depressed and end the day feeling super high. I never did drugs or drank alcohol, though substance abuse is often co-morbid with bipolar. Other hypomanic behaviors were there: starting projects and not finishing them, a sense of invincibility, no apparent need for sleep, and a constant feeling of being “up”.


The cycling between depression and hypomania should have been something that my doctors and I “caught” early on. But, like most bipolar people, I only sought help when the depressive symptoms were interfering with my life. Including the doctor that arranged for my first hospitalization, I saw eight different doctors and counselors before learning that my true problem was bipolar disorder. Like many bipolars, I was always initially diagnosed with clinical or major depression.


At the beginning of 2000, I became a reporter/ editor for a local newspaper. I was functioning pretty well and not dealing with much depression. The anti-depressants I was on had me in a state of constant hypomania – one of the problems bipolar people have with that particular class of drugs. I worked long hours, stayed up late, covered everything that needed covered in our small town, and rarely had a “stringer” to help me get everything done. I was the sole news reporter.


The long hours and constant lack of sleep, coupled with the deadline stress and problems at home, resulted in a full blown panic disorder. I’d been prone to anxiety and had suffered what I now know were panic attacks, but the job stress brought everything to the fore. Anxiety and panic disorders are also frequently co-morbid with bipolar disorder. I spent many evenings in ER with dangerously high blood pressure and chest pains. I underwent scores of cardiac tests. Everything was always negative for heart disease. Having the diagnosis of a panic disorder allowed me to get counseling and medication to treat that, but the bipolar continued undiagnosed. Again, I was only seeking help for symptoms that were troublesome to me.


At some point in 2000, the anti-depressant I was on quit working and I started having problems with depression again. A new anti-depressant put me into a full-blown mania that lasted for well over a year. During that time, I married an ex-con I’d met online and had moved to Indiana. I was spending more and more time online and losing all contact with my teenage daughter and my other friends. I was working more hours at the paper, but risked my job with some bizarre behavior outside the office. Finally, it all fell apart.


The year 2004 saw the beginning of what would be six hospitalizations within a 15 month period. All the psychotic features of the worst depressions were back. Now I saw my hands as werewolf-like, capable of ripping my throat out. I would close my eyes and see demonic images full of fury and hatred. I became depressed again and suicidal.

What started happening was severe rapid cycling. The more my depression was treated with anti-depressants, the worse the manic and psychotic features became. I would go to the hospital to get help with the suicidal ideation and difficulties sleeping, get counseling, and still end up back in the hospital several weeks or months later.


It wasn’t until sometime in 2005 that my psychiatrist finally pegged me with bipolar disorder and started a course of medical treatment that included anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers to lower the highs while maintaining the anti-depressants to raise the lows. Since that time, I have been on various “drug cocktails” as we work to keep my symptoms at bay. I left the paper, quit several other jobs, left the ex-con, moved back to Texas, changed psychiatrists several times, and have been on more medications than I can count in my effort to put my life back on an even keel.

Bipolar is never something that one “gets over”. It cannot be cured like cancer, but it can be controlled like diabetes. For now, everything is mostly under control. With counseling and finessing the meds, I have been able to return to school where I maintain an A average. I will be graduating next year with my first bachelor degree. From being at a point where I couldn’t function in a normal job or in any normal capacity, I have now held the same job for five years. From feelings of hopelessness and despair of ever having any success in life, I know now that I live a life of endless possibilities.

* Emily Dickinson

“Mmm … bacon." *

I have to admit to being a bacon freak. Ever since I was a little kid, the smell of bacon early in the morning has meant home, family, love and comfort. I think the first places I associate with bacon cooking are my grandparents' homes.

There was Grandma Giger in her big farmhouse kitchen, wearing a dress by 6 a.m. and fully aproned, turning bacon in the skillet for Grandpa and my dad when they came in from chores. She'd start a new pan of bacon for my cousins, my brothers and me as soon as we rolled out of bed, which might be as late as 8 a.m. since we were there visiting on our summer vacation. My aunts and Mom would eat with us. Maybe my uncles and my Dad would join us again. Perhaps they were like Hobbits -- having second breakfast.

At my Nana's house, there was no apron, and there was none of that 6 a.m. business. But as soon as we kids were awake enough to roll out of bed and mention being hungry, it was time for her to throw a dish towel over her shoulder and start the bacon.

Eggs, pancakes, French toast...I suppose we had all of those, too. Well, I know we did. But the smell of bacon in the house meant someone that loved us very much was up and cooking something to fill our bellies and tantalize our tastebuds.

There is still bacon in the house. Though Dad is now the chef and the microwave has replaced the cast iron skillet. When I smell bacon cooking on a Saturday or Sunday morning now, I wake up smiling and wander into the kitchen to grab a piece or to ask for a share of my own.

I'd love to be one of those bacon connoisseurs and get paid to travel around the country trying all the bacon there is to sample. But that job has already been taken. Chef Todd Fisher was the lucky son of a gun chosen for a cross-country bacon tour. The result? A three hour special called the United States of Bacon.


And yes, I know all about fat and cholesterol and how bacon isn't good for me. Surprisingly, my grandmother who probably had it every day of her life lived a long life and my Nana's health problems later in life were not due to bacon. Still, I don't have it every day...maybe a couple of times a month, if that. Doesn't mean I don't still wax nostalgic for the time when my daughter and I had either bacon or sausage with eggs almost every day for several months. Back when I was making breakfast every day and back when my cholesterol count was better than my doctor's.

Now I eat microwaved bacon at home, carefully absorbing all the grease between two layers of paper towels. I eschew the bacon bits on my baked potatoes, and I am careful with them in my potato soup. I still enjoy the occasional BLT sandwich if the tomatoes are thick cut and garden fresh. If I eat breakfast out, I will opt for bacon over sausage almost every single time...especially if I eat at Cracker Barrel, where I almost always pick breakfast for my meal of choice. Bacon, eggs, grits, biscuits. It doesn't get better than that.

But apparently I'm not alone in my love of bacon. And now bacon lovers all over the world have put their creative bacon ideas out for the public to enjoy. There are bacon sodas, bacon brownies, chocolate chip and bacon cookies, bacon toothpaste (!) and floss (!), and even bacon vodka and beer. I haven't tried any of these nor have I tried Hiway Cafe's chicken-fried bacon here in Wichita Falls. But that isn't to say I won't. I'm game for a taste of most things. I just haven't had the opportunity to try some of these things yet.

On Pinterest this past week, someone had bacon pancakes pinned up. They look awesome and I will have to give them a try if I can talk Dad away from the microwave and back to the griddle.

Goofing on the internet today, I discovered a wonderful site dedicated to bacon: BaconToday.com. If you are a lover of bacon and all things bacon-flavored and themed, you must check out BaconToday.com. It has bacon news, a bacon shop, bacon reviews, and bacon recipes.

I may be in trouble the rest of the week. It's payday soon and I have a hankering to try those bacon brownies!

Maybe Mom will smell me cooking bacon and making brownies and think, "Ah, somebody loves me is cooking something wonderful for me."

In any event, I feel some bacon coming on!


* Homer Simpson

“The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.” *

Ouabache State Park in Bluffton, Indiana is the one place where I feel most connected to earth and space and God and sense of well-being. This is where I come to feel most freely. I come in the spring to feel hope. I come in the summer to experience joy. I come in the fall to witness change. I come in the winter to know restfulness.


A forested place, the pine trees – ever freshly green no matter the season – stretch up into the sky so high I can barely see their tops for the sun. There are oaks as well, and probably maples. I am no arborist, and not quite a tree hugger, but I am happy wandering the paths under these many boughs.

In the spring, there are leaf buds and flowers of different kinds speckling the branches. Walking the dirt trails among these trees coming alive from a winter’s sleep is an exercise in expectation. Each day brings new growth to every branch. Each week brings new nests and fresh-laid eggs as long-gone birds return to raise new families in familiar woods. Each walk shows promise welling up into fruition as acorns grow, leaves unfurl, and the native fauna begin the rituals that will bring new life into the park come summer.


Walking into summer, I see how the park has grown into its potential. Now the boughs of the deciduous trees are fully leafed. Green does not begin to describe the various hues of color I can see above me now. There are dark and light greens, yellow greens, olive greens, fern greens; so many shades I cannot name them all, but my eye discerns their differences. As I walk the trail around the long, wide lake, I climb the berm and come out of the trees for a while.


At the edge of the lake are cattails and other water plants. Dragonflies practice map-of-the-earth flights and take their brief respites on the gently swaying reeds. Water-spiders glide long-legged across the surface, causing hidden frogs to appear at the offer of such a tasty lunch. Farther out, there are pops of water where fish surface finding their own food. Lazy concentric circles flare out from the pops in seeming unending rhythm, merging into other circles from still other fish bites. Farthest away, I can see the sun’s reflection on the ripples the breeze is causing. The trees across the lake throw long mirror-like reflections onto the water.


Fall comes. The leaves of trees and bushes are tinted with orange, red, umber, and brown. As autumn progresses, the foliage reaches what all the nature lovers crave: “peak color”. The fiery colors blaze forth in such glory that I hold my breath at the wonder of it. Back into the woods and the well-traveled trails, there is a canopy of color that can rival any impressionist’s palette.

Walking the trails deeper into autumn, I am privy to the leaves making their slow, sensuous, spiraling fall to the ground. They flirt with the breeze, swaying this way and that as they come finally to land. Now my walk is strewn with a thick layer of fallen leaves and pine needles. My steps are softened, but the sound is heightened by the crunch of crispness underfoot. I can be heard more easily than any other time of the year, and my footsteps alert the deer that are grazing out of my sight. I can hear them leap away deeper into the woods though I can rarely see them. Only sometimes am I able to glimpse a white tail or a flash of leg. It won’t be until winter when I will see them fully.


At last, winter. Deep snow, bare branches, and a frozen lake are now the stars of the show. Canadian geese fly in and land in long slides on the solid surface of Ouabache Lake. The deer are seen browsing bushes that still have forage. It is face-numbingly cold now, but the sun on the snow is blinding bright. Footfalls are hushed by the deep snow whether on the trails or in the open areas.


I come to Ouabache throughout the year to experience and acknowledge all the beauty nature gives in her every season. I am never disappointed. I am never bored. I am always delighted and surprised by some new thing I am shown and allowed to know.


* John Muir

"Life is the only real counselor..." *

With a soft, southern drawl harking back to his Arkansas roots, Kevin Thompson’s voice invites you to sit back and be comfortable, open up, talk about yourself, and discuss the heavy things of life or laugh at the craziness of it all. That’s a good thing because Kevin is a counselor at the local mental health center. Getting people to open up can be a difficult thing when they are dealing with bipolar, depression, schizophrenia, or any number of other mental illnesses. But Kevin has a voice, and a knack, for letting people feel they can safely do just that. It also helps that Kevin knows quite a lot about what you are going through; he himself has bipolar disorder.

“I know the depths of the pits, the highest peaks of the tallest mountains, and everything in between.”

And indeed he does.

After leaving college in his early twenties (he freely admits to being there for “nothing but fun”), Kevin joined the Air Force as a firefighter. He was active duty for three years and twenty days. Before he left, however, he was hospitalized for what was eventually diagnosed as bipolar disorder. Mania. Depression. It was all there and it came to a point where being inpatient was required.

It was not a positive experience.

“They didn’t know what the hell they were doing,” he says of the hospital staff. “They were babysitting me…thinking I was just faking for a medical discharge.”

He wasn’t faking, and he did get medically discharged.

That time spent in the hospital became his inspiration to become a counselor.
Armed with his experiences in the military’s psychiatric hospital and an understanding of what it was to be bipolar, he returned to school to pursue a degree in psychology.

In spite of dealing with his own illness, Kevin graduated with his Bachelor’s degree at 25 years of age and his Master’s at 27. During that time, he worked at the mental health clinic as a peer counselor. Now a licensed counselor, he has two peer counselors working under him. (A peer counselor is a person who has similar issues as the people he or she is helping and is successfully dealing with them.) The program Kevin leads helps about twenty clients in various group and individual sessions.
When his clients find out that Kevin is “one of them”, their first reaction is often surprise.

“Oh, really?” they ask him. “Can you do that?”

He points to all the certificates and licenses on his wall and assures them that yes, he can do this.

Not that everyone thought he could. The vocational rehabilitation counselor at the VA hospital told him that he couldn’t become a counselor.

Kevin’s response to that was, “Are you sure about that?”

“I was going to do it whether or not he thought I could,” Kevin says emphatically.
And he is doing it.

That isn’t to say it’s easy all the time. “I feel less effective when my meds wear off in the morning,” he admits. “I still do (all my work); it’s just harder.”

Still, one of the best things about his job, he says, is when the clients look at him and say, “You know what you’re talking about.”

Asked about his motto for his counseling career or his life with bipolar, Kevin is quick to answer: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” He quotes not Freud or Jung, but Saint Paul.

He has Christ, and he has his family. Kevin’s biggest fan club is comprised of three matriarchs in his family: “Momma, Memaw, and Auntie.” Asked how they encourage him, he says with a childlike grin, “They tell me how wonderful I am.” His father, too, is a big supporter. When Kevin took home pamphlets on bipolar disorder, his father not only read them, but took them to work to share with others. His bipolar is not a secret or a shame in his family. Kevin is just Kevin.

In spite of all the difficulties having bipolar can bring, Kevin still counts it a blessing in his life, especially as it pertains to his counseling.

“It’s helped me understand the extremes of human emotion,” he says, “and to be able to talk people away from the edge.”


* Edith Wharton

"Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world." *

About seven years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I don't remember exactly when, but sometime before Thanksgiving of 2005. I remember because I was in the hospital, again, on Thanksgiving of that year eating beef and noodles for dinner. I have spent an Easter in the hospital for depression, and Thanksgiving as an inpatient for bipolar. They are odd holidays to be hospitalized for feeling so down you want to die: a holiday of hope and new beginnings, and a holiday of reflection and gratitude.

Just over six years ago, I moved home to Texas from Indiana. I couldn't hold a full-time job there, my husband was leaving me to come to Texas for marital counseling, and being up there alone to figure things out didn't seem to make sense. My parents said, "Come home." And I did.

Five years ago, I started a part-time job at Cracker Barrel. It's part-time not just because they don't really offer full time positions much, but also because some weeks working too much can trigger bipolar symptoms and some months I need time off to deal with med changes or other issues from the bipolar. Still, I've worked there for five full years and have received my first pin -- given at 5, 10, 15 and 20 years. Much as I like my coworkers and like my job, though, I don't want to get my 10-year pin.

Three and a half years ago, a friend challenged me with the question: "What are your passions? Do you have still have any anymore? What is it you really want to do with your life?"

My most fulfilling and rewarding job, of all that I have had over the past 17 years, has been writing. I loved being a newspaper editor, reporter and columnist. It was a small town paper, published three days a week, but I loved almost all of it. I got burned out because I was manic and didn't know it (pre-diagnosis), was having severe marital and family problems, and quit to do something I thought would make more money but couldn't do well as it turned out. I've always been a writer of some kind, though. I loved English and essays and research papers in school. I loved some of the freelance articles I did on the side at the paper. I am prolific in emails, online support boards, in blogs, and in Facebook. I spend so much of my time communicating with others via the written word.

To be questioned about my passion reminded me of all of that. Writing is my passion. It is the thing I find most challenging, most interesting, most rewarding even now.

So three years ago, I went back to school. I enrolled in the online program at Southern New Hampshire University. I started out as an English Language and Literature major, then switched to a Creative Writing with a Non-Fiction Specialty major. I have enough hours that I will have my minor still in English.

What will I do with a degree? I will write. I will write for myself. I will write to be published. I will continue with what I've been doing on the side. I may go back to working for a newspaper. Some say that newspapers are dying, which is true. But news is not. And someone has to write what you read about online or hear about on television. Maybe I will write for a magazine. Those are as much online as in print now, too, but people are still reading them. And I will write to continue to educate people about bipolar and other mental health issues.

Seven years ago, I thought I was worthless and beyond redemption as far as any meaningful contribution to society was concerned. Six yeas ago, I was in a safe place and working on recovering from all that my mind and emotions had put me through in the ten years previous. Five years ago, I was finally able to re-enter the workforce and start contributing to my family. Three years ago, I started planning a future.

Now, with only four and a half classes left to take for my Bachelor's, I'm setting my sights on a Master's degree...also in Creative Writing. Never before have I even considered such a thing and now it sounds not only possible, but plausible. I have talked with my advisor, met the new Master's advisor via phone, and have all the information I need to start planning for 2014 and beyond.

Will I get a job at a paper? Will I work for one of my favorite magazines? Will I be a freelancer and get my work published all over the place in different venues? Will I end up teaching other writers as they start their own education and careers?

That part remains to be seen. But I'm pretty much determined that I will be off disability, out of Cracker Barrel (though it has been very good to me and for me), and working in my degree field before 2016.

* Nelson Mandela

"Life is a train of moods..." *

I only remember that he said he had a diagnosis finally. This was odd because I thought we knew the diagnosis. After all, this was my fourth time in the hospital in about one year’s time – always with severe depression that didn’t seem to respond to treatment, always with violent images in my head of hurting myself, always with freakish visions of devilish faces leering at me.

Everything that I’d read about bipolar disorder indicated to me that mania was a huge part of the illness, and that people with mania were out having a hell of a lot more fun than I ever did. They blew scads of money, made crazy decisions, did outrageous things. Sure, I’d given a thousand dollars to a man I’d met once so he could move to Indiana to marry me. Sure, he was an ex-con with some serious issues. (I was convinced he had or would overcome them.) Sure, I had weeks where I averaged only 3-4 hours of sleep a day. Sure I left a good career and went in to a completely foreign job for no good reason. But I wasn’t promiscuous, doing drugs, drinking, or anything glamorous. Where did the shrink get the idea I was bipolar?

When Dr. Ishak told me the diagnosis, I went cold. Angry cold. Terrified cold. I shut down. I asked to be excused. I went to my hospital room sobbing. I wanted to scream. I was angry but didn’t know who with. I asked the nurses for a Sharpie. Surprisingly, they gave me one. Maybe they figured the damage I could do with a Sharpie would be minimal.

I took the Sharpie back to my room and did two things. I made a sign that said, “No Visitors. No phone calls. NOBODY.” I taped it to my door and shut it firmly. I didn’t want anyone in my circle of family and friends to learn the horrible truth. I needed time to process alone. Then I drew a railroad track on my depression-grey men’s t-shirt I’d brought to sleep in. I drew a giant train barreling down the track – straight out of my chest and going away from myself. I wrote “Bipolar Express” on it. If I could have drawn a reasonable Tom Hanks conductor, I would have.

I put the shirt on, then sat down to cry – uninterrupted except for one tech checking on me occasionally. I cried as if my life were ending. Because it was. What if being bipolar meant that I was crazy? What about all the hilarious times I had when I was with my friends? What if all those creative stories and poems and columns I’d written when I couldn’t sleep were just some manic mumblings and weren’t all that great anyway? What if we treated the bipolar and I couldn’t write anymore? Couldn’t have fun anymore? What if no one liked the sane me that I would likely be medicated in to?

Killing the depression was one thing. I longed for that. But bipolar meant that something else was wrong…that even the good times might just be chemicals misfiring and get medicated away.

Truth be told, that happened.

I’ve been on medication that took away all my motivation. Left me lifeless and emotionless. Zapped my creativity. Not depressed, but not happy, either. I have been written up at work because “you don’t seem to care about anything.” I had to request a med change then because it was true. I didn't laugh as much. It was years before I could write again.

It took patience and support from my family, multiple discussions with a long line of psychiatrists and counselors, and lots of study and research on my part about the disorder to get where I am today. I left the ex-con. I moved home. Mostly stable now, I am in school and employed part-time. I’m not bringing home the big bucks and not able to risk my stability with the kind of high pressure jobs I had in the past; but I laugh, I have friends, and I have the kind of fun sane people have.
I’m writing again, too.

It’s good having the Bipolar Express on the right track.


* Ralph Waldo Emerson

"A Heartbeat is a Lovebeat..." *

There is in her mind a safe and quiet spot, though she doesn't always remember where she put it. When she is in need of a place where she can hide...where she can bury her face in something warm and soft and hear again the steady rhythm of life beating in a heart not her own, she remembers that safe and quiet spot...and she goes there.

She is two. Or she is four or five or six. She can't be more than nine because nine is when her grandmother developed leukemia and nine is when her grandmother died.

However old she is...she is still small enough to be picked up. Or to be invited up. And held in the ample lap and bosom of her father's mother. The grandmother that is old and wrinkly and smells of soft powder.

The other grandmother, younger, holds her, too. But in a smaller lap. The other grandmother is the grandmother that she does things with -- the library and walks and cooking and laughing and discussing things that small minds concoct.

But this is the farm grandmother. The Grandma and not the Nana. It is the Grandma holding her that she remembers most.

So, she is young and small. And she is held.

Grandma picks her up. This year. And this year. And the next year.

This next year, Grandma says, as she always does, "You have grown!"

And this is the year that Grandma doesn't scoop her up and whisk her away to a rocker, though her little brothers are still scoopable and whiskable and rockable.

She worries, seeing her baby brother in her grandmother's arms, that she has been somewhat replaced. But she says nothing. Just sits in the big farm kitchen watching Grandma rock baby Jay.

She loves Jay. And is proud of him. And glad for him that Grandma is rocking him.

She isn't jealous...and doesn't wish him away. But she worries that her own lap time is over for good and she is afraid.

If a little girl gets too big to be held and rocked...what then does she do?

When will she breathe deeply and smell the scent of soft, aged skin and a woman's favorite powder? When will she know again the feel of an apron against her cheek that carries with it the aroma of this morning's bacon frying and tonight's cinnamony apple pie?

When will she snuggle up against a woman softer than a pillow and stronger than iron? When will she hear the voice of a woman deep in the heart?

"Kim" -- her name -- she hears often. But in the timbre in her Grandma's chest, "Kim" sounds magical...and deep...and mystical...and safe...and...enduring.

If she is so big that Grandma cannot pick her up. If she is too big to be invited to climb into her Grandma's lap. What then?

She doesn't remember Jay falling asleep. Or that Jamie is outside with Grandpa and the piglets.

She knows that Mom is sitting at the table as Jay is rocked and they are talking -- Mom and Grandma. So she sits...in the heat of a summer kitchen with a breeze blowing through the open windows...listening to the talk and watching her brother snuggle in their Grandma's arms.

"I've grown," she thinks as the conversation and rhythm of the rocking chair drift around her and through her.

Her arms are longer. Her legs are longer. Her knees are knobby and her legs are white because it is early summer and her shorts are new. She is not so grown that her feet touch the floor when she sits in the big dining room chair, though. And she thinks about that as she sits sideways in the chair watching her grandmother and watching her mom.

She puts one arm around the back of the chair and one arm on the big dining table and scootches a little closer to the edge of the side of the seat...and her dangling bare feet touch the cool wooden floor. But only with the toes.

Since she has grown and now her feet touch the floor...she stays put a while. Listening. Watching. Feeling -- the breeze and the floor and the bit of sweat.

She doesn't notice when Jay falls asleep and Mom takes him upstairs to put him in the crib.

The crib is in "her" room. The room she stays in whenever they all visit Grandma and Grandpa. It was Daddy's crib. And everyone -- all the cousins -- even she -- has slept in it at one time or another. It is Jay's turn now.

The crib is by her bed and at night she listens as Jay sleeps his baby sleep beside her. It too is a safe and comforting thing...listening to baby sleep. But not the same as being held and rocked in Grandma's lap.

So Mom and Jay have gone upstairs.

It is just Grandma and herself in the big farm kitchen for now.

She looks at her Grandma and smiles a small smile.

Grandma smiles back.

"Grandma?" she says. "Can I ask you a question?"

"It's 'may I'," says Grandma who was a school teacher in old-timey days in a one-room schoolhouse. "And yes, you may."

"Am I too big?"

Grandma doesn't even have to ask "Too big for what?" -- she only holds out her arms and says, "Come here, child."

And she goes over to stand in front of her Grandma. Afraid that she will be told she is indeed "too big" -- and that powder and softness and the sound of her name in her Grandma's heart are a thing of the past.

"No," says Grandma. "I mean...come *here*, Kim."

And she pats her lap before spreading her arms wider. "My lap," Grandma says. "Come here and I will rock you."

Still worried that she is too big...she climbs cautiously into Grandma's lap.

Grandma touches her head and pulls it close to her shoulder, then rests for a moment with one arm encircling her back to front, and one hand brushing her still baby-fine hair.

"Kim," she whispers, "You'll never be too big to be held by Grandma Giger."

And they rock.

Quietly.

And she is content deep inside herself and it seems the two -- the Grandma and the Child -- become one for a while. They breathe in and they breathe out at the same time. She listens to her Grandmother's heart and realizes that her own is beating in rhythm with it.

When Mom comes downstairs, she smiles at her daughter -- her eldest -- wrapped up in the arms of her Grandmother's love. And she sits at the table. The two grown-ups begin talking again...of things that she knows little of...because for all her being so grown up now, she is still a little girl.

She stays silent. Listening. Watching. Feeling...the woman that is her grandmother, her father's mother, the beginning of the world for all she knows so far.

She doesn't move because it seems as if a magical wonderful spell of love has been woven...and it is soft and fine as a fairy spider web...and she doesn't want a sudden motion to break it away.

She is 20 now. Or 30 or 37 or 41. She can't be more than 41 because her birthday hasn't come yet this year.

She doesn't ever remember leaving her Grandma's lap that day...though she knows, of course, she did.

There was dinner that night.

There was a party for Grandma and Grandpa's 60th anniversary.

There was a funeral and tears.

No, she doesn't remember leaving Grandma's lap that day. Though she's walked many places since then and knows of course that she did.

But she still can hear the sound of her name...against the backdrop of her Grandmother's heartbeat...and it quiets her and stills her...in ways she can't explain.

And she wonders now...that magic she felt? How much of it was childhood fantasy...and how much of it was God...knitting together two hearts forever...?

It was the last time that Grandma ever had the chance to hold her that way again.

And now, she thinks the magic was God.



* "Heartbeat , It's A Lovebeat" Lyrics by the DiFranco Family