On Hiatus . . .

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I must take a hiatus from Storm Songs. 

This does not, however, mean that I am no longer writing.  Au contraire!

There will be weekly updates to the "Publication Credits" page, so please keep following. 

I miss sharing with you . . . but I will be back when the time is right! 

Blessings to you all. 

Do Unto Others

When you're going through a personal crisis, it is easy to get so absorbed in your own pain and needs that nothing matters except managing your own "stuff."  That is normal.  It is even healthy.  Putting our energies into managing our own issues is a sign of maturity.

There should come a time, however, when healing has progressed to a place where you can not only recognize the crises others are facing but also lend a helping hand.

My opportunity to do that came a week before Christmas when a farmer I know called me and said, "We're going to lose our farm to a railroad!"

For the preceding year, the only "cause" I had the emotional, physical, and spiritual energy for was getting my kids and myself through our divorce and its fallout.  And it took all I had.  Some days it still does.

But when I heard those words over my phone, I felt a flame rise up within me.  This was a battle I had to help win in whatever small way I could.

Why this one?

It could be the fact that I have lived my life in the shadow of a farm taken by eminent domain "for the public good."  It could be because my first paying writing job was covering a farmer who also lost his farm by eminent domain so it could become a parking lot for his neighbor's significantly larger business.

It could be because I know at least two other farmers in Rhode Island who have either lost land through eminent domain or through unethical government business practices.

It could be I have finally had enough.

It could be the time was just right.

I don't know.  But in the past weeks I have written letters, posted articles, called government leaders, and spoken on radio calling for our state to prevent this railroad from going through.  I have read good portions of the NEC Tier 1 EIS and discovered that I no longer oppose this project just for my friends' sake . . .  I oppose it because it's just a plain old bad idea for our state.

Through this process, however, something else happened.  I found myself re-energized.  I rediscovered a clarity of thought and purpose that has been elusive in recent months.  I saw the sun shining through the clouds, promising that better things were on the way.

I remembered how good it felt to do something for someone else for no other reason than it's the right thing to do. 

Look for your own opportunity to "Do Unto Others" . . . it's good for you!

(By the way, you can find out more about the railroad plan on my LinkedIn and Facebook pages or by visiting the Charlestown Citizens' Alliance webpage!)  

Going to the Dogs

Before my kids were born, I had dogs.  I grew up with German Shepherds . . . and one little dopey beagle.  When I moved out on my own, I adopted a Sheltie who became my constant companion and best bud.  Six months into my marriage, we adopted an Australian Shepherd puppy.  A year later we adopted a Newfoundland cross. 

When my marriage ended, I kept the kids and the dogs. 

As much as I love my dogs, I have to admit there are times when they are an awful lot of work.  Today was such a day. 

I was helping Ranita "excavate" a Tyrannosaurus head on our kitchen table when I suspected he had had an accident.  Nope.  It was our Aussie.  Disgustingness all over my kitchen floor. 

I wondered what was going on, but didn't wonder too hard.  I mopped the floor.  I cleaned her.  I went on playing paleontologist. 

Several more times throughout the day, the scene was repeated, including the moments immediately before the new President took his oath of office. 

By 4pm, I was getting worried.  She was looking lethargic and was obviously feeling punk.  In the back of my mind was the fear that she had eaten parts of the dinosaur dig and was being poisoned.  (The comment on the label regarding "formaldehyde Phase 2" didn't alleviate my concerns any.) 

My vet was closed for the day.  I called the expensive emergency animal hospital, hoping they'd tell me to wait it out.  They told me to call Poison Control. 

For a fee of $65 Poison Control told me I should immediately get my dog to a vet. 

Ugh.  With all the upheaval of the past year, there isn't a lot of extra cash for discretionary vet bills. 

In fact, last month we were stringing popcorn and cranberries for the Christmas tree when we found one of the strands missing . . . with the needle still attached!  That call to the expensive animal hospital gave me a minimum quote of $1,500 by the time they got through with x-rays, exams, and scoping.  Add another grand if they had to do surgery. 

In another lifetime, I would have spent the money.  This time I asked the vet for home remedies.  He said to feed them bread.  Each dog got an English muffin.  We prayed . . . hard.  I watched them like a hawk for signs of sepsis.  They were fine.  Praise God!

I asked for home remedies today.  No such luck.  If it was poisoning, home remedies wouldn't do it. 

Our dogs don't get separated often, so the Newfie was frantic at being left behind.  I crated her, knowing my house would not be the same if I didn't.  The kids and I went to another neighborhood vet we had been to once before. 

Aussie messed on the floor the second we walked in the door.  In the exam room, she threw up . . . on my son's sneaker.  The personnel were amazing, though.  My kids watched the dog get a mini-bath in the back room, patted the feline mascot Arlo, and checked out a Dachshund curled up in a crate.  They also left with fish-shaped face cloths.  Good day for the kids!

It ended up being a pretty good day for Mommy, too.  The dog was suffering from something she ate, but it was nothing some probiotics and antibiotics wouldn't cure.  The bill was significantly less than the animal hospital would have been.  The vet even gave me a prescription for amoxicillin and a discount coupon to boot. 

That did lead to me having to set up a CVS account for my DOG, which was very weird. 

Pharmacist: "Is there a chance your dog is pregnant?"
Me:  "Really?  Nobody ever asks me if I'm pregnant before filling a prescription!" 

It really is a dog's life, Charlie Brown!

Turning 40

Ten years ago yesterday, I was sitting in a restaurant surrounded by friends and relatives with the realization that my 30th birthday, which I had spent a year dreading, was actually ushering in the best years of my life.  I was single, in good health, young enough to do anything I wanted and old enough to no longer care what others thought of me. 

It was brilliant. 

In the intervening years I have been an Agricultural Extension Agent, a glowing bride, a stay-at-home mom, and a cuckolded wife.  I have been divorced.  I have seen domestic abuse up close and personal.  I have caught a glimpse of the beauty that God can bring from our ashes. 

Yesterday I turned 40.  A shower of "Happy Birthdays" washed over me from family and friends via telephone and Facebook.  My former mother-in-law spent the morning with the kids and me and participated in one of our "Movie Picnics," munching on Hawaiian pizza while watching Sleeping Beauty on blankets in the living room. 

Afterwards, my kids and I went to my sister's for dinner.  ("I don't need to get cleaned up," I thought.  "It's only Sis.") 

It wasn't only Sis. 

It was my parents, both sets of grandparents, my siblings and their families, my aunts and uncles, my long-time friends.  Two hours into the party, a spill down the stairs landed my sister and me in the ER for the night.  There's a long story to go along with it, but imagine me in the ER covered in vomit for five hours, and you pretty much know how my birthday party ended!  (No, there was no alcohol involved, and yes, everyone is okay!)

This is a warning to be careful what you wish for.  My birthday wish twenty minutes before heading to the ER?  "Please let this year be better than last year!" 

My sister and I talked and laughed and commiserated non-stop.  When I wasn't gagging at my malodorous aroma, I thought how nice it was to have an uninterrupted, grown-up conversation with her. 

I also took stock of my life.  I am making my living doing the one thing I have consistently pursued: writing.  I am the proud mama of two charming, healthy, and intelligent children.  I am surrounded by friends and family who love, cherish, and support me in every way I could ever need. 

I am no longer young, but I am again single and still in good health.  I am more comfortable in my somewhat saggy skin than ever before and more clear about who this person is . . . and who she is not. And in it all, I see the golden strands of God's infinite lovingkindness, provision, mercy . . . as well as His uncanny sense of humor! 

Sis and I counted down the last 5 seconds of my 40th birthday amid the semi-hysterical giggles reserved for over-tired, over-talked, over-stressed siblings of a certain age.  

It was brilliant. 

The Cheerful Giver

There are moments as a mom when I watch my children and am moved to tears by their spontaneous acts of mercy, sympathy, and love.  (There are others when I am moved to tears for much different reasons, but this post is not about those!)  Today I experienced such a moment with my son. 

The kids and I are fortunate enough to have a couple of Sunday School school teachers who help me out with childcare pretty frequently.  My kids love them.  As the husband said today, they have 40 years of kids toys in their house.  It is toy heaven! 

More frequently than I care to admit, one or more of the toys leave their sanctuary and take up residence in my home.  It always makes me uncomfortable when my kids get "treats" just for showing up somewhere.  My family of origin did gifts on Christmas and birthdays.  Weddings.  Baby showers.  Period.  Seeing my kids lavished with stuff stirs up visions of spoiled, ungrateful brats, something I am determined not to have living under my roof!

So today, when Ranita asked if we could "buy" a handmade, wooden triplane from his sitter, I cringed.  The cringe turned into a wince when the sitter informed me they were "getting rid of it," and Ranita was welcome to it. 

I was trying to be a gracious recipient while also trying to gauge where my son was falling on the Spoil-O-Meter when his little voice penetrated my thoughts. 

"Mommy, I want to give this to J for his birthday.  He loves planes a lot more than I do.  We can play with it when I go to his house."  J is his cousin.  J's birthday is a month away, the fact of which my son was completely unaware and about which he honestly couldn't have cared less. 

What he did care about was giving his cousin a present, a present that reflected an awareness of and concern for the interests of someone else. 

Spoil-O-Meter vanished with a poof! 

I would be less than honest if I did not admit that my son is currently playing with that triplane as if his life depended on it.  It has flown over the backyard and the front yard, carried a Little Person and an array of cargo, and I suspect is hiding under his covers in his bed at this moment. 

But I know my son.  When the time comes, it will again be his idea to give the plane away, and he will do so with great joy and satisfaction.  Chances are, he won't be able to wait for J's birthday, either! 

Lego Lessons

We were about to leave for church this morning, and for the first time in forever we were on time.  I was smiling.  My son was not.  In fact, he was running around the house simultaneously screaming and crying, waving his most recent Lego creation in the air. 

"Honey, what is wrong?" I asked. 

Through hysterical sobs I deciphered, "It broke, and I can't put it back together!  It's supposed to have two holes here, and it was smaller on the bottom, but I can't put it back!  It'll never be the way it was before!"

At those words, a bombshell went off in my ears.  "It'll never be the way it was before."  Those were the same words he had uttered over six months ago when I explained to him what it meant that Mommy and Daddy were getting divorced. 

This was not about Legos. 

I sat on the floor and held him as he cried and yelled and kicked his feet, but not at me or his sister or the dogs.  Just at the floor in anguish.  I praised him for not hurting others while he was hurting.  I crooned the meaningless things mothers do when their little ones are in pain and there is no way to take it away, when the only thing to do is to participate in it. 

As he flailed, I said, "Sweetie, I know how hard it is to want something to be a certain way and not to have it that way.  But you can come back and work at it later.  It might not look like it did, but I'll bet you can make something even better." 

Deaf ears. 

After a while he calmed down, we left the Legos on the dresser, and we went to Sunday School, albeit ten minutes late.  (Some things are more important than the clock.)  By the time we got home, I had put the morning's events out of my mind.  There was, after all, lunch to get on the table. 

I was suddenly reminded when my son came running into the kitchen wearing an ear-to-ear grin and waving a totally different Lego creation. 

"Look, Mom!" he cried.  "It's even better than before!  And I made it with all the same pieces!" 

I almost wept, at his exuberance, his resilience, his wisdom.  My words had not fallen on deaf ears; they had fallen on fertile ground that needed the rain of grief to allow them to take root.  And in the process he had gleaned a little nugget of his own: with all the same pieces. 

Our family is different now.  It will never be what it was before.  But I honestly believe it will be better than it was before, because God is in the business of transforming rubble into masterpieces . . . using all the same pieces. 

Bring on the Barbies

Do you remember what it was like to play like a preschooler?  Unless you have a couple (or more!) living in your house, chances are you have forgotten.  In fact, I fear one can forget even with little ones in the house. 

How is that possible? 

Parents have lots of "important" things to occupy their attention: bills, emails, jobs, legal gobbledy-gook, self-improvement, service in the church . . . name your poison.  Because of that, when those little voices switch into "pretend" gear, it's easy to tune them out and divert your energy to other things.  An experienced mom can subconsciously distinguish between play fighting and real wars, ignoring the former and interrupting the latter.  "Happy" requires no intervention. 

Another reason we can miss the actual play even when it swirls around us is that we perceive it as an interruption rather than the raison d'être.  Take this very moment, for instance.  

It is nap time in the Castrataro residence.  We have had a delightfully laid-back day with a minimum of squabbling and an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility.  Truly a golden day.  After reading two Curious George stories to the little ones, I tuck them in for the obligatory rest.  I have a plan to toss a load of laundry in the washer and write an article. 

Enter the voices. 

Through my monitor, I hear a narrator and about six characters enacting some kind of drama.  The yammering is such that an article will not be easy to write.  Task-oriented Mom would put the kibosh to the folderol in the interest of generating an income.  Today's Mom sits and listens (and exchanges an article for a blog . . . plenty of time to work tonight!).  

I hear them discussing various characters and their backstories.  I am transported.  I see my sister and my brother and me sitting on a floor with two Ken dolls, eight Barbies (one of whom had a chewed foot and another with an after-factory crew cut), ten plastic horses, and a village built out of Lincoln Logs.  We staged Westerns with kidnappings and daring rescues.  We enacted romances that would put Harlequin to shame.  We created domestic dramas modeled after our daily lives.  

I can't begin to fathom how many hours we spent like that, creating our own worlds and loving every minute of it.  

I do remember that I played with my Barbies and horses long after most of my peers had abandoned them.  Was it because I had a younger sister?  Was it because we moved my freshman year of high school and somehow the role playing brought me comfort?  Was it my indefatigable love of "story"?  I can't say.  

I can say that I take great joy in the role playing of my little ones.  I love hearing them create new stories from the ones they've read in books, seen in movies, or lived themselves.  The latter can be a little hard when I hear things like "Mommy and Daddy," but there is also a sense of gratitude that they are able to process their joys and disappointments in their own way and in their own time.  

In their play they are growing.  They are learning.  They are healing. 

Perhaps we could all use a few hours with Barbie and her friends.