An Update...e

Dad passed away on October 7th. Just 2 weeks ago now.
In some ways, it feels like years.
In other ways, I am still in the middle of it.

I see the sunshine seeping in my parents kitchen window. It's about 2:00 PM, and it's just that right temperature of warm but not too warm.  I still hear dad breathing hard in the other room, from his hospice bed. He is in the very last hours, and 2 of us kids hold his hands at all times. It's not my turn. (When it is my turn, I look forward to touching his warm skin, and looking at his face, knowing I won't have very long to do that.) His breathing gets easier for a bit, then stops. We all count, as we have been told that an apnea can come at this time, stopping the breathing for anywhere from 15-45 seconds. ...5, ...10, ...15, and he takes in a deep breath. We all take a breath, too, and continue our scrabble game.

Yeah, scrabble. We were playing a game while my father was dying. We had been looking over and after him for 5 days straight, and as neighbors, friends, and relatives came to say their goodbyes,  or dropping off cards and food and hugs, well at some point we just realized that it was ok to do something other than watch the man die. It didn't mean we loved him any less. In fact, it was probably a relief for him to hear some laughter and gossip coming from the next room, like in old times. (You should probably know that dad got 5 daughters, and would lament, only half jokingly, that he had somehow upset The Lord for Him to punish dad with so many chattering, laughing, bickering daughters...)

So we went on with our game. QAT was my word, and I got it hooked to a double word score. Woot! And I did woot, right out loud.  We all looked at each other quickly, and then at dad in the other room. And our voices raised even more. It was almost a relief to remember that we were allowed to be living, while he was dying. It was odd, but during this vigil, we still ate meals, and hugged each other, and talked normally.

At first this all felt like a betrayal. How dare I sleep when I should be watching over this dying man! Right? And I could not imagine leaving his hospital bed, whether to go to the bathroom or for food, a walk outside, or to play a game of scrabble. Why should I go do these things when he could not?  I don't know what I expected. I guess for us to be hush hush around him so he could labor in quiet.... I guess that was it.

Well, life is not tidy.

What happened instead was 8 siblings descending upon the Thornton home, from across all sorts of states, all in various stages of grieving. The one thing that didn't happen was quiet. I was stupefied. The house of grieving flipped like a switch. We had a room of crying and whispering. A room of food prep and eating. Then we had a room of catching up and visiting. And, because we are Thorntons, that room turned into a room of laughter and loudness. In all rooms, reverence was gone.

It was the best thing that happened, in my opinion.  Where I had been moping and obsessing before, being exhausted beyond belief, there was now a life and energy renewed.  Instead of literally watching a man die to death, we provided a father and husband with family living and celebrating his life all around him.

We played board games in the kitchen, just a few feet from where his hospice bed was set up.  We played the piano where he could here his favorite songs. We put Pandora on the iPad and let him listen to the "Tabernacle Choir" channel because he loved the music so much. And it worked

Whatever IT was.

IT spread through the house gradually. Through each room of sadness, IT seeped in and smiled the sadness away. Oh.  The IT was... Peace.

Peace spread through the house and household. It made it ok for us to laugh or cry. It made it ok for us to sleep in, or stay up all nigh with our sweet dad. Peace made it ok for dad to rally at the end, for us.  He came out of the labored sleep he was in, and acknowledged those who were there in the house. He said he loved hearing the music. He touched our faces and let the little ones give him kisses or high fives. He loved our laughter and talking which, he said, just sounded like LOVE.

And that was when I let go of the process looking a certain way.  I was not in charge, and neither was anyone else. Dad's death was between him and The Lord. My only responsibility was to be part of the peace and love that was family.  And so I did.

He passed away peacefully, between one breath and another, with family around him.

That’s not odd at all….

04OCT

So I have a friend. A friend like we all do. One that does …. odd … things, but things that amuse us, nonetheless.

For instance, this friend hates to do dishes.  Now most of us hate to do dishes, but my friend takes this to a new level. Like letting the dishes build up and build up. To the point that there are now dishes out on the porch of her house. In Buckets. And also, she would rather write a symphony blindfolded than do dishes at her house.  So they sit, undone, for months.

You would think this is quirky. Or just eccentric.

I don’t find it quirky at all, until I notice that she will do dishes at my house. Or after she throws a party.  THAT’s when I wonder what her rules are, particularly  that make up the game of the dishes avoidance at her house?   As her friend, I immediately look for the quick fix and I come up with this: Just use paper plates and cups and etc…that answer would solve the entire problem…

It never occurred to her. Not once.  It doesn’t make sense to me, and yet….I am entertained.

I have another friend that will do anything it takes to avoid brushing histeeth.  Seriously.  He is an adult, but this friend will use all the trickery in the dental world to keep his teeth from coming into contact with a bristled, hard, instrument. This man uses tongue scrapers for his breath, floss for the flotsom and jetsom that might stick to his gums, and mouthwash to kill the germs. He carries gum and mints with him . He will constantly ask, “How’s my breath?” He definitely does not want gum disease or gingivitis, and yet he will not pick up a toothbrush.

But the avoidance is only confined to his own home.

Again, and as his friend, I immediately look for the quick fix and come up with this: Just brush your teeth with friend/family/loved one time in the car, and brush away!  Use those wisps and portable toothbrush/tooth picks that come in an 8 pack at Albertsons. Spendy? sure, maybe, but so is getting your teeth pulled, and honestly it would make the drive to work more entertaining.

Once more, ..It’s amusing to me. 

Just what is it that makes their behave like a toddler being fed bad-tasting medicine? Practically Swinging their heads wildly around, in any direction, to avoid the pink, icky stuff on a spoon, whether it be antibiotics, a toothbrush, or some dishes? What is it that lets them go against the rules of  society?

Well number one, I wholeheartedly side with a toddler’s behavior.  No one wants that pink, creamy stuff in their mouth, but toddlers are just obvious about it. They are real about it.  They don’t really know or care that it makes their body better, right?  They simply know that at the business end of a spoon lies a messy, stinky and all around nasty liquid that is being fed to them by someone they love.  And they think, “What the?  What did I do to you to get this punishment, eh?”    So they refuse to take it, based on what they are experiencing right then.

(as adults, we probably should try putting ourselves in our toddlers shoes for a minute about that, and take a dose of it as we try to get them to do the same thing. I am banking we would make those same squinched up faces, ourselves. Just thinking of it, I’m making that face now…)

So I have these friends, and they sound … odd, at least, but when I think about them, it’s because I am entertained by their behavior. And then I realize that I have my own ….THING. The thing that I avoid at all costs because of some negative memory, or bad mojo associated with it. And then I think, I, and my friends, we can’t be the only ones that live perfectly normal lives, except for 1 odd thing.  So I start watching and I notice that we are not alone in seeming to have some habit that society asks that we take part in, and yet it seems just too much to do.

And maybe this is where superstitions came around. Maybe people who said things like, “don’t step on a crack, or you’ll break your mothers back” just had the heebee jeebies about stepping on the lines in a sidewalk and didn’t want to look dumb.  Suppose the guy that made up all the superstition that a black catmeaning bad luck…. what if he simply hated cat hair touching him or his things, and so he went out of his way to keep that stuff out of his space?  What a great way to explain his aversion to hair on his clothes and sofas.

I would say that we all could make up a superstition to explain away our oddness.  If I were to make up a suprstition, it would look something like this: Don’t pick up that clutter, or your back will turn to butter.  Or Lounging in a hot tub instead of doing bills will bring good luck. …. Naw. My most fervent superstition that I would make up would be: COOKING CAUSE YOU NEED TO STUNTS YOUR GROWTH.

I hope those stick.

Because it would go a long way to explain why  I Don’t Cook.  I go to great lengths to avoid cooking. I have been known to kick my heels against the floor when dinner time comes. I have also been known to stare at the contents of the fridge, the cupboards, and the freezer with a completely blank look on my face.

Paella koeriernavarra (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I will pare, chop, peel, boil, put together, open cans, spread, and open boxes, though.  These things are pushing it, and they will be something I am proud of at the end. Something homemade, to my way of thinking.  But I Do Not Cook.   I have ordered food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner before.  I have gotten a job just to pay for eating away from the kitchen before. I have hidden pots and pans in the backyard, just so my husband could see that there were not the pots available  to make a meal and we would, indeed, need to order pizza.

Does it make sense? Nope.  Is there a simple solution? Other than cooking, I mean?  I don’t see it, but then again, that seems to be a perspective that my friends should be taking. As for my friends, I watch and chuckle a bit.  And I realize that they are most likely chuckling now about something that I avoid.  And I am glad I am amusing to them. :0)

Cheese Puffs Are The Schnizz...

 

I love cheese puffs. 

I use them as rewards for me, because although they are not healthy, they taste like heaven in a puffy cocoon. I suck on them and can feel them just crush down into my mouth, the air going out of them. All that is left is the flavor that I savor as I finish it up and swallow. Ew? Well, to each her own. That is my reward that lets me do things like …. mop a floor, or write a story, or even perk up when I have made a mistake. 

Because mistakes are horrible for me. I happen to believe that I am not allowed to make mistakes.  

I know, no one is perfect, but apparently, this only applies to other people. I am not supposed to make mistakes. I am supposed to do things correctly the first time, and be amazing all the time. I honestly have believed that. So I am very hard on myself when I have a human moment. Sometimes I wallow in it for a time.

So my cheese puffs are there to say, “Dur, it’s just a mistake. Get over it. Other people have moved on, and don’t give a crap about your mistake anymore. No one is thinking about you but you. Have a puff and move on. Sheesh.”  That’s what cheese puffs are about.  Which is why they are so vital to me when I make a mistake with the Bipolar part of my life. 

I am not perfect while living with Bipolar. I have to admit it in order for me to move forward with it. It is my human moment part in my life, and it comes up at the most unexpected times.  Like when I stay up too late. Or when I don’t eat correctly, or when I forget to take my medicine with me on a trip. Or when I take my medicine late.  Silly things that have always been part of my life, and have been just part of me being a nerd are now things that trigger Bipolar Nerd.

It’s like my Nerd is magnified 100 times when Bipolar is in charge for the day. 

English: Typical Dollar Store, San Francisco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Like… Not caring if I wear matching shoes. (Erp.)  Or, spending a large amount of money on things that are just silly, from the Variety Store (it seems very important to buy them at the time.)  Or, talking on the phone, texting on the same phone, biting my nails, and forgetting to care if I stop at a Stop sign.  (Cause yeah, I decide to drive while doing all that earlier stuff as well. I DO stop at the sign, but I just don’t care about it.)  Scary? Yes.  Especially because it all seems perfectly normal when I am having an especially …human… bipolar day.  Mistakes could be made when I don’t stay within certain Bipolar rules. So you can see why making a mistake is something I just can’t afford. 

And that is hard for me to admit, ergo the Puffs.

 I just figured out that I cannot do this alone. You know, living with Bipolar, and living life. So I take medicine and the Bipolar days become Sharon Days. Woot. But I also know that I cannot live life without ……. living life.  I don’t do well with doom and gloom. In fact, my journey is currently consisting of finding the humor in the quirks that happen because of this new development. You know, being in the roller coaster of the ups and downs that are part of living with Bipolar. 

So here are some funny things about me when I have an up. I mean a really…up…up.  I happen to get abit narcissistic. It looks like me looking in the mirror a lot, fixing my hair a lot, and taking five pics of me to get just the right pic so I can post it in Facebook, and make it look like it was a casual look in the camera.  On a normal day, I’d look 3 time in the mirror and take the pic as is.   But on an … UP… day, I will look at myself in the mirror 3 times as many times in a day, but I can’t seem to concentrate on what  I’m looking at, so I will look at my nose for 1 time, and my ear for another, and maybe my mouth. But I cannot look at my entire face or body because, WHO HAS TIME FOR THAT?

In fact that is my entire life on that day.  I am moving so fast that I don’t have time to think because WHO HAS TIME TO PONDER?  I will see a quarter on the ground and stoop to pick it up, but because i am going fast, I don’t have time to stop and pick it up with my fingers, so I miss it.  I stop, turn around and go for it again, and miss it again. This time, surprised that it isn’t in my hand, i squat down so i can get a good grip, and again, I miss it.  Now i’m a bit frustrated, and I think I will simply scoop it up with my hand. Nope. I get a bit of grime from the ground, but no quarter. I finally move on because i am sure that somehow the quarter has been glued to the ground and i am on candid camera. 

My daughter is watching the thing perplexedly, comes by behind me, and picks up the quarter for me to see. She is 5 then.  I have been shown up by a five-year old.  that’s funny. 

I need Cheese Puffs in my life to let me know that I have a reward for when my shoes do match, as well. Or for when I recognize that I am getting a bit too …UP…, and I just skip driving altogether. Or when I fold socks and stay put instead of spending money on dollar store toys. 

Or for when I get the quarter on the first try.  

I could get disturbed by what the …ups… could do in my life, and I have been. But I am at a place now where I am in control of it, and 99.9 percent of the time you will never know that I do battle with the Bipolar part of my life. I am safe to drive, to shop, and to dress myself. And, I guess, to write a bit. That is a win. 

Now where did I put my bag of Cheese Puffs
?

Sorrowful Truth…

19OCT

What to say when there is nothing to say?  When all my words are taken and the emotion is all that there is? What to say when my heart feels that it will pump so hard it bursts with sadness?  When being doubled over the sobbing is the only way to keep going that day? Nothing.  Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be. It is said in the tears, and the hiccups, and the mournful eyes that tear up when eye contact is made.

And that is just the first day.

What to say on the next day, when the tears have given me a headache the size of a migraine? How to think after being thrown back into sadness as, with a jolt, I remember the heartache and disbelief that came with that day?  Knowing that I am the bearer of the bad news and the bringer of the sorrow.  Knowing that if I had just closed my mouth, the day would still be sunny and bright. That life could still be… life.  And knowing that truth was still more important. What can I say?

If only bad news were just bad news. If only it could be taken in as a logical piece of news, leaving out the emotion and shock. But it can’t, and the day is only starting.

There is still life to live. There are kids to smile at, and drive to school.  There are phone calls to make, with a chipper voice so I can get a break from the hospital bill people. There is eye contact that is made with the lady down the street that just happens to be walking by as I sit on the porch, breathing heavily, to get away from the depression that lay over everything in the sanctuary I destroyed with truth.

It happened, and it can’t be taken back. No matter how much pleading, praying, or looking to the heavens is done. It happened, and every second thought confirms it.  And I can’t get away from it.

What to say, through all of this, knowing that there is a tomorrow and a tomorrow after that? Nothing. There is just doing. Doing one thing at a time, one minute at a time.  And sometimes that is doing nothing. But time goes on, and the pain eventually does turn, first into numbness, and then into a lessening.  And that is the time to talk.  To say something, even if the something is simply talking about how It felt.

Like now.

It happened 2 weeks ago, even if it seems like it happened today, and forever ago.  The loss and sorrow will be there for a long time, but I am not doubled over any more.

This sharing of feelings could be for so many situations, and have been for many situations in my life. I have had loss, and betrayal, and heartache, and that is part of living. The good news is that time can heal the heartache. And so can words. So I say them now…

I’m sorry it happened. To both of us.  I’m sorry that truth hurts. I’m sorry we are still hurting. I will be here for you, and I know you will be here for me. Let’s let love in, and get through this together.  I love you.

And The Mist Made My Eyelashes All Shiny...

I went to the Oregon Coast.  I didn't just go to the oregon coast.  The capitals on the letters are there for good reason. Oregon Coast.  That is short for: I HAD AN AMAZING TIME IN THIS AREA.  or a more formal way of saying WOW.  And I went with my childhood friend, Jen.

Here's what I found...

Moments at the coast can last for hours. They are breathtaking and moving and memorable because they can last a lengthy amount of time. For instance, Whales  breaching and spouting and ... mating.  We got to see only glimpses, but it was a life changing experience.

Apparently, this is really rare. "A Treat".

Such a great shot!

Now these moments didn't have anything to do with Cap'n Jack navigating the choppy waters just so, even with the 2 pm waves pulling against his boat.  They didn't have anything to do with the blue sky and light breeze that whipped my jacket to and fro around my torso.

But they had everything to do with the fact that I was out on a boat at all, enjoying the bumping and dipping and spraying and sun-shining that happened at just the moment when the whales decided to let us in on their intimate chaos.   I loved that spot on earth, and found that I had a rare shot at being there. My heart raced and I couldn't stop smiling.  Ask Jen. She thought I looked a bit like an idiot.  But I kept clicking pics, and yelling, "look over there!" and "See that?", knowing that everyone on the boat was looking in the exact spot I was pointing out anyway.

I was experiencing being a tourist in its purest form.

I didn't care one whit that I was jostled and jostling around with perfect strangers. It didn't bother me that Cap'n Jack asked us all to move back from the stairs and be safe. I kept clicking away and being part of the crowd, all the way until he threatened that he would go away from the whales if we didn't listen to him. ...

oh! what a sight. The smell of the ocean, and the sound of the birds cacophony just added to the experience. I loved it all.  All of that was one moment.

Another moment happened when we were land-side, on Hug Point.

The mist found me, clear up on these lovely rocks. It kissed my eyelashes, and curled my hair, and made the tiny hairs on my hands sparkle.  I could feel the BOOM! that the surf made as it crashed into the sand, making swirling, eddying, sucking places all over our stretch of beach. I saw the whitecaps form, relentlessly daring any souls to come play in its reach. And again, I smelled the scent that was The Coast. The clean, brisk, crisp scent that carried anything from seaweed and seagulls, to the contents of a family picnic basket down the shore.  It was ... open... to any bit of brightness that caught its fancy.  And I got to be a part of it.

I love a good moment in time. I have lots, but these happened recently, and I still smile when I think of them.

Burn, cardboard! Burn!

Um.  I cried today.  A lot.    Watching "The Dog Whisperer".  Looking back,  I am not sure if it was because his teeth were so professionally, blindingly white that my eyes hurt to look upon them, or because he talked about finding the right time to move forward after grieving for a pet.  Maybe both.  (I just wore sunglasses and sobbed.  No one was looking.)

Also, I cleaned my bathroom because I was angry.  I find it is the only time I do clean.  Chores don't help.  Even with a chore chart.  You know, chore charts?  The ones that I share with my kids so they will do theirs?  Bribery doesn't work either.  (If I clean up, I will .... insert reward....)  I wonder why my kids aren't motivated. :)   So here I am back to being angry when I clean.  My bathroom is shiny.  I am not angry anymore.  (I left the tub for another time.)

Lastly,  I burned cardboard in the fireplace of my new place for the first time.  Not pieces of cardboard, which would be acceptable.  No.  I shoved entire large moving boxes into the gaping maw of this fire-belching wonder.  It was therapeutic to get rid of all the moving boxes that have cluttered up my life. (And my house.)  I didn't wait and do it to bond a bit with the kids while they tore them down to acceptable size.  And I sure as hell didn't take them out for recycling.  There was nothing acceptable, or even safe, about me creating this fire-storm, barely contained, as I pushed box after box inside the fireplace, and then judged when to shut the glass doors.  I felt cleansed as I did something that I would never let my kids get away with, and was ridiculous.  It felt marvelous.  I did NOT tell my husband.

Nothing dramatic to write about.  No nuggets of wisdom.  I just thought I'd solve the mystery of the thought, "Why do I feel so worn out?  I can't remember a thing that I did today!"  Woot.

What's Up With No Purpose??

My purpose popped back up around 9:00 PM tonight...

http://free2live282000.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=409&action=edit&message=6&postpost=v2

In The Desolate Places Of Life, Sometimes You Just Run Into A Promising Specimen

It happened again! My life got lively, just when I thought it was moving along in a bit of a boring, complacent way...  So this popped up, and you get to look at it again, too.

http://free2live282000.wordpress.com/2012/04/24/in-the-desolate-places-of-life-sometimes-you-just-run-into-a-promising-specimen-3/

I Caught A Whiff Of Heaven

Heaven happened in Westminster, CO.  So did soccer.  I saw it all from my living room window.

http://free2live282000.wordpress.com/2012/04/08/i-caught-a-whiff-of-heaven/

There's A Cathedral Right In Carlsbad!

I was the last one to know. I was the last one to know that there just happens to be an enormous cathedral, a temple, a holy place right in the ground. Just 3 hours out of Roswell, and smack dab in the middle of some arid and utterly boring ground in New Mexico.

At least it seems that way to me, all arid and desolate and...BORING, as we drove 3 hours from the civilization that was Roswell. That could be because I was sitting in the back seat of a sedan. Whatever. I was the last one to know that there was anything worth the drive in the backseat of a sedan next to a 3 year old that hates to sit still but loves to poke me in the eye with a Cheeto Puff. I was the last to know that I could find something that makes me yearn to take that journey again. But it's true.

I had to have been the last one to know about this place, because it seemed like we were the last in a very, very long line. Even though it was only noon when we came upon the sight, we were behind bus tours, motorcycle gangs, Boy Scout troops, and mini-vans. We rubbed shoulders (tightly) with a flock of nuns. We dodged the waggling fingers that kept an entire preschool in line. And, we even beat a band of roving gypsies to a parking spot. I don't feel bad about that at all.

What I do feel a bit bad about, though, is just coming upon this thing so casually. We had no pilgrimage. No piggy-bank savings that were broken in honor of this place.  These crowds crowded in from all over the world, which had to be spendy. I just made a jaunt with my brother-in-law as a last minute decision.

 Just a quick drive from Roswell to Carlsbad, and an unexpected clash of cultures happened in the parking lots and lobbies and elevator lines. Just like that. We drove up and saw bumper stickers from Canada and Mexico. On several rental cars, England, Spain, and Ireland showed up. (I know this because someone loves to decorate car windows with sayings like "London Rules! Eat My Dust, Rorie!" and "Where's The Shrubbery? I Miss THE GREEN." Not to mention the bumper sticker with, "Who ate my bangers and mash? -2010" on the back of a 1970's era VW bug.) I found it impressive. And, I wondered what all the hubbub was about?

Those people did not yammer so much about the wondrous things inside the caverns. They did not clap their hands or dance on tip toes or make the squealing sounds that happen in anticipation of something amazing.  They didn't do it, and neither did I, because we didn't ACTUALLY know that we would do those things later in the tour.  Those people talked more about staying together, and finishing up the little snacks before they went in because NO FOOD WAS ALLOWED a'tall. We practiced a small bit of small talk, when we were smushed together in the lobby. Or in the small line that went to the elevator. None of it was really about what was actually there. It was only speculation at that point, and that was why it was such a smack to all of my senses as the elevator opened up, 100 floors down (or something close to it), and we all walked into The Beginning.

The Beginning being, of course, the place where the crowds bottle-necked as if they were looking at a car wreck on the side of a freeway, but with just the opposite reason for those OOOH'S and AAAH'S. The Beginning was the first taste of the treasure that was Carlsbad Caverns. And that was where the tip-toe dance went on. That was where the fingers smacked the hollows of cheeks as the jaws were dropped. THIS was where the squealing sounds started. And then ended. It was The Beginning, and everyone knew it.

After The Beginning, I was on my own.  Even though I had technically come with a 3 year old and his dad, and my son, I was still on my own. The rest of my party could see it in my eyes, and they graciously moved ahead, letting the 3-year old lead the way. Because the sights and the sounds and the scents... well. They were majestic and overwhelming. And, I wanted to drink it all in. And those were all my own. So I started walking.

My eyes got wide. Then wider. I looked up and up and up because I could. It was an enormous cavern that had broken any of my laws of what a cavern should look like. Homes could fit in there. Buildings, and parks and playgrounds... they could all fit in this cavern, and still there would be room.  There would be room, but that had nothing to do with the FEEL in this place. None of the roominess would have anything to do with the majesty and eloquence that this space radiated. So take all of those things away, and what you would have is...a sacred place.

I wandered along the paths that had been set up for safety and enjoyment so all of us in the crowds could look a bit closer at the unique beauty that grew where we could see it. Lights were set in places to highlight spots that needed highlighting, and other spots were backlit or forelit or not lit. This all blended into a miasma of colors and visual textures that begged for the cameras and recorders that were brought out toot-sweet quick time.  And still, none of that addressed what really made this place amazing.

The Rest. The restful, peaceful, calm space that enveloped the cavern. It was as if each Pillar and Popcorn Structure and Mushroom Cap and Chinese Theatre area were not grown as a result of mineral deposits and pressures within the earth at all. They were SCULPTED. They were almost asked and coaxed and teased into being.  They were wanted. They were needed. And so, they showed up. For pleasure and for pondering, and for peaceful contemplation, they were brought into being.

I learned useful things about the place, from muttered and hushed parents, talking to children about Stalactites VS. Stalagmites. (These were voiced as "stalag-tites, and stalag-mites", with only 2 syllables between 1 word each. I think they had painted the "Bangers and Mash" bit outside on the car.) I learned that the bottomless pit was not really bottomless, at one-hundred-and-WHAT-DOES-IT-MATTER-TROY?-JUST-STAY-AWAY-FROM-IT!. I learned to keep going! Sheesh! We have to get back to Grandma's, baby. And DON'T go under the handrail...Don't Go Under The Hand- BOB! HE IS STILL GOING UNDER THE HANDRAILS!... and so forth.  It all mushed up in the file of my mind labeled, "Entertaining bits that parents screech", and I kept walking.

Through all the conversation, the movement, and the hubbub that went on in the pathways, and with the flashing of cameras and the "Come here and pose by the pillar!"-ness, the majority of the cavern went on unphased. As I looked up, I saw the chandeliers and the drippings of mineral water (slowly, slowly, slowly) that pushed a bit down toward the chaos. They were beautiful and inspiring to look at. As if the baubles that were to be caught in cameras and conversations were put at eye-level just to keep us silly beings busy as we went through the cavern. It knew we would soon be gone, and so it could be ever patient as it fulfilled its purpose: to grow, complex and beautiful. It knew that those that could appreciate the beauty would stay, would ponder, would love it and be better for it. And so there were seats, about halfway in.

Those with kids, toddlers, infants, and bored travelling companions lingered long enough just to get a quick camera shot for Facebook, and then they were off. The few that were left were me and... I didn't care whom else. I saw the cavern and all it's ground level pitstops combine with the unfathomable darkness that hinted of so much more. All of those things combined with a view of climbing, climbing, climbing space that reached into heights unknown by me. Out of the high darkness, and as if to comfort those that stayed, were beautiful creations, some sparkly and eye-catching, and some that were muted and magnificent in their quiet shapes that seemed to have no sharp edges at all, bubbling over itself as it grew toward the floor.

That is when I teared right up. It was dark, so no one noticed. I was alone, so no one looked. I was overcome with the power of this place, and no one saw. I was grateful that this was a moment I shared with on one but the cavern. I felt, and saw, and heard and knew that this place was special, and I got to be there. It didn't occur to me that a woman with tears running down her face in the middle of an enormous cavern might alarm someone. Especially if she had a silly grin on her face as she wobbled to the bench and sat down, looking up. It didn't seem out of the ordinary at all to utter a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever power owned that space. It didn't even seem odd when I closed my eyes for a bit and just felt the warmth that had gone through my body.   In fact, I don't know of another sacred space where I wouldn't get some weird looks, but I did all this on my own, with no one noticing. It's wasn't odd at all.

After a few minutes of silence, I felt complete enough to get up and enjoy in a more mundane way. I started looking at the signs that labeled each interesting formation, and experienced the teetering lookout place that showed where "Bottomless Pits" started. (I couldn't care less if they were bottomless or not. All I could think of was how unfortunate the first guy had to be, exploring around here with the wrong equipment. His name was probably Jerry, and he probably didn't make it out there alive. I wondered why the pit wasn't labeled "Jerry's Place" or something like that, by his partner Jeff.)

The rest of the day became normal, and I was soon out of the cavern. Now this did NOT mean I was out of the cave. All signs started to point to the elevator, and the logical conclusion was that when I got to the elevator, I would be able to get on it. Um. No.  Have you ever been to an amusement park on a holiday, when it was just the right temperature outside? Lines out the wazoo? It was like that. The lines even had a restaurant area and umbrella tables dotted throughout, maybe just in case of rain. It was this crowded. Like no one had been able to get out of this place until I showed up. The line was at least 45 minutes to an hour to wait. This means that I had more time to contemplate what I had just experienced, but in a Chatty Kathy kind of way. This was the beginning of each conversation that I heard:
"So...How did you like it?"
And the responses all ended like this:
"Wow."
The rest was subjective.
Kids ran around parents, and teens ran after the kids. Parents hissed, "Get. Over. Here. Now.", and kids acted like they didn't hear. That conversation between parent and son was actually how I honed in on the party I came with. I loved that I didn't have a small child at this time. And this was the norm for the next hour. What did break up the chaos a bit was the sound of "Hey now! Don't climb on that!" from the various park attendants that materialized as crowd control, I guess.  I noticed this because my nephew stood out particularly to them. My son would go get him, and 5 minutes later the conversation would start up again.
They did not engage in any conversation that I saw, those park rangers, and did not break into any kind of smile.  It was as if they had come out of that sacred spot only to be jolted by the kick in the shins from a small child. Maybe they were. Maybe it was our kid.

We stood waiting in that line, and I heard my brother chat up conversation with adults from all around him.  What stood out to me was a mom from Texas with her 3 teenage daughters, standing in the line patiently while some 3 year old ran around an old guy's legs. Apparently they all belonged to her. (The guy didn't even notice. He was chatting with a teen about how cool the place was. Everything the teen said was "cool". I silently agreed.)  My brother talked with the mom and old guy about the pillars, and then turned around and chatted a bit with 2 grandparents of a toddler. The toddler was standing politely nearby, and our kid had started screaming at the top of his lungs, "I Want Out OF HERE!" (Grandpa and Grandma picked up their toddler and said in heavy Scottish brogue, "Well, Shamus, we knoo who is a goot boy, er?") After that, my brother stopped talking at all. My brother picked up his son and looked up to the ceiling, silently willing our party out of the ground.

I heard nuns chattering in small, but excited tones. People from South Dakota made themselves known (Don't cha know!), and a group of tourists from Taiwan kept clicking on their cell phones at everything in general. I basked in it all. Everyone loved the place that I loved. It was good to know I wasn't alone in knowing about the amazing hole in New Mexico.

The way back to Roswell went by much faster. Mostly because my 3 year old nephew was so tired that his arms and legs didn't seem to work. He also had an almost hung over look on his face. My brother said it was because he skipped his nap. I believe it was from dodging the Park Rangers' clutches. Next time, I think  I will arm my little nephew with roller skates. That would be the amusing part of the amusement park line. As for me, I will arm myself with more tissue, as I plan fully to enjoy that cathedral again soon.