…As I navigate the rubble of my almost complete demise, I realize I’m a tiny part of a massive thing. When there’s nothing left, God, I find that You Are.
thoughts, awakening moments, October 24, 2022
In many ways, my story is over, and in some ways it’s just beginning. And although things are changing, and it’s a new world, I will not call it brave. I will simply move forward.
Historically, this blog was for me to practice writing, to work things out, and to serve as an online journal. And it never mattered to me whether anyone ever read it. But some of you did, and for that, I’m grateful.
Each year since 2011, I’ve chosen a name for my new year. Often, I’ve announced that word on this blog, during the holiday season. This year was a year I called “True.” However, I’m finished naming years. The rest of my life will be (simply) True.
(For a list of previous year words, look below the photo.)
I don’t plan to update this blog anymore. In 2023, I’m considering publishing on Substack. If I follow through with that, or decide to publish elsewhere, I will add a re-directional post, here.
“Thank you,” is so weak, but it’s what I have to offer. I’m beyond appreciative of every one of you, every reader, every comment, everything. I wish you could see my heart on this, and I also wish you all the best, no matter who you are.
I close with the latest photo of me, which happens to include those of my siblings who are still here. This photo was taken on on September 17, just a few months ago, at my step-sister Kelly’s 60th birthday party. I love these men and women beyond my ability to express with words. We’ve traveled many miles together. They are some of my greatest gifts.
So I suppose this is goodbye, from this space. It holds part of my life, via two hundred and seventy-five posts, spanning twelve years. And it’s been glorious.
Yellow hearts, scattered all day long, from me…
(Stephanie)
…to you.
💛
Left to right: Dwayne, Kelly, Stephanie (with the yellow heart strategically placed over a crooked shirt) Dee Dee, Sheila, Tim.
“All of my years seem to be coming together in the one that is True.” (via my Instagram post dated 6-21-2022)
Our dad (left, maroon jacket) and me (in the yellow cap) on a ski trip to Red River, New Mexico in the 70sThe back of the photograph.
How can I tell this story? I don’t know, but I think I”m supposed to try.
A lot of time has passed since I started writing this post. I kept working on it, but sometimes it felt like I’d never be able to publish it. I kept at it, though, because I attempt to close a chapter here, of sorts, so at some point, I can (hopefully) see a way forward. And if I don’t “see,” I will walk, step by step, whatever the road looks like.
This sentence is how I started all that time ago, which is really part of a social media post:
“In the interest of authenticity, and to hold myself accountable to that call, I’m here to commemorate the death of my earthly father, David Melton Cox, on March 16, 2022.”
And then I continued, eventually doing a mish-mash of new feelings and thoughts as time progressed, mixed with other social media posts:
“After all, I wrote about some of the others: my mother, Monica (1985); Allison, my sister (2000); Carol, my step-mom (2017); and Dave, my step-brother (2019).
Although it is not my habit to differentiate between biological and by-marriage family members, I do so now because of the confusion caused by past events, and the understandable questions I fielded after Dad’s funeral.
Dad’s death was an event I dreaded for most of my life. He was one of my heroes, and I adored him. He’d always been a presence, active and powerful, even though he was not physically in our home from the time I was two years-old until I moved in with him at the age of fifteen. For several nights after his sudden death, I lied awake, unable to imagine life without this man, who was almost like a force of nature, to me. I was devastated.
Dad had a sharp mind, and was in possession of his faculties until the end. But in our last conversation, he said loud, angry things. Confused, I told him I loved him, and that I didn’t want to fight. He hung up, without saying goodbye. Dad never apologized, or took those words back, although he had the opportunity. After Dad died, I learned that as a daughter, I did not measure up in his eyes. It seems he kept score, and his message was clear.
These last things left cracks in my heart, some of the deepest yet, and there’s just no other way to say it. You see, I almost worshipped Dad, and therein, I think, lies at least part of the problem: my part, the part I’m interested in, and the only part I’m responsible for.
No one can stand for long on the slippery slope of a pedestal. And I am the one who put Dad there.
Generally speaking, when those I love and trust do things that feel cruel, and are unfair, or even untrue, I have decisions to make and the first is how I’m going to perceive what happened. Along that line, I have questions to ponder: Do I regret my love? Of course not. At least, that’s my answer.
I don’t regret loving. I don’t regret relating. I wouldn’t withhold, even to avoid pain. But sometimes things don’t end the way I pictured.
Also speaking in general, one hard lesson I’ve learned in the past few years is that others get to choose, even if it is to be unkind. With me, they are free, and it doesn’t change the way I feel about them. I may not agree, or understand. And yes, I go through the feels. But it does teach me something I needed to know. So all in all, and in several ways, I’m grateful.
I’m certainly not perfect myself, and working on my own issues feels like a full-time job. I’m committed to the challenge.
In the end, I will remember my dad with clearer vision, but no less love. Certainly a different love…truer, maybe deeper. I will remember that ski trip, the sunshine on our faces, the image above, and the note on the back.
A lifetime of other memories involving Dad run the gamut from beautiful to ugly, and I treasure them all. They are part of the story, part of the “deal,” to give a nod to Dad: life, worth living–the gift of opportunity. Threads in a tapestry, that to me, hold indescribable beauty and wonder. This man helped give me life, and I honor him, endlessly.”
Next, I added this remembrance:
“There is one, specific memory that has been filtering to the top lately, over and over, and I’m sure more like this will follow. When I worked full time in Dallas in the late 70s and early 80s, as a young mom with two small children, Dad watched me struggle, and outsource important things in my life. Also, I was helping my maternal grandparents caretake my terminally-ill mom at the time. Crises abounded, and it seemed I was juggling too many balls, dropping quite a few. But I made sure I never dropped the ball at my job, and that prioritization cost me in ways that I didn’t see.
Dad watched, and for some reason, he did the math, and discovered I wasn’t actually making money at my job. In fact, I was losing money. He had it all worked out on paper to show me, on one of what he called his “T charts.” I was truly surprised at the results.
Because Dad cared enough to entertain that thought, to go to that effort, and to tell me a hard truth, I made the decision to come home and be with our children, which was actually a dream of mine. I don’t know if I ever would have realized that dream, if it were not for him. I get emotional thinking about it, even as I type. I used to tell Dad that I believe God used him over and over to bless my life, and that’s true, no matter what happened at the end.”
This last bit was part of my early work on this post, edited over time:
“As I processed Dad’s ending messages, his last words, and his scorekeeping, I happened upon this Ed Sheeran song. It’s called ‘Photograph.’ Such complicated emotions played as I listened. The last verses of Sheeran’s song (official music video link below) are from him to a sweetheart, and don’t apply. But parts of it spoke to me, regarding Dad, and the photograph.
You see, the photograph came to me immediately after Dad died, and carries a story I’ll keep mostly to myself. In a sense, it was God letting me know that Dad cared for me, no matter what was coming. (And God knew.)
Dad used to laugh at my commercially ripped jeans, because that concept was beyond his imagination. I won’t keep his actual photograph in those pockets, but I’ll tuck all our memories inside my heart.
Everyone has their stories. This is just part of mine. Writing this particular post took almost everything I had, but I believe it was important.
Goodbye, precious Dad. Here’s to you. You did what you wanted in leaving us a legacy, and I’m forever grateful. In the end, it’s all well between us. And I promise that no matter what, I’ll love you, forever.
Sincerely,
Your Stephie”
And here are some final, rather bare-bones thoughts:
I offer no yellow hearts today. I don’t want to listen to this song, either, although I know I eventually will. I’m just tired at this moment, a word I use as having meaning beyond simple fatigue.
I never really lose hope; I hope against it if necessary. It is not an option for me to give up; it never has been. I care less now about what others think, and I’m more at peace and happier. That doesn’t make sense to me, but I know that God somehow makes it possible. I’m sorry, but I can’t explain it any better than that.
The above paragraph represents something brutally hard, elegantly simple, and requiring a ton of work. If I’m honest, at times I hate the process, but never for long.
Which leads me to this: My latest God lesson was that my so-called “dumpster fire” is an honor when the story of it, the truth of it, and the beauty of it is bigger than I am. And I think it always is.
Well, there you have it–what I could do. I’ll hit “publish,” and move on.
With kindest regards, and best wishes offered to everyone,
Last night (metaphorically speaking) the earth rumbled. I felt it in my body. My heart cracked.
Through it all, I prayed. I sat, staring. I hurt. I cried. I relaxed. I went through some motions. I lay awake. I slept. Morning came.
Somewhere in there, I let go, or surrendered, maybe more than once. It’s a process. I came through, calm, experiencing less drama, and more clarity than ever before.
I’m grateful for it all. I trust in God. I stand. I move forward, one millimeter at a time.
There you have it: raw authenticity.
With kind regards, and best wishes to everyone in the coming year.
How many times have I named a year in advance and changed my mind at the last minute? Several.
Standing here now, on Christmas Day, 2021, I’m not sure I have it in me to explain. But I’m still typing.
Free was the word I chose for 2022, long ago. My life verse, since the year 2000, is John 8:32: “…and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Free was the last name I ever planned to give a year.
And then came the 2022 Power Sheets prep work page where I was to decide on a word for the new year. Here is what that page looks like:
Of course, there is much more to the story, but there you have it, dear readers. That’s all I have, today.
Marlon, the kitten, disappeared from my house after only a week. I don’t know what happened to him, but I haven’t ever seen him, again. It broke my heart, not knowing. I loved Marlon, and he was kind to me. His kindness, and trust, was like medicine. We were friends.
I’m okay, now. I don’t believe in “owning” pets anymore, at least not in the current climate. I don’t want to “own” a pet in the current climate. I now believe that much of what is done in the name of caring for pets is actually cruel, and not at all in their best interests.
But never listen to me. I could be wrong. Please do your own research.
Goodbye, dear Marlon. You enriched my life, and I’m grateful. I hope and wish only good things for you.
The kitten appeared on my woodpile, after I saw The Godfather for the first time. So, I dubbed him (or her), Marlon.
The little thing scurried away, startled, as I dug roots nearby on that soggy, gray afternoon, and my left-side issues caused my eyes to malfunction for a few seconds. Squinting, I saw a striped tail disappearing into my volunteer squash vine foliage, and wondered if I’d beheld a baby raccoon. He cowered there, beneath the great, yellow blossoms.
Of course, I soon knew this to be a scrawny, baby cat, about five weeks old. Shrugging, I looked away. Determined to keep my heart in the iron box where I’d placed it regarding pets, I vowed not to connect.
“He’s gone,” I whispered. “And I won’t be mean to you.” I jabbed the fork back in the wet earth, keeping my voice soft. But the stern pledge remained in place, and anyway, this creature was as wary as I was.
The kitten came and went. I came and went. We eyed each other, but he no longer ran.
A day or two later, I noticed the little guy’s concave backsides and gangly legs. He was meowing. I asked where his mom was, and knew he could not depend on his father. Still, he meowed. And strangely, on this particular day, I understood the circumstances, and feelings, of hunger. Grudgingly, in yet another whisper, I admitted, “Well. You’re hungry, it seems. And I could use a friend.”
And so, it began. But there are rules.
I pledge to never forget that Marlon was born wild, and free. He bears the marks of his ancestry, a lineage of great, strong hunters. If he grows testicles, he will keep them. He can fight the males, and mate the females. Although I am happy to provide my extra teacup saucer, and sundry, natural delectables, Marlon can eat what I eat, or he is on his own. He can drink the rain water I collect for my garden, and I will leave a cat-sized container, fresh, for him, at all times. If the rain barrel is dry, he shall have water from the Berkey in my kitchen.
I will do the best that I can with Marlon’s fleas, using natural methods. Diatomaceous earth comes to mind. Or, a flea comb and a bowl of soapy water. And I will never, ever rat him out by turning him over the Rockerfeller family, so help me, God. If he ends up at one of their sponsored facilities, by some, strange turn of events, I will be at his side, and I will not leave him. I will fight for him, and for his natural health rights. And I will spring him at the earliest, possible opportunity.
Marlon and I can cuddle, and play, but his other toys will be my cucumber trellises, dangling with potential delight, or an actual bird feather that lies on the ground. I will not ask how the plume got there. I will value our friendship equally with the friendships I have with the birds, bugs, grubs, and even the things growing in my yard. We all do our best; everyone needs to eat; and plants have life essence, too.
When it’s Marlon’s time to go, I will let him. I will be grateful for our time together. I will feel the things, and move on, in peace, joy, and freedom, again, so help me, God.
If others disagree with my decisions about Marlon, it is neither here, nor there, to me, at this point. I answer only to God. And I don’t trust those humans anymore than I trust the Mockingbird media representatives who programmed them, and once, quite sadly, me.
And that, my friends, is why this new, young feline is called Marlon, instead of Don Vito Corleone.
NOTE: When friends heard I’d never seen The Godfather, they were aghast. So, one friend, lovingly called Farmer Girl, arranged a delightful, Italian-themed afternoon for me and her 18 year-old daughter, another never-seener. This week, my friends at the Salty Lime Taqueria, who are also my borderline bosses, deemed this thing good, nodding sagely, and suggested I name this cat in honor of the movie.
We were going to do this together, I thought, on the one empty plot in the Cooke/Cox site, but looking back, I think this was more my dream, anyway. We talked about it, in one of our talks, near your end. Again, this was possibly just Stephanie, forever talking at you, leading cheers, telling you how you should do things. I have no regrets, because I would say it all over again, especially the part about the daisies. And you told me you knew that I loved you. How precious. I treasure those last words.
Full circle is full circle, and done is better than perfect, to quote Lara Casey of Cultivate What Matters. I’m learning that “alone” doesn’t necessarily mean “lonely,” Allie. In fact, my singleness, my alone-ness is listed on my gratitude list this week, as one of those terrible and at the same time, wonderful gifts. But I do miss you, beautiful girl, lovely soul. Your torturous experience here doesn’t dim your light one, little bit. You did it. You crossed the finish line. You crossed the bar.
When I walked the familiar graves today, Allie, there were no ghosts. The darkness I used to call grief was gone, along with the pain. I think it was something else altogether. And I almost skipped out of that cemetery, today, maybe forever.
Anyway, there you have it. Remembering you today, Allison Kathleen Cox, and our always-yellow rooms. May the daisies sprout, grow tall, and dance in the wind.
You left this world on Christmas Day, and somehow, I think that is fitting. I have your obituaryphoto on my salvaged, chipped-paint desk. Each time I pass it, I touch your face, and cry. I miss you.
It is a good cry.
People who are unknown angels often do not realize how they touch people’s lives. You touched mine. My need, however invisible, was substantial. I’m forever grateful.
And yes, I know you weren’t perfect, dear.
I could tell so many stories, from decades past. I could wax poetic. I have wildflower photos from your property I could post, and recipes, in your handwriting. I have notes from the etiquette class you gave to our little homeschool. Memories galore: Little Sandy comes to mind, and waking from a nap at your house with Baby, the pit bull, inches from my face. Also, how you fought for my grandparents, in their infirmity. Cooke family photos. The Dallas Social Register, with your name listed. I could go on.
But, no, I think I’ll stop here, treasure those things in my heart, and simply say goodbye.
I love you, Becky. I hope to see you on the other side.
Daily Walking 