Nine Years

Nine years ago today I lost my life. I gave it up, gave it away. On January 20, 2001 I married Richard Wei Tjan Lim. How many times have I regretted that act? Literally screamed out loud my anger against God? Slumped in despair before pastors and counselors, my heart bleeding into a wad of kleenex?

I could sling a lot of mud right here but that wouldn't be appropriate. Nobody cheated or broke the law, nothing like that. Nobody drained the bank. No violence, no filth. I won't publicly post all the problems we faced, but I will tell you how I felt: Unloved. Deceived. Trapped.

And it all started nine years ago today. I cried on our honeymoon in Maui and slipped into the night for a walk on the beach to wrestle with my heart and my loneliness. By our first anniversary I had sunk into lasting depression. In the shadow of Aspen trees in a little yellow house on a quiet culdesac, I suffered the deepest wounds my heart had ever borne.

Eventually we did try counseling. (Talk isn't cheap, by the way.) When a seasoned marriage counselor told us that our situation was rather unique, I felt lost. No wonder our premarital workbook hadn't prepared us. No wonder marriage help books weren't helping at all. No wonder all that therapy did little to improve our love life.

My heart went numb for years blocking out feelings of rejection and isolation. We had three babies. We quit counseling. We smiled in public. I got over my depression and focused on the kids. As any couple does, we went through good times and bad times, but it seemed the bad always eclipsed the good and I always returned to regret when I allowed my heart a moment to breathe. I didn't do that too often. Without my faith in God, tenacity in honoring my marriage covenant, and my duty to the children, we might not still be together.

But I am so glad that we are! Last summer it all changed. One random day in August we went from our worst year together to beginning our best one. I wish I could understand what precipitated the shift but I have no idea. My husband's behavior simply changed. Drastically. It took a while for me to trust that it wouldn't be temporary, but things remain just as good five months later. Forgiveness flows, hope lives again. There is love and desire in his eyes when he looks at me, and I feel an intimacy we've never shared before. We talked about it just a few days ago and he couldn't figure it out either. In fact, he wasn't even aware of the depth of the revolution at the time – definitely not some great act of willpower to make things different. Believe me, we have been there and done that with less than satisfactory results.

Let's not figure it out then, let's just enjoy it! No I don't get butterflies in my stomach when Richard holds my hand. My heart doesn't race when I catch his eye and we aren't having some passionate honeymoon that we missed out on before. But we are finally a normal couple with normal challenges, and “normal” is a big step up. “Normal” feels wonderful! I can live with normal.

Today is my first truly Happy Anniversary!

We've had a face lift!

Well, our blog has had a face lift. As Elisabeth wrote in the last post, our writing group celebrated our first year anniversary this month. With this milestone, we're also growing. We're growing as writers and as friends. We are working hard to accomplish our writing goals and hope that 2010 is full of published works!

You'll notice that the blog has a new header. Thanks to Sara, who is not only an aspiring children's writer but also a talented graphic artist, we have a very nice logo up top. We thank her so much for all of her hard work in putting that together. It's perfect!

We also have our facebook fan page up and running. This is where we will share news related to our work, where we are submitting and announcements of when someone has been published. It's a forum where we can interact with and better share our writing with the community of Fort Collins and beyond.

Thank you for reading and your support of Reality Writes!

Kristin Mastre

Happy Anniversary

I am pleased to announce the one-year anniversary of this blog. The reason why I can clearly remember the date is that the first meeting was at The Bean Cycle on January 8th, my mother’s Birthday. At the time I felt it was symbolic to have the meeting on her Birthday. She also was a writer. Although never published, I have a folder of some of her essays. One of my favorites is “Buttons” (see below). I love how it is a reflection of a time past as well as what binds the generations together. Just like the buttons, my mom and I share a love of writing.

Looking back to that first meeting I was terrified. My heart was pounding and my armpits were sweating. I feared that no one would show up or that I would have nothing to say or that no one would want to join my group. Em showed up – adorable, excited, full of energy and talk, ready to trust and jump in. Another woman showed up as well, a poet with long wild hair who was still nursing a baby. I allowed myself to imagine that this might have been a step towards a belonging. Finding some women in town who I could relate to.

Our writers have had a busy year. We have a food blogger (Feasting Fort Collins), an aspiring children’s book author, bloggers, and a poet. I feel like as a group we are now getting into a good groove. People are getting excited about the blog and there are many essays to read and critique.

This year I am hoping to see more of our work getting published. If anyone else is reading this and you are interested in contributing to our blog or have writing assignments, please let us know.

Happy Writing!

Buttons
Leonie W. Aron
Saturday, we talked about buttons. “Do you have any of those pearl baby buttons? Save them,” she said. “They’re impossible to get, nowadays.” She was asking about my daughter. She was planning to knit the coming home sweater for a baby that had yet to be conceived. I have all the buttons, Aunt Gerry. Buttons form my mother’s dress the day she got married. Not the kind of buttons that you would expect. Navy buttons from a green wool dress. In 1934, my parents eloped to far-off White Plains, to be married by a Judge. They had been introduced at a little lunch, cooked up by Aunt Gerry. Once Aunt Gerry took you into her heart, that’s where you remained forever.

Aunt Gerry taught herself to sew. She even took tailoring courses. She made me a hound’s tooth check suit with a pleated skirt. I have the buttons. She made me pajamas with red buttons like raspberries. I have the buttons. She knitted sweaters, made dresses, made handkerchiefs with drawn work. She made beaded bags and crocheted hats, Afghans with roses, and shawls for romantic summer nights. She even made beautiful aprons, some of which I still have. The aprons have buttons too.

In my house, no one left for work or school with a loose or missing button. Grandma sewed the buttons on men’s shirts and kid’s coats. When a new winter coat was purchased, buttons were resewn before they were ever worn, just to make sure. Crystal buttons would be sewn on a blouse to make it more festive. When shopping for clothes my mother would say, “That’s a good dress just look at the buttons.” We never carried safety pins, buttons never fell off.

When Grandma died I was old enough to sew on my own buttons. I hate to sew buttons, though I’ve sewn enough of them. Buttons moved make waists smaller, and years later, looser. Buttons mysteriously popped off baby’s corduroys, boy’s shirts and hand smocked dresses, were livingly replaced. I remember searching through an old dusty button store to t to find sets of toggles for matching kid’s coats. They must have hated those loden jackets, always destroying the buttons. I once had a coat with frogs, I closed them gently.

Brass blazer buttons large and small, some with eagles, buttons with anchors, even buttons with American flags, from a more patriotic era, remain in my collection. Rhinestone buttons, buttons set like garnets or emeralds. Jet buttons both faceted and plain, tear drop mother-of-pearls, I treasure them all. I have a set of buttons that are little brass bells and satin buttons in white, pink, red, and black. “If you are going to get rid of that, save the buttons,” my mother would say. Now every button holds a memory.

When my mother died, all my daughter wanted was the buttons. To this day she doesn’t know why and laughs at herself. She took boxes of them. Aunt Gerry died on Monday. I went looking for the mother of pearl baby buttons. Don’t worry, Aunt Gerry, I have enough for the next generation.