rebirth

I could never use Peyton's room for another baby. It is just too full of sadness. I look at the room, and remember what it was to collapse into it. I see the gifts that lay unopened, and the life that went unlived. I pass that room with my eyes cast downward, and only rarely, when my heart or mood compels me to do so, venture in.

I feel taunted at times by that little room. It calls to me from behind its closed door with an emptiness that reminds me of what I will never have. Peyton is gone. She never came home and she never will. The bunny waiting in her crib will never be cuddled. The hand crocheted blanket will never give her warmth. That room remains empty, and in doing so, that room remains cruel.

I have given a lot of thought to that little room. If I had it my way, I might cement the door shut. Or cut it off from this house completely. But then there would be the cement, reminding me of what is behind it, and I would be back at square one.

When we bought this house, we termed the little room with the big windows "the baby's room," long before we even started trying to conceive. It just felt like the perfect little room - bright, full of sunshine with views of trees and birds outside the window. It faces away from the street, so passing cars would never interrupt a child's sleep with the sound of their engines, or the cascade of their headlights across the walls. For months we planned Peyton's homecoming. Decorating the room. Washing and folding tiny clothes. Plugging outlets. Now, over a year and a half after her death, this little room sits stagnant, veiled by a layer of dust and time.

There is this Superchick song "Beauty From My Pain," that has become a bit of a rallying cry for me, a mantra, my theme song. If you'd like to hear the song, it's in my playlist. The entire song really touches me, but especially these lines:

Here I am, at the end of me

Trying to hold to what I can't see
I forgot how to hope
This night's been so long
I cling to your promise
There will be a dawn

After all this has passed
I still will remain
After I've cried my last
There'll be beauty from pain
Though it won't be today
Someday I'll hope again
And there'll be beauty from pain
You will bring beauty from my pain


This song has gotten me thinking about this journey, and though it has been the most difficult time of my life, there has also been beauty, in the form of a gift that my daughter left for me here on earth - my words.

I always "liked" to write, but was too busy to invest any time into it. Peyton, in her own little way, reminded me as she was leaving this world, that I should write how I was feeling, and for me, that has been the "beauty from my pain."

My writing has comforted me. It has been cathartic and healing and therapeautic, and at odd times, through exploring fiction writing, has allowed me to escape all of this, and so it just feels right that when I finally feel peace about packing up Peyton's things, and filling that little room with new purpose, that it should be as a writing space. Long time readers of this blog will say, "yes, we know, you have mentioned this before" and I have, but something I received recently makes the transition feel more possible, and makes me feel a little more brave.

I was speaking with my friend Angie over at, among other places, Still Life 365. Angie is an incredibly talented writer and artist. I expressed to Angie that I needed something beautiful, a piece of artwork to breathe new purpose into that little room. I wanted a starting point, something that would make the process of  transitioning the room from a place of cribs, changing tables, and diapers, to one housing books, dictionaries, and inspiration, feel more possible.

I needed a focal point.
I needed something to remind me of the beauty of this journey.
I needed inspiration.

Anyone who knows Angie, knows that her life has recently gotten a little more busy with the birth of her adorable son, so you can imagine my surprise when she contacted me to let me know that she had something coming for me in the mail. I went to the post office, and found this waiting for me...

Angie calls the piece "Inspiration and Instinct." Isn't it beautiful?

The quote along the top is a favorite of mine by James Thurber. It says, "Don't get it right. Just get it written."

She explained the piece to me, saying :

"The image itself I wanted to make fantastical and accessible. I made your hair long and flowing to give it an air of exaggeration, as well as extend your arms out to encompass novels and ideas. I have an old dictionary/ encyclopaedia, and I thought it would be cool to cut out the definitions for inspiration and instinct...

I thought it would be cool if you were inspiring not just painted swirling ideas, bits of paper, literature, but also these butterflies and moths, each an inspiration. Moths I always associate with night, and butterflies day, so they are supposed to inspire work day and night. I actually thought of painting them, but liked that between your hands was both fiction and non-fiction; painted and from a book."

Seeing this painting, holding it, brushing my hands across the canvas - it just felt "right." It is beautiful, and inspiring, and compels me to write. This painting needs a home, and I know that home is the little yellow room. Having this painting here, I am feeling a little more brave because it helps me to see myself in there, writing away and feeling Peyton all around me.

Thank you so much Angie!

*Angie's artwork, as well as many other fabulous items, are available at her Etsy store. You can visit that here: Kenna Twins

*PRAYER REQUEST: 

Please join me in praying for a little baby boy named Gether who was born on 5/19 at 5 weeks premature. He has overcome many battles (including his heart stopping twice) and needs prayers for strength and healing. xx