A Mark and a Legacy

I’ve often heard about people who can’t wait to leave their mark on the world. I read about these people in books, watch them in movies, and occasionally meet a very passionate one, in person.  They dream about doing great things, building landmarks, or making a difference in the world somehow; they want to leave a legacy behind, and they have big plans of how to do it.

I never understood that passion, until today.

My dad’s profession is as a mason. Stone, brick, marble, tile; you name it, and he can make something out of it. When he was still well enough to work, he had quite the demand for his skill, and he would have to juggle jobs in order to have enough time for each one; being the man he is, he couldn’t turn a job down.  And BOY, did those jobs come! There never was a time that I remember when he was struggling for work.  He was just that good.

His skill was passed down to all four of my brothers--including my brother-in-law--who each had their fair share of time working by his side, learning the trade. I remember many arguments over the years, either with other construction workers (over space, time, respect, theft of my dad’s costly materials), or with my brothers (when they got older it was about who knew the best/fastest way to finish the job). Hard labor can get rough sometimes, and the construction business is no exception.

Whatever the situation, my dad always pulled through, not only finishing the job, but putting up some of the best masonry work around. I haven’t ever thought much about what he did for a living. To me, it was just a job my dad did that earned money. He went to work, got all dirty, and came home. End of story. But I wasn’t thinking about the big picture.

He drove us to Mason’s radiation appointment today, up in Salt Lake. When it was done we drove through the Avenues, while he pointed out various houses that he had worked on. They were older houses, and the work most likely done before any of my brothers were old enough to help. This was purely my dad’s work. Later, as we drove past downtown Salt Lake, he would point out random buildings, walls, and planters that he had built, each with its own story.

I began to remember times in my past when he had done the same thing. Times when, as we were driving, out of nowhere he would pick out a house, building, wall, mailbox, and tell us the story of how he had built it, and anything interesting that had happened during construction. And I remembered what I always forget: the many places I pass each day, that he helped build; the beautiful fireplace in the entrance of the hotel in my hometown; the walls and businesses I see in Salt Lake every morning.

Thoughts began to enter my head, feelings of proudness for the work my dad has done his whole life; the knowledge that these buildings and structures he built can be found from here, to California, and all the way to Hawaii.

Whether he knows it or not, whether he ever felt a passion to do so, he has left his mark on the world, in the shape of warmth and comfort; in the shape of homes.

And not only that, but he has taught his sons the trade. And even though they have moved on to different professions, they will always have that skill to fall back on because it is not one that you forget. He has left a legacy behind, one that I never realized before. One that I am proud of.

All I can think now is that I want to leave my mark on the world, too, and that I want to leave behind a legacy of my own!!

This is Not a New Year's Post

I haven't read much of what I wrote in those early days in the hospital back in November. I didn't want to think back to those days, when the future was bleak, and I could barely imagine what would be possible past the next day. Even though I was witness to two amazing miracles given my son during his two surgeries, and even more blessings given by family members, I somehow chose to ignore those happy parts. Yes, I talked about them, but at that time it was all I could do to breathe, and take care of Mason in his fragile state.

It's hard to describe what I felt; being so thankful for things, big and small, yet unable to make myself function to give proper thanks. Yet I still feel like that, unable to let myself do anything other than take Mason to doctor appointments, and come home. Anything past that is hard, therefore anything past that is unnecessary. I've closed myself off to the world, and chosen to only focus on things as they come. I've let a lot of things slip lately, and it's hard to know where to pick them back up. I'm not sure I even want to.

This week, I began letting myself read those things I wrote in the very beginning...and I can't believe it was me that wrote some of that stuff! It was hard to read what Mason and I have gone through, told in my own startlingly personal words. I felt my heart breaking all over again as I relived that morning before his first surgery, and had to remind myself to take deep breaths. Some of it still seems like it happened to some other mom; some other boy. Surely my sweet little boy didn't have to go through all that...right?

But in the end I know it's true, and he has gone through many hard things in just two months. It seems so long ago that we were in the hospital. It seemed like we were in there for months, yet I was honestly surprised to realize that it had only been two weeks. Two life-changing weeks.

Mason has been such a strong little boy these two months, and I am glad...but for selfish reasons. Because if he wasn't so strong, I'm not sure I would be able to help him at all. Like I said, I've closed myself off to the world, and sometimes that includes Mason. I feel terrible, but I know it's a survival instinct; one I am very good at bringing out.

Less feelings=less heartache. Survival 101.

I know this is all just a stage I'm going through; I've read everything there is to read about caregiver burnout, and I realize this morning that that's what this is. It doesn't happen when Mason needs something like going to an appointment, or needing a drink thickened. It's when he is perfectly happy and content, that it comes on, and I shut myself out. But someday I'll be able to feel again without being afraid of the next heartache, or the next medical scare.

I don't know where I was going with this, exactly. It started as a post about what I'm grateful for, and took a turn for the worst. Sometimes my hands take over and type what's truly in my mind. Sometimes I just need to type it all out and I feel better. We'll see.

Up, Up, and Away

I've always identified with art in very personal ways. First it was music that I identified with, singing my soul out to the likes of Mariah Carey, Lauren Hill, and--for a time--the Backstreet Boys. Later, poetry and acting got the best of me, though I would have died before I admitted it to anyone but my mom. It wasn't "cool," but I enjoyed it well enough. I even wrote a few poems of my own, which are horrible, and will never be unearthed.

After high school, my taste in music and performances became more refined, and I now have very specific preferences for each. For instance: I love ballet, but not the opera. Riveting, I know.

When Mason was born, I began to develop an eye for the art of photography. I never understood it before. I was so taken by it that I am now a photographer. My favorite things is when someone (myself, especially) can clearly capture emotions and relationships on camera. It makes my heart skip a beat when I come across pictures like that, even if I'm not the one who took the picture.

And that has opened the door to something that I never thought I would like: paintings. Maybe it was just because of a bad experience in art class, but I have never much liked paintings. I never liked anything by Van Goh or Da Vinci, and even the famous Mona Lisa wasn't anything special in my eyes.

But lately, I have begun to see the beauty in painting. I am amazed when I see a painting that can capture feelings, and emotions, and relationships, and I sometimes feel my heart skip a beat, too.

Three paintings have done this to me because of specific emotions they brought out at the different stages of my life that I came across them. They are all by the same artist: Katie M. Berggren, and--not surprisingly--they all have a mother and her child. :)

The first was this, titled A Light In The Dark:

And oh, if anything could capture the love and joy my son brought when he was born, it is this. I found this painting and this artist years after Mason was born, but this brought back that entire first year, and the feeling of finding my calling in life.

Next was Spirit Soaring:

First seen last year, it always reminds me of the purely happy days I have had with my son, constantly on an adventure, soaring towards the future.

And now there is this, tittled Up, Up, and Away:

I find it ironic that I first saw it just before Mason was diagnosed with cancer. Also ironic, is the fact that Mason will soon be bald, like the child in this painting. But I loved it then, and I love it even more now. For me, the emotions of love, protectiveness, and peace, all make an appearance. I see a boy who is at peace in his mom's lap, who feels safe and comfortable. And I see a mom who loves her son, and wants to protect him  from the trials he will face, as they go up, up, and away.

I am truly awe-struck by these paintings, and they will always remind me of these times in my life. What a talent to have, to be able to paint these emotions on a blank canvas! What a talent to be able to paint something that others can identify with!

Simply beautiful.

See Katie M. Berggren's website, or buy her artwork on Etsy.