rice planting.

This last week all the parents from the kids at the Akha Youth Development Center (where we work) came to help plant rice for their children during this next school year. After helping plant rice even one time, you gain a whole new appreciation for all the sweat and sore muscles that go into farming this staple item.

Rusty took these photos last week...

Tears.

Drops of emotions much too strong to be expressed through words.

You come at the most inopportune times.

I’ve learned ways to hide you from the world when I don’t want to make others feel uncomfortable--but sometimes your strength is greater than mine and you roll down my cheeks and allow them to see right into my heart.

Mostly though, you join to me late at night when I’m laying in my bed wishing she was next to me longing to find her scent lingering on her belongings.

You escape out of the corner of my eyes when reality sets in that she is never coming back.

You run over my lips leaving a salty trail behind as her memories overwhelm me.

The last hours we had together.

The shape of her mouth when she cried.

The strong grip of her fist around my index finger.

Her wide captivating eyes, full of life.

Lying skin-to-skin, fast asleep, feeling her breath on my chest.

In October 2009 a few weeks after Olive’s birth in Chiang Rai, our close friend Blah shared a dream with me that she had about Olive. We talked about this dream often during Olive's life, wondering if this would become her future.

In the dream it was a beautiful summer day and Blah was out in her front yard hanging laundry out to dry. Little Olive came hobbling down the hill at the hostel calling out her name, speaking perfect Akha. She was beautiful with curls, but had a limp in her walk. She ran up to Blah (maybe about three years old) and jumped on her back and continued talking with her while they finished up with the laundry.

You creep down my cheeks when I think about the loss of the dreams I had for her.

The simple dreams of being her mother. Of changing her diaper in the middle of the night…waking up to soothe her…to feed her…to hold her close and rock her to sleep.

the waves of grief.

We are grateful to be back here in Thailand, connecting with relationships here, learning more language, and having a strong sense of purpose. At times, this last year feels so distant, and on other days, everything rushes back. A relative of ours who lost her son a few years ago, wrote an e-mail recently that explained the journey of grief so well...

"The journey of grief is a very long, hard journey. I often describe my grief as the ocean---Some days the waves are so calm and far away & other days they are so very, very strong."

Today was one of those days when the waves felt "so very, very strong," and the memories of Olive so raw and fresh. I've avoided going to the hospital in Chiang Rai yet, mostly because I know that it will bring up so much emotion and so many memories. Today I watched videos of Olive that I haven't watched in about three months, and it did just what I suspected...surfaced the deepest emotions inside of me.

Almost every other day,  I run into someone who asks me how my daughter is doing--and hasn't heard that Olive died. It's in those interactions that I try my best to push down my emotions to keep the conversation comfortable for the other person, but the frustrating things about tears is that they often come even when I try to push them away. Those conversations usually end with a shuffle of the other person patting me on the back and saying, "It's okay, you'll have another baby someday."

Being back has brought with it many distractions which has also felt healthy in other ways. Not having all of our time focused on ourselves and Olive has helped with the healing process, but we are also realizing the importance of giving ourselves those spaces to grieve, and not to live in denial.

Mostly though we just miss her, and are realizing how deep our love was/is for this little life. We are slowly realizing just how much she has changed us.