She was small for her age, and simply dressed. Clean, but a bit ragged around the edges. I remember looking down at her little feet as she tentatively and gently stepped through the door. She had white tennis shoes on, neatly tied, but the canvas top was frayed and on the verge of pulling away from the white rubber edge holding her shoe together. The young lady was wearing no socks to keep her toes warm in this February winter.
The girl had long hair, the color of the whitest corn silk spun soft like a spider's web. Her braids were crisp, and tight... they meant business. Her sky-blue eyes were framed by eyelashes that shone gold in the morning sun as it invaded my classroom through the lone window. Her face was pale, with a tiny hint of freckling sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. Holding her notebook tightly against her thin sweater, she looked directly into my eyes and cleared her throat.
Watching this middle-school child gather her courage, with every breath drawn and the settling of her shoulders, I welcomed her with a smile, that I hoped was welcoming. I noted the lightening quick glances her eyes made as they calculated the ilk of her new peers. She was the last of my hand picked students to arrive and gather for their first day in my School-within-a-School classroom.
Looking over the heads of my new students, corralled without their acceptance in a Portable building, with a leaky ceiling and flimsy, bouncy floor, I gazed at the posters I hung the night before. "To be heard, is the gateway to being understood" and "Write to be understood, Speak to be heard, Read to grow"...... Feeling my confidence waver, and knowing that the reading levels of my students tested between first grade and tenth grade skill, I swallowed hard. Because it was a new environment for my students, and their faces were not familiar to each other, they were noticeably compliant and even attentive. They all looked so young and fresh and innocent to me, and I had to find the steel in my backbone to find my voice.
"Good morning." There. The oxygen seemed to come back into the room for me to breathe. "I am so glad you are here with me." Thus, began my new journey as a teacher in an unprecedented program for the district, and it was all mine.
*******************************************
Through that year, I learned more than my students did. I worked with young men that were farmers and mechanics after school, and much bigger and bolder than I would ever be. I had students that were mothers already at the age of 13 and 14, and most all of my students lived in a squalor that my own mother would have been appalled at. Most of the children lived in homes that no longer had a foundation or floor, and sweeping the loose mud and sand out of their living room was a daily chore. The vocabulary of my students sometimes shocked me, sometimes tickled me, but always amazed me. These students grew up in a bubble community. A community that had a strong current of faithfulness to one another, yet a violence and a passion that could turn crazy at the turn of the moon. These children, sitting in quiet expectation in front of me on that first day, showed me how much courage and humor we ALL have inside of us...as a human trait regardless of our situations.
************************************
hello friends:
This is just bits and pieces of a story I have started. I would love to have some feedback and would appreciate knowing if this would be interesting to continue writing, or if I should explore other options.....
Monday, January 16, 2017
Sunday, January 15, 2017
"Let it go"
"Let it go".....easy words; some of the first words I learned to read. These words were the first words out of my mother's mouth when I mentioned I was planning on joining the "Women's March" in DC on the 21st of January. Easy words to convey, when one is a victor in a game to the "loser".... It gave me pause when my Mother's advice slammed me in the face. "Let it go."
In a split second, silent movie reels ran through my mind. What was the "it" that she was ordering me to "let go" of? Visions of the rows and rows of Nazis and German soldiers marching and saluting in rigid stances. A nuclear launch button pressed, within a six minute interval of chaos...masses of women, children, and men, old and young, being beaten with batons, sprayed with tear gas, as they tried to hold firm, just saying "no." And the biggest "it" of all: a picture of a sweet neighbor, hanging laundry, trying NOT to look at the family who had previously enriched her life, being dragged off, belongings thrown to the side, as they were "escorted" by SS men into the street...never to be seen again. This woman, their neighbor who calmly was hanging her family's clothing out to dry... "let it go."
I think those images were so powerful that they made me feel, in a blast of seconds, the hatred and the fear of three simple words. I wondered, "WHERE are the heroes, the super-humans, the protectors..." Those special beings that I learned about as a child, to count on and to respect and to honor?
Well... after appropriately watching Bruce Willis in "Live Free or Die Hard" yesterday, there was my answer. Heroes are "that guy." The ones who sacrifice their marriage, their dignity, and their livelihood because there isn't anyone around to be "that guy" but oneself.
So that was it. I am going to be "that guy." I want to be on the right side of history. When our future world looks through the history books at what happened here in the United States of America, when the Electoral College defeated the will of the people and turned our "united" country into an eviscerated, roiling mass of anger and injustice. When one man, single-handedly gifted our beloved democracy to a foreign dictator who has ever been known to be an enemy to all things fair and democratic.
I am hanging onto a different set of simple words, to give myself strength, and even righteous power that fuels courage: I am not alone. MORE simple words, also words we all learned early on in our reading lessons. But these words are MORE powerful, to me, than those that came from my mother's mouth as she sought to bend me, even break me, because of her embarrassment that I would say...NO.
"Snowflakes" the Trump supporters call us. Well...I embrace that term. Enough snowflakes make a blizzard. Enough "snowflakes" make an avalanche. "That guy" can be ALL of us. Do not "let it go" ..... We are not alone.
In a split second, silent movie reels ran through my mind. What was the "it" that she was ordering me to "let go" of? Visions of the rows and rows of Nazis and German soldiers marching and saluting in rigid stances. A nuclear launch button pressed, within a six minute interval of chaos...masses of women, children, and men, old and young, being beaten with batons, sprayed with tear gas, as they tried to hold firm, just saying "no." And the biggest "it" of all: a picture of a sweet neighbor, hanging laundry, trying NOT to look at the family who had previously enriched her life, being dragged off, belongings thrown to the side, as they were "escorted" by SS men into the street...never to be seen again. This woman, their neighbor who calmly was hanging her family's clothing out to dry... "let it go."
I think those images were so powerful that they made me feel, in a blast of seconds, the hatred and the fear of three simple words. I wondered, "WHERE are the heroes, the super-humans, the protectors..." Those special beings that I learned about as a child, to count on and to respect and to honor?
Well... after appropriately watching Bruce Willis in "Live Free or Die Hard" yesterday, there was my answer. Heroes are "that guy." The ones who sacrifice their marriage, their dignity, and their livelihood because there isn't anyone around to be "that guy" but oneself.
So that was it. I am going to be "that guy." I want to be on the right side of history. When our future world looks through the history books at what happened here in the United States of America, when the Electoral College defeated the will of the people and turned our "united" country into an eviscerated, roiling mass of anger and injustice. When one man, single-handedly gifted our beloved democracy to a foreign dictator who has ever been known to be an enemy to all things fair and democratic.
I am hanging onto a different set of simple words, to give myself strength, and even righteous power that fuels courage: I am not alone. MORE simple words, also words we all learned early on in our reading lessons. But these words are MORE powerful, to me, than those that came from my mother's mouth as she sought to bend me, even break me, because of her embarrassment that I would say...NO.
"Snowflakes" the Trump supporters call us. Well...I embrace that term. Enough snowflakes make a blizzard. Enough "snowflakes" make an avalanche. "That guy" can be ALL of us. Do not "let it go" ..... We are not alone.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Borrowing History
Curling bannisters, balconies, frosted corbels and woodwork, porches and nooks... I love old houses. Obsessed with them, more like it. Years of yearning, while nesting in subdivision homes of cookie cutter redundance, has made me treasure the years my husband wrapped us in the house of my dreams in a little town of Reedsburg Wi. The coziness of its fortress-like hug, is but a memory, or more like a hangover, not leaving my heart ever quite the same. Like having the perfect husband, who is long gone, new ones just don't compare.
I grew up with a Dad who had wanderlust in his blood...or soul, I can't divine the two. He had "Big Ideas" always. Fortunately, for us, he had the carpentry skills and the diligence to build and remodel. Never once did he fail to provide a home made with imagination and excitement. I grew up with the smell of paint in my nose, the dust of wood cut carefully to fit together like Lincoln Logs, and a layer of his hard work muting the colors of our clothing until we dusted off before bed and bath.
As soon as one house was completed to satisfaction, my dad would move us to another Big Idea and started over from scratch again. My dad was a River Rat, having grown up on the Kawkawlin River with the mouth of the Saginaw Bay within a short walk from his home shore. He remained a River Rat, pretty consistently, with every move we made... moving about 3 miles from his original childhood nest. I attended four elementary schools in the Bangor School District, which, to me was a plus. By the time I got into the Jr. High, I had accumulated friends from previous years in each school, helping my popularity a bit. But each "new" home was soon gutted, painted, added onto, and otherwise "touched" by my dad's artwork. I loved it. I breathed enough sawdust that I guess I didn't need fresh air anymore. I "caught" my dad's wanderlust.
My mother's blood, was made of simpler and more consistent stuff. She must have loved my father very much to have made him her life. She did not transition easily. It did not help that my Dad often did not give us any warning, but walked in the door with a couple of boxes in hand. I did not sense, from my mother, the spark of excitement that I felt. I will never know if my parents planned together or made decisions to uproot together. My mom never seemed surprised, but never gave us her own warning either. I just saw her gritted teeth, and her mechanical distribution of orders, directed at my older sister and me. My brother and sister, because they were so much younger than us, were off the hook. My job was to keep them out of the way and entertained....not to bother any of the adults doing the "important" work of packing.
It wasn't until recently, that I have sought internal peace and understanding of my soul. Nobody in my family has moved more than I have. I don't say that as a braggart nor do I say that as a degradation, but just a statistic. I have ever yearned for the big old homes of by-gone eras, that I've read about in stories. I have always wanted to be a "Little Women" type growing up in Victorian charm. And a "Cheaper by the Dozen" family surrounding me with life and fun sliding down the bannisters of a 1920's mansion, well-worn with family...
Realizing, all of a sudden, that my children will never experience the memory filled home of their childhood, stable and never-changing, I recognize my Father. I have moved my boys from place to place, while trying to find my footing in a world fraught with change. Nothing is stable for them, for us. The closest I have gotten to my dream was after I found my sweet husband, Chris. I have ever searched for "home" in houses, in communities, in apartments and in farms. When Chris purchased our first Big Old Charming House in Wisconsin, just for me.... oh, I rolled in every corner and nook like a pig happy in the mud. Seth was able to slide down the stairs in a box, and he had a clubhouse deep in the secret closet under those stairs. Good memories were made and my heart was satisfied. I thought it was because the house was charming.
Too few years we had in that home. We found ourselves having to make a move to better assure our family an income. We sold our home with heavy hearts.... I felt like I was saying goodbye to my dream. We purchased a cookie-cutter house in a cookie-cutter neighborhood in a state that stifled my spirit. I threw myself into the remodeling of this new, sterile house. Trying to make it something it could never be. We lived there for eight years, to allow my youngest to solidify his education. We made the best of it. But I no longer could touch my dream, and I mourned it.
My husband recognized my dream, and held it close, even when I was trying so hard to let it go. Quietly, he determined that he would get that dream back to me, without realizing exactly what that dream was. The time came, after our youngest graduated high school, to let go of cookie-cutter. We followed our boys to New England... where houses were charming and towns were exciting and warm. We bought our charming old house. I wallowed, at first. When my youngest left for college, shortly after we unpacked our boxes... I became aware of the quiet. The dust. The broken doorknobs. The shifty cupboards. The stained floors. The stairs.... so ....many...stairs.
I am 61 years old. My children are their own people. I am not the most evident in their lives at this point. Sitting down abruptly, in the middle of this charming Doris Day house, I cried. I sobbed, and I broke.
What I finally realized, in this journey of mine, was that I had the wanderlust of my father, but the dreams of my mother's soul ...of history and of family and of stability...... I had disregarded as dust to be waved away in annoyance. I chose the wanderlust as my venue to seek the stability. Talk about an oxymoron. What I realize, with intrigue, is that I have been living my dream on OTHER people's history in their homes.... the dings in the woodwork, the worn spots on the bannister.... were made by people I will never know. My children do not see this as "home".... no matter how old, how charming a place is.... it can never truly be our home.
My husband has been gone this week. He drove my son to a new college in a different state....2,000 miles away. Looking forward to him coming home.... it appears I may have misunderstood what "home" really was. We are empty nesters, in a too-large nest, filled with antiques of other people's histories. We are living in borrowed charm. And it will never become "home." My husband is coming "home" to me. We are each other's "home." Wherever we are, if we are together, we are truly "home." That is something good to wallow in.
I grew up with a Dad who had wanderlust in his blood...or soul, I can't divine the two. He had "Big Ideas" always. Fortunately, for us, he had the carpentry skills and the diligence to build and remodel. Never once did he fail to provide a home made with imagination and excitement. I grew up with the smell of paint in my nose, the dust of wood cut carefully to fit together like Lincoln Logs, and a layer of his hard work muting the colors of our clothing until we dusted off before bed and bath.
As soon as one house was completed to satisfaction, my dad would move us to another Big Idea and started over from scratch again. My dad was a River Rat, having grown up on the Kawkawlin River with the mouth of the Saginaw Bay within a short walk from his home shore. He remained a River Rat, pretty consistently, with every move we made... moving about 3 miles from his original childhood nest. I attended four elementary schools in the Bangor School District, which, to me was a plus. By the time I got into the Jr. High, I had accumulated friends from previous years in each school, helping my popularity a bit. But each "new" home was soon gutted, painted, added onto, and otherwise "touched" by my dad's artwork. I loved it. I breathed enough sawdust that I guess I didn't need fresh air anymore. I "caught" my dad's wanderlust.
My mother's blood, was made of simpler and more consistent stuff. She must have loved my father very much to have made him her life. She did not transition easily. It did not help that my Dad often did not give us any warning, but walked in the door with a couple of boxes in hand. I did not sense, from my mother, the spark of excitement that I felt. I will never know if my parents planned together or made decisions to uproot together. My mom never seemed surprised, but never gave us her own warning either. I just saw her gritted teeth, and her mechanical distribution of orders, directed at my older sister and me. My brother and sister, because they were so much younger than us, were off the hook. My job was to keep them out of the way and entertained....not to bother any of the adults doing the "important" work of packing.
It wasn't until recently, that I have sought internal peace and understanding of my soul. Nobody in my family has moved more than I have. I don't say that as a braggart nor do I say that as a degradation, but just a statistic. I have ever yearned for the big old homes of by-gone eras, that I've read about in stories. I have always wanted to be a "Little Women" type growing up in Victorian charm. And a "Cheaper by the Dozen" family surrounding me with life and fun sliding down the bannisters of a 1920's mansion, well-worn with family...
Realizing, all of a sudden, that my children will never experience the memory filled home of their childhood, stable and never-changing, I recognize my Father. I have moved my boys from place to place, while trying to find my footing in a world fraught with change. Nothing is stable for them, for us. The closest I have gotten to my dream was after I found my sweet husband, Chris. I have ever searched for "home" in houses, in communities, in apartments and in farms. When Chris purchased our first Big Old Charming House in Wisconsin, just for me.... oh, I rolled in every corner and nook like a pig happy in the mud. Seth was able to slide down the stairs in a box, and he had a clubhouse deep in the secret closet under those stairs. Good memories were made and my heart was satisfied. I thought it was because the house was charming.
Too few years we had in that home. We found ourselves having to make a move to better assure our family an income. We sold our home with heavy hearts.... I felt like I was saying goodbye to my dream. We purchased a cookie-cutter house in a cookie-cutter neighborhood in a state that stifled my spirit. I threw myself into the remodeling of this new, sterile house. Trying to make it something it could never be. We lived there for eight years, to allow my youngest to solidify his education. We made the best of it. But I no longer could touch my dream, and I mourned it.
My husband recognized my dream, and held it close, even when I was trying so hard to let it go. Quietly, he determined that he would get that dream back to me, without realizing exactly what that dream was. The time came, after our youngest graduated high school, to let go of cookie-cutter. We followed our boys to New England... where houses were charming and towns were exciting and warm. We bought our charming old house. I wallowed, at first. When my youngest left for college, shortly after we unpacked our boxes... I became aware of the quiet. The dust. The broken doorknobs. The shifty cupboards. The stained floors. The stairs.... so ....many...stairs.
I am 61 years old. My children are their own people. I am not the most evident in their lives at this point. Sitting down abruptly, in the middle of this charming Doris Day house, I cried. I sobbed, and I broke.
What I finally realized, in this journey of mine, was that I had the wanderlust of my father, but the dreams of my mother's soul ...of history and of family and of stability...... I had disregarded as dust to be waved away in annoyance. I chose the wanderlust as my venue to seek the stability. Talk about an oxymoron. What I realize, with intrigue, is that I have been living my dream on OTHER people's history in their homes.... the dings in the woodwork, the worn spots on the bannister.... were made by people I will never know. My children do not see this as "home".... no matter how old, how charming a place is.... it can never truly be our home.
My husband has been gone this week. He drove my son to a new college in a different state....2,000 miles away. Looking forward to him coming home.... it appears I may have misunderstood what "home" really was. We are empty nesters, in a too-large nest, filled with antiques of other people's histories. We are living in borrowed charm. And it will never become "home." My husband is coming "home" to me. We are each other's "home." Wherever we are, if we are together, we are truly "home." That is something good to wallow in.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Monster in my Belly, Part 2
After wallowing in my Momma's rejection, my thoughts gave way to memories. Growing up in the early 60's and 70's, was a treat for those of us experiencing such and we didn't even know it. I believe our generation was the "F"bomb of the times.... gaining attention by questioning and rebelling from the conservative world of picket fences and high heels.
I remember wearing little white gloves to church on Sunday. They had a little pearly button that gently and perfectly kept them closed. The gloves encased my little hands, and hid the flaws of my nature. My nails were bitten down to the nubs, sometimes holding a bit of the earth around the quick from my last minute play in the garden while I waited for the family to get into the car. The little white spotless gloves covered my "all-to-real" skin of my hands.
That epitomizes the 50's and 60's to me. Being taught to "cover" anything real and precious, and not to make waves by shedding the beautiful covers of dress that our mothers put us in. "Misbehaving" meant simply doing or saying anything that questioned the strict norms of every day routine. So exactly portrayed in the black and white portion of the movie, "Pleasantville"...
I remember some of the things I learned from my momma. I learned to tie my shoes, at first with the Butterfly method, and then later perfecting the more grown-up version...... I learned to ice skate, with my mom's arm wrapped firmly around my waist as I tried to balance on my double blades strapped to my boots. Looking back with great respect, I am remembering how my mom single-handedly shoveled a huge ice skating rink for us to use, in front of my house on the Kawkawlin River. I'm sure I learned something from watching her struggle with the piles of snow making our rink the smoothest and safest in the neighborhood. She was so tiny, and the piles of snow were so large.
She taught me how to read, while cuddled up next to her with our Book-of-the-month selection all fresh and new from the mailbox. I could read before entering kindergarten, so I could concentrate on other things...like learning to open the icky cartons of milk they made us drink. Learning to read was the best lesson... I have practiced much and because of it, I experienced many many worlds and characters that otherwise I would not know or understand.
Then I started thinking about the "conversation" that prompted such anger in both of us. Where did I learn to start thinking for myself? When did I take those little white gloves off? Early on, I'm remembering. I was a natural rebel.... and I realize that taking off those gloves, refusing to put on the dresses that were so itchy and confining was the beginning of the volatile relationship that defined us. I started asking why, and demanding some reason to base the behavior expected of me from her. It began then.
She taught me shame. She is the one who caught me picking my nose. She did teach me not to. I rarely pick my nose to this day. She taught me shame for my body... not to touch it, not to bring attention to it, and certainly not to share it. I couldn't look at myself, as I grew up, and grew breasts, and changed shape, without feeling a bit of shame for it. Betrayal. It happened in spite of my attempt to "behave."
I was ugly with my rebellion. That's what she called me, often. (I was often rebellious....) and I internally substituted the word "ugly" for "rebelling. " There was nothing stopping the fire in my belly, from growing. I was often in dispute with her on something, and everything. She chased me around my bedroom with a stick when I was getting bigger than her..... the visual makes me laugh, today, but I remember the day I stopped running. I turned and faced her, and demanded she hit me. She spit in my face saying "you.....lit..tle....shit." but she did not hit me. That day I discovered the fire made it up to my heart. I won something that day, but I realized in some way that innocence was lost. I found the beginning of my power. I stopped accepting the shame. So, I guess in a roundabout way, that day...my mom taught me that, too.
That day I stopped going to church. I stopped wearing the clothes my mom required of me. I stopped "behaving."
That free'd me to start gaining. I learned how much I liked to apply myself for good grades. I actually LIKED making my body strong and fast and muscular. I learned that I wanted to jump off the earth and fly. That was the day I started to BE.
I can look back on the other day, on our devastating phone conversation and realize that my mother does not get to "feel" ashamed of me and she doesn't GET to feel embarrassed by me...I am not HERS. I think I understand now, that she hasn't figured that out yet, and maybe she is afraid to let go of "me." And with that, she has taught me a huge lesson that I will never forget and always appreciate. With my own children... I send them off without restraints that I personally put upon them...they are not MINE, anymore... I taught them what I could, some things good, some things not so good...but they are their own persons now and there is nothing they can do that will embarrass me or shame me... they will continue to intrigue me, and to interest me and to feel pride in, but I will never feel ashamed of them. And that, I learned the hard way.
I remember wearing little white gloves to church on Sunday. They had a little pearly button that gently and perfectly kept them closed. The gloves encased my little hands, and hid the flaws of my nature. My nails were bitten down to the nubs, sometimes holding a bit of the earth around the quick from my last minute play in the garden while I waited for the family to get into the car. The little white spotless gloves covered my "all-to-real" skin of my hands.
That epitomizes the 50's and 60's to me. Being taught to "cover" anything real and precious, and not to make waves by shedding the beautiful covers of dress that our mothers put us in. "Misbehaving" meant simply doing or saying anything that questioned the strict norms of every day routine. So exactly portrayed in the black and white portion of the movie, "Pleasantville"...
I remember some of the things I learned from my momma. I learned to tie my shoes, at first with the Butterfly method, and then later perfecting the more grown-up version...... I learned to ice skate, with my mom's arm wrapped firmly around my waist as I tried to balance on my double blades strapped to my boots. Looking back with great respect, I am remembering how my mom single-handedly shoveled a huge ice skating rink for us to use, in front of my house on the Kawkawlin River. I'm sure I learned something from watching her struggle with the piles of snow making our rink the smoothest and safest in the neighborhood. She was so tiny, and the piles of snow were so large.
She taught me how to read, while cuddled up next to her with our Book-of-the-month selection all fresh and new from the mailbox. I could read before entering kindergarten, so I could concentrate on other things...like learning to open the icky cartons of milk they made us drink. Learning to read was the best lesson... I have practiced much and because of it, I experienced many many worlds and characters that otherwise I would not know or understand.
Then I started thinking about the "conversation" that prompted such anger in both of us. Where did I learn to start thinking for myself? When did I take those little white gloves off? Early on, I'm remembering. I was a natural rebel.... and I realize that taking off those gloves, refusing to put on the dresses that were so itchy and confining was the beginning of the volatile relationship that defined us. I started asking why, and demanding some reason to base the behavior expected of me from her. It began then.
She taught me shame. She is the one who caught me picking my nose. She did teach me not to. I rarely pick my nose to this day. She taught me shame for my body... not to touch it, not to bring attention to it, and certainly not to share it. I couldn't look at myself, as I grew up, and grew breasts, and changed shape, without feeling a bit of shame for it. Betrayal. It happened in spite of my attempt to "behave."
I was ugly with my rebellion. That's what she called me, often. (I was often rebellious....) and I internally substituted the word "ugly" for "rebelling. " There was nothing stopping the fire in my belly, from growing. I was often in dispute with her on something, and everything. She chased me around my bedroom with a stick when I was getting bigger than her..... the visual makes me laugh, today, but I remember the day I stopped running. I turned and faced her, and demanded she hit me. She spit in my face saying "you.....lit..tle....shit." but she did not hit me. That day I discovered the fire made it up to my heart. I won something that day, but I realized in some way that innocence was lost. I found the beginning of my power. I stopped accepting the shame. So, I guess in a roundabout way, that day...my mom taught me that, too.
That day I stopped going to church. I stopped wearing the clothes my mom required of me. I stopped "behaving."
That free'd me to start gaining. I learned how much I liked to apply myself for good grades. I actually LIKED making my body strong and fast and muscular. I learned that I wanted to jump off the earth and fly. That was the day I started to BE.
I can look back on the other day, on our devastating phone conversation and realize that my mother does not get to "feel" ashamed of me and she doesn't GET to feel embarrassed by me...I am not HERS. I think I understand now, that she hasn't figured that out yet, and maybe she is afraid to let go of "me." And with that, she has taught me a huge lesson that I will never forget and always appreciate. With my own children... I send them off without restraints that I personally put upon them...they are not MINE, anymore... I taught them what I could, some things good, some things not so good...but they are their own persons now and there is nothing they can do that will embarrass me or shame me... they will continue to intrigue me, and to interest me and to feel pride in, but I will never feel ashamed of them. And that, I learned the hard way.
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
The Monster in my Belly
I thought I was finished with blogging. But then.... the 2016 Presidential campaign ..happened. The results were shocking to me. The Electoral College put a Devil into the White House.
This changed things a bit, to my voice. To my existence, as a peaceful warrior for life and humanity. Something grew in my own belly that was not sweet. It started with a seed, wrapped around a fire so hot that it could consume its surrounding shell and grow into a flame that spreads without control.
This isn't a "side job" that we are talking about.... it is the President of the United States. Donald J. Trump, failed businessman, wealthy only by birth and unethical dealings, thin skinned, and of reality show celebrity fame..... will soon become the most powerful person in control of our country. I doubt he has even looked at the Constitution of the US since he was in sixth grade. But that is who the Electoral College gave us...not the majority of voters, but the whim of Republican gerrymandering and manipulation. And we have since discovered by way of our esteemed Intelligence community, he gained office through a treasonous venue via Russia.
In my opinion, we are fairly doomed. The Democratic Party is no longer viable as a check and balance. We have quietly become a one-party system... making our way to Dictatorship. I say "quietly" despite the noise of "the people" out in the streets protesting, or on facebook trying to present real news to take over the ever-growing Fake News permeating social media...and Trump's mouth.
I see our country breaking apart.... there is no redeeming situation that will unify the heart of our beautiful Democracy. Trump is working hard to silence the voices of reason and truth, as they proclaim...voice by voice... transparency is getting clouded by the day. The media is in disarray and confusing in its floundering to make themselves heard and read above the noise of the Republican party's booming assertions.
Well. War is imminent, being blasted across neighboring fences like children taunting their enemies ...Our own children being the weapon of choice to throw directly at the Middle East, Korea, China...whatever country is showing disrespect to the great Orange Leader .... blood by blood, our country will be depleted of its strength, its intelligence, its imagination....and its hope.
Brother fighting brother, longtime friends battling on issue and fear... it begins all over again. Too reminiscent of the historical rise of the Nazi Party and Hitler's horrendous massacres. Step by step, closer to repeating history with the processes of marking, registering and corralling masses of humanity.
And, personally:
I lost my mom last night. Not to death, but to Fox News hypocrisy and to Trump. She called to scold me and told me she was so ashamed of the things I have been saying on facebook. Note, she is NOT on facebook. I looked at my friends list after that phone call and blocked most of my family members on the list. She told me I was a traitor to our country.
Of course, I am heartbroken. But I tell myself that even Jesus himself was disrespected by his childhood friends and community. Besides, anytime I can invoke the name of "Jesus" to my mom the better my argument becomes. She is really upset that I don't claim christianity as American. Not even the fact that I don't believe in god, but that I don't think it is in the Constitution.
So. Yeah. I am doing some thinking this morning and may have to come up with a more organic and elegant resisting method than what I've been doing.
I know I learned some important things from my mom. Not all of them good. Some things that I learned, I learned by observing and digesting and making it a commitment NOT to be like her. She taught me to read, to dance, and to speak. But the fire in my belly came from life. I will use it to power good things and not let it go out from the wet dampness of discouragement. I can let go of the things that are not working for me. But the fire stays.
This changed things a bit, to my voice. To my existence, as a peaceful warrior for life and humanity. Something grew in my own belly that was not sweet. It started with a seed, wrapped around a fire so hot that it could consume its surrounding shell and grow into a flame that spreads without control.
This isn't a "side job" that we are talking about.... it is the President of the United States. Donald J. Trump, failed businessman, wealthy only by birth and unethical dealings, thin skinned, and of reality show celebrity fame..... will soon become the most powerful person in control of our country. I doubt he has even looked at the Constitution of the US since he was in sixth grade. But that is who the Electoral College gave us...not the majority of voters, but the whim of Republican gerrymandering and manipulation. And we have since discovered by way of our esteemed Intelligence community, he gained office through a treasonous venue via Russia.
In my opinion, we are fairly doomed. The Democratic Party is no longer viable as a check and balance. We have quietly become a one-party system... making our way to Dictatorship. I say "quietly" despite the noise of "the people" out in the streets protesting, or on facebook trying to present real news to take over the ever-growing Fake News permeating social media...and Trump's mouth.
I see our country breaking apart.... there is no redeeming situation that will unify the heart of our beautiful Democracy. Trump is working hard to silence the voices of reason and truth, as they proclaim...voice by voice... transparency is getting clouded by the day. The media is in disarray and confusing in its floundering to make themselves heard and read above the noise of the Republican party's booming assertions.
Well. War is imminent, being blasted across neighboring fences like children taunting their enemies ...Our own children being the weapon of choice to throw directly at the Middle East, Korea, China...whatever country is showing disrespect to the great Orange Leader .... blood by blood, our country will be depleted of its strength, its intelligence, its imagination....and its hope.
Brother fighting brother, longtime friends battling on issue and fear... it begins all over again. Too reminiscent of the historical rise of the Nazi Party and Hitler's horrendous massacres. Step by step, closer to repeating history with the processes of marking, registering and corralling masses of humanity.
And, personally:
I lost my mom last night. Not to death, but to Fox News hypocrisy and to Trump. She called to scold me and told me she was so ashamed of the things I have been saying on facebook. Note, she is NOT on facebook. I looked at my friends list after that phone call and blocked most of my family members on the list. She told me I was a traitor to our country.
Of course, I am heartbroken. But I tell myself that even Jesus himself was disrespected by his childhood friends and community. Besides, anytime I can invoke the name of "Jesus" to my mom the better my argument becomes. She is really upset that I don't claim christianity as American. Not even the fact that I don't believe in god, but that I don't think it is in the Constitution.
So. Yeah. I am doing some thinking this morning and may have to come up with a more organic and elegant resisting method than what I've been doing.
I know I learned some important things from my mom. Not all of them good. Some things that I learned, I learned by observing and digesting and making it a commitment NOT to be like her. She taught me to read, to dance, and to speak. But the fire in my belly came from life. I will use it to power good things and not let it go out from the wet dampness of discouragement. I can let go of the things that are not working for me. But the fire stays.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Maiden, Mother, Crone....
This skin that holds me together, and defines me by texture and color and smell, has been changing so slowly and constantly that it evaded my notice. Where did the smoothness go and the sleek sheen of my golden tan? The long soft fullness of the hair on my head has broken and dulled and needs care. I am like the Autumn now. The brightness, fading into a knowing and deeper shade of wisdom. I am becoming more like the blending of the earth as the dying leaves make a blanket on its edge. I am becoming less of the sunlight and more of the shadow. The in-between age, before coming into the glowing stage of the moon. This is middle age.
Women, mostly, tend to become invisible in middle age. Not so much "the unseen" but more like "the overlooked." It is an easy thing to have happen. Men are still quite vibrant and present, in their jobs and their lives...with people depending upon their sharpness and honed skills from years of practise. Holding up the world with their bare hands right up until the time of transfer to their sons.... but women....oh, women. Women flitter and bend and are constantly moving until they become thin like the air. Without them, men could not stay so solid, yet the more we flutter, the more we lose of our covering. We flitter away all that previously defined us, so people don't recognize us without our skins...and all we have left is our soul. Right out there bare naked. It is a drawn-out process, and takes a long time to peel away, flake away, fall away.... but when it does.... well. Boom. That's when we find our power. That is when we become the Moon.
I am looking forward to being a light again. Not like when I was young, and I was warm and bright like the sun. No, I will be cool and blue and glowing and will hold up the oceans and the seas and swim in the ebb and the flow of the moon's power. I will be gliding and streaming and skimming on the stars with my bodiless soul... leaving a trail of shimmering womenly light.... ageless.... so old that age won't matter and I will become real. I watch my mother shrivel into a perfect beauty that will soon shine through her layers of years and time and skin....and understand that her path is my path...and on it goes.
I sit in the home I have made cozy, with all my thoughts of my family and loved ones wrapped within....cleaning and straightening and dusting.... seemingly with no purpose but to enfold us all together for this short season in time.... and know that my skin is starting to fall off.... to wrinkle and shrink...to change. It is my time to let it go, so I will be able to feel my soul emerging and growing. My moonlight is nigh. All is well.
Women, mostly, tend to become invisible in middle age. Not so much "the unseen" but more like "the overlooked." It is an easy thing to have happen. Men are still quite vibrant and present, in their jobs and their lives...with people depending upon their sharpness and honed skills from years of practise. Holding up the world with their bare hands right up until the time of transfer to their sons.... but women....oh, women. Women flitter and bend and are constantly moving until they become thin like the air. Without them, men could not stay so solid, yet the more we flutter, the more we lose of our covering. We flitter away all that previously defined us, so people don't recognize us without our skins...and all we have left is our soul. Right out there bare naked. It is a drawn-out process, and takes a long time to peel away, flake away, fall away.... but when it does.... well. Boom. That's when we find our power. That is when we become the Moon.
I am looking forward to being a light again. Not like when I was young, and I was warm and bright like the sun. No, I will be cool and blue and glowing and will hold up the oceans and the seas and swim in the ebb and the flow of the moon's power. I will be gliding and streaming and skimming on the stars with my bodiless soul... leaving a trail of shimmering womenly light.... ageless.... so old that age won't matter and I will become real. I watch my mother shrivel into a perfect beauty that will soon shine through her layers of years and time and skin....and understand that her path is my path...and on it goes.
I sit in the home I have made cozy, with all my thoughts of my family and loved ones wrapped within....cleaning and straightening and dusting.... seemingly with no purpose but to enfold us all together for this short season in time.... and know that my skin is starting to fall off.... to wrinkle and shrink...to change. It is my time to let it go, so I will be able to feel my soul emerging and growing. My moonlight is nigh. All is well.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Losing oneself is the easy thing....finding it, well, that's another story. I lost myself, or the perception of myself, one day. It changed me... that little fall through whatever veil allows our soul to be seen, and I may never really be the same again.
The day started out like any other, in my middle-aged daily maneuver of "getting things done." The highlight in my morning was a shopping trip to a local crafting store, where I have spent copious hours previously, perusing its bits and pieces of glory and gifts unfolding in each aisle. Reading labels of glue bottles, making decisions over every tedious word, as to the success of its stickiness...and feeling the textures of the printed fabrics folded in little squares, offering their neatness to the artists of quilts and cleverness.
I have a crafty little business that I am playing with, called "Crafty Classics" (It's a "Novel" idea)...creating purses from second-hand and well-loved hardcover books... embellishing them with whatever unique and fanciful elements I can find. Flea markets, estate sales, junking shops, and arts & craft stores are my happy domain whenever I get a free moment to spare in pursuit of crafty fun.
CraftyClassics via facebook.... This particular day, I planned on a treasure hunting trip for new creations.
After a few cups of good morning coffee, I was excited to drive to my crafting store to pick up a few elements needed for some of my orders. I was going to try and make labels for my bags and needed to explore the options. I parked my cute blue car in a parking slot near the door, and waited the five minutes, for the store to unlock its doors.
I love stepping into a freshly unlocked store... it makes me feel like a part of that new-day-bustle electrifying the air as employees all rush about with the smell of shampoo and soap in their wake. I meandered about, poking at this or that, as I made my way to the label making kits.
The display was that of a slotted magazine-ish rack, and I was glad to find it. I had to read the directions of the kits, trying to find the easiest labels for me to make. That was when I saw those familiar "lights" blocking my reading view from my sight... I call them the "blinky blinks" having experienced this before, many times. I have always blamed too much caffeine on those flashies. Often it occurs at the big hardware store with my husband, and I cannot see my feet or anything within inches of me. It doesn't last long, and it helps if I squint my eyes shut, opening them quickly to catch a glimpse of where I should put my feet, or words that I try to read. I end up blinking a few times, clearing my vision of the flashes, and they go away. Alas, this time they did not go away. I fell down to my knees, trying to read the display through the flashing, and then time just disappeared.
I have no idea where I went at that moment. I just didn't exist anymore...until I found myself pushing a shopping cart in an unfamiliar world. I don't remember getting a cart. I don't remember standing up. I just "was."
There "I" was... no identity. I tried so hard to get my bearings, but had no idea where I was. "I" was just a bodiless conversation in my head...words telling my body where to go, what to pick up to identify... without being able to. "I" had feelings...annoyance and frustration that I could not recognize things or places. "I" told myself to maintain composure, feeling that it would be very impolite to appear crazy. Somehow "I" knew that it was craziness to look lost. I saw faces floating towards me, then by me, not seeing any distress. Seeing one come in from a door, I thought I would take my chances to get "out" of this insanity... I felt confined, and needed to get my bearings in the air.
Stepping foot on the sidewalk at the entrance was a relief...for a second. Nope. I still didn't know where "I" was. Trying not to panic, I searched all around me hoping to find my way to clarity. Noticing I had car keys... I knew they were "mine." So, I must have a car. All I wanted was to sit down in my car. My eyes sought the parking lot filled with vehicles. None of them looked familiar. My car was out there someplace. I pushed the "panic" button on the back of my keypad. Hearing the beeping of a car, like the sound of a foghorn to a ship, I stepped out into the vast car-filled lot tentatively, following the sound calling to me.
As I stood in front of the car that was beeping, I realized that I did not recognize this car. Turning the panic button off, then on again, assuring myself that the button belonged to this car, I reached out and opened the door. Thinking the whole time, "I am sure gonna get into trouble ...sitting in someone else's car..." but the urgent need to sit down was strong and I scooted in behind the wheel. It felt safe to be seated within the bubble of the car. Exploring my purse, I pulled out a phone... I knew "Chris." The name seemed like a friendly and welcoming life preserver. Yup...there was his name.... two phone numbers that I did not recognize.... but as I pushed the first one, hearing his voice telling me he could not get to the phone right now made me so happy. I pushed the second number.... and the minute he answered things started coming back in a gush. As did the tears. I was finding myself again.
So... losing myself was very easy... like sliding down a hill when your shoes turn into skis ... and I learned a new perspective that day.
People are fragile. Reality is fragile, and also a matter of perspective. I contemplated, since that day, what it would be like to have that dreaded disease Alzheimer's, or Dementia?... If you lose your own memories, do you still exist? Or do you become a whole different person?
Lots of questions have come up for me since this day... but I have found some remarkable and solid things to be sure of as well. Through this, I found that I could count on my husband to be in my psyche as well as my heart, in a good way...as my rock, as my anchor. He will always be here for me, even when parts of me disappear for times and places I may never know.
I have friends who care for me and worry with me and for me that I never quite felt sure of before. And the rest of my family, even though I may go to places that I don't know their names, will love me until I come back and then some. Of that I am sure. It is true, what that song says, "All you need is love."
I will remember that. Wherever I am.
There is a hard part to the aftermath of losing oneself. I have to be more careful from now on, and because I should not drive or be alone too much, I lose a huge chunk of my precious freedom. That is hard to take. And I have to ask for help. That is harder to take. But I think it is all part of the journey that is Me. And I can only hope that if I disappear again, it won't be for long, and it will leave me stronger for the next adventure along the path.
The day started out like any other, in my middle-aged daily maneuver of "getting things done." The highlight in my morning was a shopping trip to a local crafting store, where I have spent copious hours previously, perusing its bits and pieces of glory and gifts unfolding in each aisle. Reading labels of glue bottles, making decisions over every tedious word, as to the success of its stickiness...and feeling the textures of the printed fabrics folded in little squares, offering their neatness to the artists of quilts and cleverness.
I have a crafty little business that I am playing with, called "Crafty Classics" (It's a "Novel" idea)...creating purses from second-hand and well-loved hardcover books... embellishing them with whatever unique and fanciful elements I can find. Flea markets, estate sales, junking shops, and arts & craft stores are my happy domain whenever I get a free moment to spare in pursuit of crafty fun.
CraftyClassics via facebook.... This particular day, I planned on a treasure hunting trip for new creations.
After a few cups of good morning coffee, I was excited to drive to my crafting store to pick up a few elements needed for some of my orders. I was going to try and make labels for my bags and needed to explore the options. I parked my cute blue car in a parking slot near the door, and waited the five minutes, for the store to unlock its doors.
I love stepping into a freshly unlocked store... it makes me feel like a part of that new-day-bustle electrifying the air as employees all rush about with the smell of shampoo and soap in their wake. I meandered about, poking at this or that, as I made my way to the label making kits.
The display was that of a slotted magazine-ish rack, and I was glad to find it. I had to read the directions of the kits, trying to find the easiest labels for me to make. That was when I saw those familiar "lights" blocking my reading view from my sight... I call them the "blinky blinks" having experienced this before, many times. I have always blamed too much caffeine on those flashies. Often it occurs at the big hardware store with my husband, and I cannot see my feet or anything within inches of me. It doesn't last long, and it helps if I squint my eyes shut, opening them quickly to catch a glimpse of where I should put my feet, or words that I try to read. I end up blinking a few times, clearing my vision of the flashes, and they go away. Alas, this time they did not go away. I fell down to my knees, trying to read the display through the flashing, and then time just disappeared.
I have no idea where I went at that moment. I just didn't exist anymore...until I found myself pushing a shopping cart in an unfamiliar world. I don't remember getting a cart. I don't remember standing up. I just "was."
There "I" was... no identity. I tried so hard to get my bearings, but had no idea where I was. "I" was just a bodiless conversation in my head...words telling my body where to go, what to pick up to identify... without being able to. "I" had feelings...annoyance and frustration that I could not recognize things or places. "I" told myself to maintain composure, feeling that it would be very impolite to appear crazy. Somehow "I" knew that it was craziness to look lost. I saw faces floating towards me, then by me, not seeing any distress. Seeing one come in from a door, I thought I would take my chances to get "out" of this insanity... I felt confined, and needed to get my bearings in the air.
Stepping foot on the sidewalk at the entrance was a relief...for a second. Nope. I still didn't know where "I" was. Trying not to panic, I searched all around me hoping to find my way to clarity. Noticing I had car keys... I knew they were "mine." So, I must have a car. All I wanted was to sit down in my car. My eyes sought the parking lot filled with vehicles. None of them looked familiar. My car was out there someplace. I pushed the "panic" button on the back of my keypad. Hearing the beeping of a car, like the sound of a foghorn to a ship, I stepped out into the vast car-filled lot tentatively, following the sound calling to me.
As I stood in front of the car that was beeping, I realized that I did not recognize this car. Turning the panic button off, then on again, assuring myself that the button belonged to this car, I reached out and opened the door. Thinking the whole time, "I am sure gonna get into trouble ...sitting in someone else's car..." but the urgent need to sit down was strong and I scooted in behind the wheel. It felt safe to be seated within the bubble of the car. Exploring my purse, I pulled out a phone... I knew "Chris." The name seemed like a friendly and welcoming life preserver. Yup...there was his name.... two phone numbers that I did not recognize.... but as I pushed the first one, hearing his voice telling me he could not get to the phone right now made me so happy. I pushed the second number.... and the minute he answered things started coming back in a gush. As did the tears. I was finding myself again.
So... losing myself was very easy... like sliding down a hill when your shoes turn into skis ... and I learned a new perspective that day.
People are fragile. Reality is fragile, and also a matter of perspective. I contemplated, since that day, what it would be like to have that dreaded disease Alzheimer's, or Dementia?... If you lose your own memories, do you still exist? Or do you become a whole different person?
Lots of questions have come up for me since this day... but I have found some remarkable and solid things to be sure of as well. Through this, I found that I could count on my husband to be in my psyche as well as my heart, in a good way...as my rock, as my anchor. He will always be here for me, even when parts of me disappear for times and places I may never know.
I have friends who care for me and worry with me and for me that I never quite felt sure of before. And the rest of my family, even though I may go to places that I don't know their names, will love me until I come back and then some. Of that I am sure. It is true, what that song says, "All you need is love."
I will remember that. Wherever I am.
There is a hard part to the aftermath of losing oneself. I have to be more careful from now on, and because I should not drive or be alone too much, I lose a huge chunk of my precious freedom. That is hard to take. And I have to ask for help. That is harder to take. But I think it is all part of the journey that is Me. And I can only hope that if I disappear again, it won't be for long, and it will leave me stronger for the next adventure along the path.
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