It's not the big things. And there have been sooo many. It's the little things my husband does that humble me. Humble me as in: wow. He never asks to be recognized. wow. he is so consistent with it. wow. he will be so annoyed when he sees I've posted about him.
It's like this:
he charges my toothbrush. cleans the kitchen when it REALLY needs it. puts my folders together for my Arbonne classes. organizes my desk area (this one borders on being a huge thing.) carries boxes out. in. out. in. all in the space of one day. actually curled the curling ribbon on some of the gift bags I was finishing. vaccuumed up the mess I made. took the toddlers to Wildlife Safari and feed the deer. (again bordering on big.) rakes the leaves and a ton of other has-to-get-done-stuff. jumped in and gave baths and made lunches and did all of the things I usually do but couldn't this weekend. brings me coffee on sunday morning to help me wake up. doesn't complain, really ever.
I dunno. It seems like I'm always so ready to let him know if there's something he needs to do. Or fix. Or try harder at. And I hate it that I'm like that! Because in my heart--no, deeper than that--at my absolute core I know what he does. How much it matters. How much I depend on him doing it.
And I know he wishes I was more organized and on time and consistent. Less emotional, more practical, better at managing my time. Did I say consistent?
But he loves, loves,loves me where I am. And helps keep my head just above the dunking level.
And like I said: he'll be annoyed. But I needed to write it. Needed to let him know I know. Needed to see it for myself in black and white. Tell him that I am thankful for him everyday, not just the 15th day of November, or in the few words that would fit onto a facebook post... iloveyou
Monday, November 15, 2010
Friday, November 05, 2010
Yesterday held well visits for my 3 yr old and 18 month old. You know what that means: vaccinations. Oh I felt so bad! They were so cheerful--they always are right before the shots. And then you have to hold them still, while the nurses poke them, all while they're looking right into your eyes, all teary, as if to say, "REALLY? You were a part of this conspiracy all along?!"
The bad news is, this particular torment follows our decision to only pass out tiny amounts of Halloween candy at a time. Oh for the days of gleeful abandonement and sugar intake. Actually, this was never a particular crave of mine. I had my favorites, like banana taffy and whoppers, but the rest I mostly used to bribe my little sister. I remember dumping it all out on the rust-colored shag in our living room, smelling the mixed-sugar, leaf- thrown-in treatness of it. Scrambling to be the first to hand my dad a Snickers bar. Poor mom. She had been the one to dress us in costumes that she had painstakingly Elmer's-glued together.
My favorite costume was my Wonder Woman one. From what I recall, the eagle emblem done in said glue and gold glitter was a spot-on replica. Not to mention the stars on the blue shorts that matched. I have a vague recollection of questioning my mom's decision to put the starts on shorts, rather than the briefs that Linda Carter wore, but she was not to be swayed.
Nor was she to be swayed the year she created the Hershey's Kiss. Now this costume was the coup de ville of all costumes, being resurrected several times for various functions. The year of its debut as the Kiss, my mom somehow configured a hula hoop, sheet, fishing line, and lots and lots of aluminum foil to perfectly resemble a Kiss, complete with a paper tag on top. The costume must have taken her some time, because she kept it hanging in the basement to be overhauled into a Christmas tree (my sister was, of course, the present) and the fat lady (picture layers and layers of crepe paper) for the Kiddie parade float in which our neighboor crew depicted a circus. I greatly disliked this configuration of costume design, the only perk being that I was given a pop tart to nibble on throughout the parade.
I'm somewhat amazed that Halloween has come and gone already this year. Pumpkin carving (my 3 year old cried when we took out the first scoop of "guts"), hot glued costumes (My four year old asked to be Queen Frostine from Candyland five hours before Go time--how easy we have it these days, eh Mom?), candy collection (the haul will sustain my three teens at least through the month), and cobwebs that can be dismissed as decor all put to rest for another year. This fast-forward effect brings tears to my eyes, almost as quickly as the thought of the next well-visit.
The bad news is, this particular torment follows our decision to only pass out tiny amounts of Halloween candy at a time. Oh for the days of gleeful abandonement and sugar intake. Actually, this was never a particular crave of mine. I had my favorites, like banana taffy and whoppers, but the rest I mostly used to bribe my little sister. I remember dumping it all out on the rust-colored shag in our living room, smelling the mixed-sugar, leaf- thrown-in treatness of it. Scrambling to be the first to hand my dad a Snickers bar. Poor mom. She had been the one to dress us in costumes that she had painstakingly Elmer's-glued together.
My favorite costume was my Wonder Woman one. From what I recall, the eagle emblem done in said glue and gold glitter was a spot-on replica. Not to mention the stars on the blue shorts that matched. I have a vague recollection of questioning my mom's decision to put the starts on shorts, rather than the briefs that Linda Carter wore, but she was not to be swayed.
Nor was she to be swayed the year she created the Hershey's Kiss. Now this costume was the coup de ville of all costumes, being resurrected several times for various functions. The year of its debut as the Kiss, my mom somehow configured a hula hoop, sheet, fishing line, and lots and lots of aluminum foil to perfectly resemble a Kiss, complete with a paper tag on top. The costume must have taken her some time, because she kept it hanging in the basement to be overhauled into a Christmas tree (my sister was, of course, the present) and the fat lady (picture layers and layers of crepe paper) for the Kiddie parade float in which our neighboor crew depicted a circus. I greatly disliked this configuration of costume design, the only perk being that I was given a pop tart to nibble on throughout the parade.
I'm somewhat amazed that Halloween has come and gone already this year. Pumpkin carving (my 3 year old cried when we took out the first scoop of "guts"), hot glued costumes (My four year old asked to be Queen Frostine from Candyland five hours before Go time--how easy we have it these days, eh Mom?), candy collection (the haul will sustain my three teens at least through the month), and cobwebs that can be dismissed as decor all put to rest for another year. This fast-forward effect brings tears to my eyes, almost as quickly as the thought of the next well-visit.
Monday, November 01, 2010
It seems to me that our culture is so... odd in so many of its traditions, and today my thoughts swirl around the passing of a soul. Around the dying, we talk in hushed tones, and choke back our tears and shy away from saying we'll miss them, or that they are embarking on a magnificent journey that we all are at least a little afraid to take but will someday as well. As if our denial will create delay, or change the inevitable, or make anyone feel better. And each of us with our own slant on the approach, we try to make it all be okay, for ourselves, for someone else... Well. We do what we are capable of, right?
I try not to cry at the funerals of the ones I love the most. And if you know me, you know what a ridiculous oxymoron this is. I cry when I pray. When I'm happy. When I'm laughing. Weep at others' sadness. The world's hurts. My own sins. When life just gets too big. All of these times, tears melt my resolve, my sorrows, my worries, my stressors. But when I say goodbye, I try so very hard not to cry. Maybe it's because I am afraid I couldn't stop. Or, maybe I think someone else needs to use the tears more. Or maybe I think, somewhere deep in my heart that if I just don't let the hurt out, it will just somehow cease.
I hate to see my dad cry. He has this wonderful face that is so kind and strong at the same time. But when his full smile crumples and his chin crinkles up, and his brown, brown eyes fill with tears, my heart just breaks. I've never seen the effects of myself making him cry. And I'm sure I have, but I'm glad I haven't seen it. But I've seen him cry over his dad, his mom, my sister's cancer, and, now, his brother's death. The last days at hospice were heartwrenching, I'm told. I was spared this scene, stayed here in this part of my world, waiting those last days for the goodbye call.
We have the cancer call go around alot in my family. Just got another one last week. My dad's other brother. It's that call where things in the moments before it were at least one semblance of normal, and then the moment after it's that freefall of the different same. Anyways, the goodbye call is worse. It has a singular aloneness at its disconnect, and I hate that.
But this week, the goodbye also brought a measure of guilty relief. It was over--it being the struggling, aching, hurting, dying, wondering waiting, leaving. And the tradition of baked spaghetti and cold ham and paper plate luncheon began with all of its nodding and hugging and... yep, crying.
And you know what? I am so glad. For the first time in a long time, I allowed my heart to feel it--the sincere well wishes and Irememberyou and the embrace of yesterday's memories. And not only was it okay... It was good. You should know that in my mind I see this Grinch's cartoon heart getting bigger and bigger until the weight of it tips the sleigh and takes the presents to all the Who's in Who-ville. And the likenesses, I won't even go into in this post. You know Who you are.
Instead, I'll finish with what I had to say at my uncle's funeral...
Who in this room was surprised that my uncle's heart remained beating, strong up until the very, very end? Who was really surprised at the determination behind his fight? Who really marvelled that a sanctuary could be filled and then some with people whose lives he and his magnificent family had touched?
Far, far back into the stretches of memory, I see my uncle Mark, strong, lean, handsome, tall. I feel his fingers in my hands as the soles of my little four year old feet match themselves up on top of his so he could walk me around my granny's kitchen. Feel the weightlessness of being a wiggling sack of potatoes, bounced around in the big backyard. I see him always entering the picture right on time, whether dropping in for a visit from the Air Force or congratulating me with a Lucy Peanut trophy after an accordian contest--just never missing the important things. Remember my curiousity about him being smitten over that beautiful, tall blonde girl with the tan, tan skin who I would have to share him with, but who would bring about these little blonde dolls that I would snuggle and cart around and tuck into bed on all those nights of babysitting. And at least a million more moments of memory.
It occured to me recently that I had been given the happy blessing of being a middle child all of my life. That, true, I was oldest sister to just one sister, and boss of many younger cousins. But I had older siblings as well, in the form of these larger than life aunts and uncles. Especially Uncle Mark. Fierce protector of all things he loved. Loving more people more fiercely than he would ever let one. Sharp tongued and quick tempered, but never really wanting to cause pain, and never, never a hypocrite. QUick to apologize, quicker to share a tear when life's burdens made someone else hurt. What a role model, this uncle brother.
I think the hardest thing about a funeral, other than the sorrow of Missing, is the reconciliation of a life that's been written all over the page, with the finality of the pen having been laid down, its singular hopes, dreams, passions now silent. But the beauty, in its grieving, aching, empty, quiet way lies in the next pages waiting for new life--because the impressions of those pages before were written with such surety and conviction that love has imprinted itself over and over again, invisible to the eye, but felt in the heart.
So. One part of the Runion story--what a privelege to be here in its moments--finishes today, a legacy, a prestigious club of loyalty, love, nitty gritty living as a family.
(and then I finished with "Milk", the piece you may have read from my last post, reposted here)
Say to me, "Family" and I think:
Noise. Arguing at the dinner table on Sunday after church. Pass the milk.
Rumpled Sunday comics because someone got there before you. Pushing each other past the breaking point, by anyone else's standards, and then:
Coming right back to Pass the milk.
Holidays and gift wrap and painted wooden ornaments
and birthday cake in a bowl drenched in,
you guessed it: Milk.
Static crackle baseball games on the screened in porch,
wondering just what is the appeal of that foamy drink that
sticks to their mustache
and smells so awful
except when it's mixed with shrimp and Old Bay.
Go cart races and swinging in the apple tree
Touching the tender, dreams are real, sunshine-studded childhood
so alive in my heart, unbreakable
Pass the milk.
Too many cooks in the kitchen,
chiefs in the wigwam,
bosses with big opinions who might try to micromanage but only
for your own good
Bloodlines that go deep with genetic tendencies like
ignitable passion
and touchy blood sugar if dinner is late
and I will be there for you always even if it's just to
pass the milk.
Family.
What a legacy these
mistakes and apologies
jokes and sad sentences
hugs and shoves
encouragement and bitter honesty
memory and reality
Bending annoyance into love
making the only thing that really lasts
a sure promise of you cannot you will not ever disappoint me
And always, always I will cherish you
even when you have to leave
and I'll be here ready when you need me to
pass the milk
I try not to cry at the funerals of the ones I love the most. And if you know me, you know what a ridiculous oxymoron this is. I cry when I pray. When I'm happy. When I'm laughing. Weep at others' sadness. The world's hurts. My own sins. When life just gets too big. All of these times, tears melt my resolve, my sorrows, my worries, my stressors. But when I say goodbye, I try so very hard not to cry. Maybe it's because I am afraid I couldn't stop. Or, maybe I think someone else needs to use the tears more. Or maybe I think, somewhere deep in my heart that if I just don't let the hurt out, it will just somehow cease.
I hate to see my dad cry. He has this wonderful face that is so kind and strong at the same time. But when his full smile crumples and his chin crinkles up, and his brown, brown eyes fill with tears, my heart just breaks. I've never seen the effects of myself making him cry. And I'm sure I have, but I'm glad I haven't seen it. But I've seen him cry over his dad, his mom, my sister's cancer, and, now, his brother's death. The last days at hospice were heartwrenching, I'm told. I was spared this scene, stayed here in this part of my world, waiting those last days for the goodbye call.
We have the cancer call go around alot in my family. Just got another one last week. My dad's other brother. It's that call where things in the moments before it were at least one semblance of normal, and then the moment after it's that freefall of the different same. Anyways, the goodbye call is worse. It has a singular aloneness at its disconnect, and I hate that.
But this week, the goodbye also brought a measure of guilty relief. It was over--it being the struggling, aching, hurting, dying, wondering waiting, leaving. And the tradition of baked spaghetti and cold ham and paper plate luncheon began with all of its nodding and hugging and... yep, crying.
And you know what? I am so glad. For the first time in a long time, I allowed my heart to feel it--the sincere well wishes and Irememberyou and the embrace of yesterday's memories. And not only was it okay... It was good. You should know that in my mind I see this Grinch's cartoon heart getting bigger and bigger until the weight of it tips the sleigh and takes the presents to all the Who's in Who-ville. And the likenesses, I won't even go into in this post. You know Who you are.
Instead, I'll finish with what I had to say at my uncle's funeral...
Who in this room was surprised that my uncle's heart remained beating, strong up until the very, very end? Who was really surprised at the determination behind his fight? Who really marvelled that a sanctuary could be filled and then some with people whose lives he and his magnificent family had touched?
Far, far back into the stretches of memory, I see my uncle Mark, strong, lean, handsome, tall. I feel his fingers in my hands as the soles of my little four year old feet match themselves up on top of his so he could walk me around my granny's kitchen. Feel the weightlessness of being a wiggling sack of potatoes, bounced around in the big backyard. I see him always entering the picture right on time, whether dropping in for a visit from the Air Force or congratulating me with a Lucy Peanut trophy after an accordian contest--just never missing the important things. Remember my curiousity about him being smitten over that beautiful, tall blonde girl with the tan, tan skin who I would have to share him with, but who would bring about these little blonde dolls that I would snuggle and cart around and tuck into bed on all those nights of babysitting. And at least a million more moments of memory.
It occured to me recently that I had been given the happy blessing of being a middle child all of my life. That, true, I was oldest sister to just one sister, and boss of many younger cousins. But I had older siblings as well, in the form of these larger than life aunts and uncles. Especially Uncle Mark. Fierce protector of all things he loved. Loving more people more fiercely than he would ever let one. Sharp tongued and quick tempered, but never really wanting to cause pain, and never, never a hypocrite. QUick to apologize, quicker to share a tear when life's burdens made someone else hurt. What a role model, this uncle brother.
I think the hardest thing about a funeral, other than the sorrow of Missing, is the reconciliation of a life that's been written all over the page, with the finality of the pen having been laid down, its singular hopes, dreams, passions now silent. But the beauty, in its grieving, aching, empty, quiet way lies in the next pages waiting for new life--because the impressions of those pages before were written with such surety and conviction that love has imprinted itself over and over again, invisible to the eye, but felt in the heart.
So. One part of the Runion story--what a privelege to be here in its moments--finishes today, a legacy, a prestigious club of loyalty, love, nitty gritty living as a family.
(and then I finished with "Milk", the piece you may have read from my last post, reposted here)
Say to me, "Family" and I think:
Noise. Arguing at the dinner table on Sunday after church. Pass the milk.
Rumpled Sunday comics because someone got there before you. Pushing each other past the breaking point, by anyone else's standards, and then:
Coming right back to Pass the milk.
Holidays and gift wrap and painted wooden ornaments
and birthday cake in a bowl drenched in,
you guessed it: Milk.
Static crackle baseball games on the screened in porch,
wondering just what is the appeal of that foamy drink that
sticks to their mustache
and smells so awful
except when it's mixed with shrimp and Old Bay.
Go cart races and swinging in the apple tree
Touching the tender, dreams are real, sunshine-studded childhood
so alive in my heart, unbreakable
Pass the milk.
Too many cooks in the kitchen,
chiefs in the wigwam,
bosses with big opinions who might try to micromanage but only
for your own good
Bloodlines that go deep with genetic tendencies like
ignitable passion
and touchy blood sugar if dinner is late
and I will be there for you always even if it's just to
pass the milk.
Family.
What a legacy these
mistakes and apologies
jokes and sad sentences
hugs and shoves
encouragement and bitter honesty
memory and reality
Bending annoyance into love
making the only thing that really lasts
a sure promise of you cannot you will not ever disappoint me
And always, always I will cherish you
even when you have to leave
and I'll be here ready when you need me to
pass the milk
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Say to me, "Family" and I think:
Noise. Arguing at the dinner table on Sunday after church. Pass the milk.
Rumpled Sunday comics because someone got there before you. Pushing each other past the breaking point, by anyone else's standards, and then:
Coming right back to Pass the milk.
Holidays and gift wrap and painted wooden ornaments
and birthday cake in a bowl drenched in,
you guessed it: Milk.
Static crackle baseball games on the screened in porch,
wondering just what is the appeal of that foamy drink that
sticks to their mustache
and smells so awful
except when it's mixed with shrimp and Old Bay.
Go cart races and swinging in the apple tree
Touching the tender, dreams are real, sunshine-studded childhood
so alive in my heart, unbreakable
Pass the milk.
Too many cooks in the kitchen,
chiefs in the wigwam,
bosses with big opinions who might try to micromanage but only
for your own good
Bloodlines that go deep with genetic tendencies like
ignitable passion
and touchy blood sugar if dinner is late
and I will be there for you always even if it's just to
pass the milk.
Family.
What a legacy these
mistakes and apologies
jokes and sad sentences
hugs and shoves
encouragement and bitter honesty
memory and reality
Bending annoyance into love
making the only thing that really lasts
a sure promise of you cannot you will not ever disappoint me
And always, always I will cherish you
even when you have to leave
and I'll be here ready when you need me to
pass the milk
Noise. Arguing at the dinner table on Sunday after church. Pass the milk.
Rumpled Sunday comics because someone got there before you. Pushing each other past the breaking point, by anyone else's standards, and then:
Coming right back to Pass the milk.
Holidays and gift wrap and painted wooden ornaments
and birthday cake in a bowl drenched in,
you guessed it: Milk.
Static crackle baseball games on the screened in porch,
wondering just what is the appeal of that foamy drink that
sticks to their mustache
and smells so awful
except when it's mixed with shrimp and Old Bay.
Go cart races and swinging in the apple tree
Touching the tender, dreams are real, sunshine-studded childhood
so alive in my heart, unbreakable
Pass the milk.
Too many cooks in the kitchen,
chiefs in the wigwam,
bosses with big opinions who might try to micromanage but only
for your own good
Bloodlines that go deep with genetic tendencies like
ignitable passion
and touchy blood sugar if dinner is late
and I will be there for you always even if it's just to
pass the milk.
Family.
What a legacy these
mistakes and apologies
jokes and sad sentences
hugs and shoves
encouragement and bitter honesty
memory and reality
Bending annoyance into love
making the only thing that really lasts
a sure promise of you cannot you will not ever disappoint me
And always, always I will cherish you
even when you have to leave
and I'll be here ready when you need me to
pass the milk
Monday, September 27, 2010
Would I be sharing a secret if I told you I find goodbyes heartbreaking? Would I be admitting cowardice if I told you that the thought of releasing the ribbon that tethers the brightest floating balloon to my fist sends a fear slithering up my spine as slickly as the ribbon slips? Would I surprise you if I said there are pieces of me scattered, a bit here, a bit there, left willingly and hostage to people, places, memories? Would you listen if I urged you to stop, kiss your love, breathe in life?
I was compelled to drive home Thursday, home in this sense being the tree-lined bumpy sidewalks of my youth. I drove with my windows down, letting the warm air pick up my hair. Letting my mind just lift.
I needed to see him. Hospice has been called in, and they (not hospice, necessarily), have said he is given to fits, depression, catatonic spells. He knew me when I walked in, which is humbling. I've walked away from any entitlement I had to the priority of being remembered. But he said, "wellllhelllo", a tumor-slurred version of the "well hello lis" I've heard since my youth, and he patted his bed.
I sat next to my uncle on his damp sheets (they change his bedding often), told my nose it smelled the cologne he always used to wear, looked into his blue eyes that squinted against the vapor swirling from his breathing treatment. He took out the mouthpiece.
"Debcametoday" he murmured. "Idintknowher"
"Well." I patted his knee, swallowing my surprise that he'd forgotten his sister he'd seen just a few weeks ago. "Well. She IS getting old."
He sort of laughed, then moaned. "notthatold" and he sort of folded in on himself.
"Oh..." I so wanted him not to cry. I touched his chest. "But, here, you knew her, right Uncle Mark?" He nodded, his face crumpled. "And listen, that's the part that stays. And it goes forever. You know that, right?"
"ihopesoihopeso" And he kept saying i hope so, over and over, and his hope and fear were with us, leaping over exhaustion and pushing away things less tangible like his swollen face, to sit with us, palpable and demanding to be recognized.
I had much more to say. I had a thousand things, really. I needed to tell him every single thing I could remember about him, so he knew he wouldn't be forgotten. I needed to tell him what I knew about Heaven so he wouldn't be so frightened. I needed to keep smiling and joking and feeling like I wasn't about to let go of the brilliant balloon that has been such a joy bouncing about my life since I was a little girl. I needed to stay until the fear of saying goodbye faded from his eyes. I needed to find courage and give it to him. I needed to say it's okay to be scared and that the living wouldn't stop here. I needed to yell at my aunt that he wasn't ready to go to where she needed to take him, because I wasn't ready...
But in that way that so mimics the time that slips from our desperate grip, she came into the room, sort of annoyed, I think, that I had stopped by un-announced, wrapped her hand around the belt at his waist that he sometimes allows people to hold onto to stabilize him, and said, "Sorry to rain on your parade, Lis, but there are people we are supposed to meet at 5..." And I watched as he struggled to his feet.
And I knew that it was one of those moments. One of those places I would regret letting go of without screaming and shaking my fists at and saying, "BUT I'M NOT READY and THIS IS NOT OKAY WITH ME RIGHT NOW!!!!!" And on the outside, I waved a breezy hand.
"Oh sure," a casual shrug. "Thanks for letting me pop in." And I walked out. Just tossing "goodbye" back as if I hadn't just given another part of myself to a balloon that I had to let go of.
Would you believe me if I told you that I sometimes resent having to have the strength to walk away?
I was compelled to drive home Thursday, home in this sense being the tree-lined bumpy sidewalks of my youth. I drove with my windows down, letting the warm air pick up my hair. Letting my mind just lift.
I needed to see him. Hospice has been called in, and they (not hospice, necessarily), have said he is given to fits, depression, catatonic spells. He knew me when I walked in, which is humbling. I've walked away from any entitlement I had to the priority of being remembered. But he said, "wellllhelllo", a tumor-slurred version of the "well hello lis" I've heard since my youth, and he patted his bed.
I sat next to my uncle on his damp sheets (they change his bedding often), told my nose it smelled the cologne he always used to wear, looked into his blue eyes that squinted against the vapor swirling from his breathing treatment. He took out the mouthpiece.
"Debcametoday" he murmured. "Idintknowher"
"Well." I patted his knee, swallowing my surprise that he'd forgotten his sister he'd seen just a few weeks ago. "Well. She IS getting old."
He sort of laughed, then moaned. "notthatold" and he sort of folded in on himself.
"Oh..." I so wanted him not to cry. I touched his chest. "But, here, you knew her, right Uncle Mark?" He nodded, his face crumpled. "And listen, that's the part that stays. And it goes forever. You know that, right?"
"ihopesoihopeso" And he kept saying i hope so, over and over, and his hope and fear were with us, leaping over exhaustion and pushing away things less tangible like his swollen face, to sit with us, palpable and demanding to be recognized.
I had much more to say. I had a thousand things, really. I needed to tell him every single thing I could remember about him, so he knew he wouldn't be forgotten. I needed to tell him what I knew about Heaven so he wouldn't be so frightened. I needed to keep smiling and joking and feeling like I wasn't about to let go of the brilliant balloon that has been such a joy bouncing about my life since I was a little girl. I needed to stay until the fear of saying goodbye faded from his eyes. I needed to find courage and give it to him. I needed to say it's okay to be scared and that the living wouldn't stop here. I needed to yell at my aunt that he wasn't ready to go to where she needed to take him, because I wasn't ready...
But in that way that so mimics the time that slips from our desperate grip, she came into the room, sort of annoyed, I think, that I had stopped by un-announced, wrapped her hand around the belt at his waist that he sometimes allows people to hold onto to stabilize him, and said, "Sorry to rain on your parade, Lis, but there are people we are supposed to meet at 5..." And I watched as he struggled to his feet.
And I knew that it was one of those moments. One of those places I would regret letting go of without screaming and shaking my fists at and saying, "BUT I'M NOT READY and THIS IS NOT OKAY WITH ME RIGHT NOW!!!!!" And on the outside, I waved a breezy hand.
"Oh sure," a casual shrug. "Thanks for letting me pop in." And I walked out. Just tossing "goodbye" back as if I hadn't just given another part of myself to a balloon that I had to let go of.
Would you believe me if I told you that I sometimes resent having to have the strength to walk away?
Monday, September 13, 2010
have you ever noticed
the most brilliant sunsets
dance around storm fronts?
that melba peach
can only vibrate
across the skin
when the eyes take it in
against
woolen gray...
i chase sunsets
most often meaning to get there
but running into grocery lists
and bathtime i
somehow miss it
the bigness,
the build up,
the sigh of its exit
but every now and then
if i inhale
in and in and in
until tears press against
my breath
He
lets it wait
leaves it pulsing against my skin
a tasty
peach
of what has been,
build up and all,
until darkness
envelopes the
shadows of
the setting retreat
in silence
the most brilliant sunsets
dance around storm fronts?
that melba peach
can only vibrate
across the skin
when the eyes take it in
against
woolen gray...
i chase sunsets
most often meaning to get there
but running into grocery lists
and bathtime i
somehow miss it
the bigness,
the build up,
the sigh of its exit
but every now and then
if i inhale
in and in and in
until tears press against
my breath
He
lets it wait
leaves it pulsing against my skin
a tasty
peach
of what has been,
build up and all,
until darkness
envelopes the
shadows of
the setting retreat
in silence
Sunday, September 12, 2010
I had all this steam. Was ready for a rant, of sorts. My thinking was I'd begin by listing out what I had accomplished by noon, really make someone marvel, and then end my geyser pout with something like, "Now, go ahead and tell me I'm 'just a stay at home mom'." And I might still write it some day, that piece that needs to be held up to the light of a society that has somehow now gotten the backward enlightenment that a woman is really only fulfilling her fullest potential if she turns herself inside out to work outside the home. After all, we can't ever really seem to get it, can we? That the "yououghto's" we throw around and dodge like spitwads in study hall are so little worth the spit and air that forms them.
But then, I read the heart of a friend spilled out in the recollections and reality of her blog. And she, in her characteristic pound-your-heart-to-pieces, no apologies way, humbled me. Shamed my steaming rant into a quiet whistle. And in this crazy, unanticipated, unintentional gesture gave me permission to BE.
May I explain?
Today, she kissed her dad on the head. His bald, aching, cancer-filled head. She wondered, as she drove to work about her kids at school and preschool, withthe sitter... She wondered about when her day would come to just be, sit, absorb, recoil, reflect.
I think about it. Pout about it. Envy people for manicured nails, not the polish, really: the time they had to sit through it. Waiting for the paint to dry.
And then something like taking a last breath, and not in some victorious, huge heroic way, but in that fist at the throat, succumbing to disease kind of way, makes me feel like an idiot for wasting any breath on defending my self, my positions, my wounded sense of time when I could have used it to form a praise or a blessing or a thanks or a laugh or a sigh of peace.
So I send her permission. She wouldn't take it, I don't think. Because God knows that if she took the time to Be right now, she might just have the breath squeezed right out of her. So maybe, instead, I'll send her a sigh, heavy with thought, thick with tears, but shining just enough with the glittering edges of peace, kind of like a sunset after a storm.
But then, I read the heart of a friend spilled out in the recollections and reality of her blog. And she, in her characteristic pound-your-heart-to-pieces, no apologies way, humbled me. Shamed my steaming rant into a quiet whistle. And in this crazy, unanticipated, unintentional gesture gave me permission to BE.
May I explain?
Today, she kissed her dad on the head. His bald, aching, cancer-filled head. She wondered, as she drove to work about her kids at school and preschool, withthe sitter... She wondered about when her day would come to just be, sit, absorb, recoil, reflect.
I think about it. Pout about it. Envy people for manicured nails, not the polish, really: the time they had to sit through it. Waiting for the paint to dry.
And then something like taking a last breath, and not in some victorious, huge heroic way, but in that fist at the throat, succumbing to disease kind of way, makes me feel like an idiot for wasting any breath on defending my self, my positions, my wounded sense of time when I could have used it to form a praise or a blessing or a thanks or a laugh or a sigh of peace.
So I send her permission. She wouldn't take it, I don't think. Because God knows that if she took the time to Be right now, she might just have the breath squeezed right out of her. So maybe, instead, I'll send her a sigh, heavy with thought, thick with tears, but shining just enough with the glittering edges of peace, kind of like a sunset after a storm.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
My toddlers have been in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. They ran in there after I told them it was too early to be up (it's six-thirty) and that I was going to take them back to bed. I must've had that "i'mtoodistractedtocatchyou" look. And they're quiet, which is dangerous. And pleasant at the same time.
Not to sound like a whiner, but I am really, really tired today. I don't know if it's the running around for the older kids (the weeks before school are like football two-a-days for moms)or the running around after the little kids or the getting up early or being kind of addicted to Howie Mandell on AGT which keeps me up too late. Maybe it's being out of vitamin supplements and not having the cash in the budget to buy more this week, or maybe I just need another cup of coffee. But, Baby, I'm tired.
This week, Caden has a rock climbing class at the Outdoor Y. Very cool, I must say, and while he's climbing I've been taking the toddlers swimming. Yesterday, it was sooo muggy I witnessed a desperate mom lay flat down in the middle of the baby pool. Toddlers just sort of straddled right over her like sand crabs over an abandoned bucket castle.
I'm driven to somewhat desperate sadness after our mornings there. The toddler hour is also day camp hour. And although I'm happy for the day campers who get to splash about for a while, I'm sad for them because they are subjected to these grumpy, frumpy twenty-somethings who, let's be factual, are being PAID to be kind, patient, dare I say... energetic? And their annoyed mishandlings of the charges in their care are pretty consistent and obvious. Even Ellerie asked, "Mom, why is that mother so ANGRY with her kids?" "Those aren't her children," I replied, but didn't know how to finish with why she was so angry or why the kids had to stick around and listen to it.
In particular, I cannot get out of my mind the scene in the locker room. I had bustled my three in to change out of wets as we had a doctor's appointment, a sports physical for Caden to be exact, so we needed to be somewhat presentable. (Mind you, I forgot my bra, so I was more hodge podge in dress shorts and bathing suit top with tank pulled over it. In my head, I looked sort of "trendy European." In reality, it was more like "damp Mom.") Changing wet kids, or motivating them to peel away suits can be Odyssean, for it requires perservance, strength, and one eye on the far distant shore of Readyhood. So I get that it's exhausting and kind of hairy dirty from the locker room floor, but for this one little day camper, it was just humiliating.
She was ducking her head, trying not to be noticed by the room full of swarming kids, while being barked at by her "counselor" (an oxymoron, this) to "hurry up, you don't need a fitting room, just get changed." But she did need a changing room, or at least wanted one desperately. Her humiliation was utter, as her skin--her whole round,sweet self-- turned sort of pink in embarassment. Two skinny, tweeny trend girls popped out of the changing room giggling at the counselor's irritated countdown, while this poor girl struggled, head still down, to get into her sports bra. I couldn't help but to keep glancing at the predicament, and noticing the child's silent pleas, but felt helpless to help as my hands were full with my own wet wigglers.
But last night as I took out my contacs and brushed my teeth,still, she was on my mind. And I wondered if she too was getting ready for bed, dreading the thought of the swimming and changing and barking and giggling. And I realized that I could have pulled a "mom" and intruded and found an empty space for her, or held up a blanket and darted "dragon lady eyes" (Caden's term)at the rest of the giggling gaggle, or at the very least simply have wheeled my own bustling chaos nearer to her corner and distracted the rest of the room. Maybe even chatted with the counselor about what a difference she makes in the life of a child.
I need the energy from this cup of coffee today to be patient with those toddlers who published this post once, unfinished, while I refilled my cup. I need to be patient and helpful with my own teens who are getting ready for band camp and expect me to pack their lunches rather than write on the computer, even though they wrote on the computer until they were too tired to pack their lunches last night. But mostly, I know that I need to grasp them, these fleeting moments and elusive, disguised opportunities for kindness, and mercy. To encourage someone else see them, grasp them, and wonder about how to make the world gentler, too.
Not to sound like a whiner, but I am really, really tired today. I don't know if it's the running around for the older kids (the weeks before school are like football two-a-days for moms)or the running around after the little kids or the getting up early or being kind of addicted to Howie Mandell on AGT which keeps me up too late. Maybe it's being out of vitamin supplements and not having the cash in the budget to buy more this week, or maybe I just need another cup of coffee. But, Baby, I'm tired.
This week, Caden has a rock climbing class at the Outdoor Y. Very cool, I must say, and while he's climbing I've been taking the toddlers swimming. Yesterday, it was sooo muggy I witnessed a desperate mom lay flat down in the middle of the baby pool. Toddlers just sort of straddled right over her like sand crabs over an abandoned bucket castle.
I'm driven to somewhat desperate sadness after our mornings there. The toddler hour is also day camp hour. And although I'm happy for the day campers who get to splash about for a while, I'm sad for them because they are subjected to these grumpy, frumpy twenty-somethings who, let's be factual, are being PAID to be kind, patient, dare I say... energetic? And their annoyed mishandlings of the charges in their care are pretty consistent and obvious. Even Ellerie asked, "Mom, why is that mother so ANGRY with her kids?" "Those aren't her children," I replied, but didn't know how to finish with why she was so angry or why the kids had to stick around and listen to it.
In particular, I cannot get out of my mind the scene in the locker room. I had bustled my three in to change out of wets as we had a doctor's appointment, a sports physical for Caden to be exact, so we needed to be somewhat presentable. (Mind you, I forgot my bra, so I was more hodge podge in dress shorts and bathing suit top with tank pulled over it. In my head, I looked sort of "trendy European." In reality, it was more like "damp Mom.") Changing wet kids, or motivating them to peel away suits can be Odyssean, for it requires perservance, strength, and one eye on the far distant shore of Readyhood. So I get that it's exhausting and kind of hairy dirty from the locker room floor, but for this one little day camper, it was just humiliating.
She was ducking her head, trying not to be noticed by the room full of swarming kids, while being barked at by her "counselor" (an oxymoron, this) to "hurry up, you don't need a fitting room, just get changed." But she did need a changing room, or at least wanted one desperately. Her humiliation was utter, as her skin--her whole round,sweet self-- turned sort of pink in embarassment. Two skinny, tweeny trend girls popped out of the changing room giggling at the counselor's irritated countdown, while this poor girl struggled, head still down, to get into her sports bra. I couldn't help but to keep glancing at the predicament, and noticing the child's silent pleas, but felt helpless to help as my hands were full with my own wet wigglers.
But last night as I took out my contacs and brushed my teeth,still, she was on my mind. And I wondered if she too was getting ready for bed, dreading the thought of the swimming and changing and barking and giggling. And I realized that I could have pulled a "mom" and intruded and found an empty space for her, or held up a blanket and darted "dragon lady eyes" (Caden's term)at the rest of the giggling gaggle, or at the very least simply have wheeled my own bustling chaos nearer to her corner and distracted the rest of the room. Maybe even chatted with the counselor about what a difference she makes in the life of a child.
I need the energy from this cup of coffee today to be patient with those toddlers who published this post once, unfinished, while I refilled my cup. I need to be patient and helpful with my own teens who are getting ready for band camp and expect me to pack their lunches rather than write on the computer, even though they wrote on the computer until they were too tired to pack their lunches last night. But mostly, I know that I need to grasp them, these fleeting moments and elusive, disguised opportunities for kindness, and mercy. To encourage someone else see them, grasp them, and wonder about how to make the world gentler, too.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Come out
he says and
look at this sky
i've never seen anything like it
Bleeding across
ebony velvet the
white fingers lick
up the night
no i
can't i say
trying to move my legs
thick like fence posts keeping me safe against my will
i waited for thunder
the loud, predictable boom
waited to feel the weight
of angels bowling
but the brilliant
electric poured out
silent searing strokes
that i watched across his beautiful face
come in
i say because
i know someone who really
did get struck by lightning and you never know
he looked a little sad
and walked further out and
quilt wrapped i turn away
because i'm not sure who is more safe
he says and
look at this sky
i've never seen anything like it
Bleeding across
ebony velvet the
white fingers lick
up the night
no i
can't i say
trying to move my legs
thick like fence posts keeping me safe against my will
i waited for thunder
the loud, predictable boom
waited to feel the weight
of angels bowling
but the brilliant
electric poured out
silent searing strokes
that i watched across his beautiful face
come in
i say because
i know someone who really
did get struck by lightning and you never know
he looked a little sad
and walked further out and
quilt wrapped i turn away
because i'm not sure who is more safe
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
On the short list of titles I’m adding to my skill set while traveling on the “Parent” career track, I’ve grabbed at some things like teacher. And wife and friend and writer and short order cook. Add bus driver, counselor, fashion merchandiser, good cop, bad cop, late night editor, crafty lawyer and stand in entertainer to the list and you’re getting the picture of who I’m shaping up to be.
Having children is just the most amazing miracle. Not only in the most obvious ways, like being able to kiss tiny little Chiclets toes or fully inhale the scent of innocence on a newborn’s downy head, but in the ways that teach, really carve into the soul what I really hadn’t expected to ponder: by learning to be a parent, I’d really learn lots more about being a child, especially on a “what does it matter eternally” scale.
There are just thousands of moments I’d like to record, relish, stretch into, explore, but I’ve been so intimidated to do it, and isn’t that silly? My children, my thoughts, my journey, my growth… I’ve used excuses both valid (I barely have enough time to change a diaper before I need to pick someone up from cross country and put dinner on the table), and not so valid (I’m just not sure where I’m supposed to go with these ideas) to avoid taking the deeper look into my soul that writing affords, whether someone else will read about them or not.
It’s happening in smudgy snippets. My fledgling successes and heartbreaking failures reveal to me, gradually and sometimes repetitively, who God, as a sovereign Majestic Parent, is. And somewhere in the middle of sleepy lullabies and chaotic dashes to soccer practice, I’ve seen glimpses of what it means to be the child of a Perfect Father. The juxtaposition of the two realities reveals how far I have to go in learning about both. I call the phenomenon, “rockabye grace.”
The “nurture” in my nature and everyday experience grasps the idea of a rockabye. Do what is needed to soothe the ones who hurt. My baby is starting to walk. He takes these headlong strides, arms wide open, eyes sort of startled, slobbery grin gasping. And he’ll try it anywhere–hard floor, asphalt, off the edge of a bed, near me or away from me. When he’s near me, and I can catch him if his aerobatics are too daring, I can laugh with him, smother him with kisses. But when he has speed-crawled into the other room, and I hear that awful thud, followed by a frightened cry, I leap over everything–other siblings, sit and spins, kitchen chairs–to get to him as IMMEDIATELY as I can, to scoop him up, check for signs of wear and tear, smother him with kisses.
Sometimes, my heart breaks for his misadventures. “Honey, don’t DO that. Stairs aren’t for Mac to climb yet,” mumbling sentences I’m sure he doesn’t understand, but I want the words to be there, hanging just outside his ears so that, when he’s ready, his heart will engage and listen. Sometimes, I’m a little frustrated… Really? Off the end of the sofa AGAIN??
And I wonder. How often have I barreled headlong, stupid grin flashing, into danger, when God isn’t waving His arms, “NO! NO! Not there, I told you!” I crash and burn and cry and beg for Him to wrap my scabby elbows and knees in His healing arms. The thing is, the amazing mind blowing thing, is this: He is always there. I step just outside of His love, just far enough to get into trouble, and He uses it. He doesn’t watch me hurting and cheer with godly laughter and rainbows. But He lets me feel, lets me turn back from danger, lets me know, always, that He has been waiting. And His word, when I take the time to listen, is a soothing rockabye that saturates my soul.
The grace part? That I’m learning about the hard way. It seems I have lots to learn about remembering when I’ve received it, so that I can better extend it. Like the Sugar Incident.
I was in the laundry room, my private oasis, early in the morning. I almost always have a load in the washer, one in the dryer, and a couple more waiting in line. Dirt therapy, I tell myself. There’s always a mountain of it, but I know how to climb it. I tell myself I actually like it.
“Uhhh…Mooommm.” I sighed. I’d been discovered. Someone knew I was awake, where I was, and that I could hear him. My then eleven year old, an early riser by nature, was in the kitchen getting things ready for school, which I realize is a blessing. I know friends who share tales of dragging their kids out of bed by their feet every morning.
“Yes?” I dragged the word out wearily, for effect. Sometimes it’s enough to deter them, and I thought I might finish my coffee in peace.
“You, um… You know that sugar?”
“What sugar, Son?”
He sighed. “The sugar, Mom.” He’s very bright, this son of mine. Really, I mean it quantitatively. But, he has this way of leaving out the important parts of things, you know: the rest of the story. And logic? Looking for something or finding something? These processes escape him. I’ve heard that Albert Einstein didn’t even know his own address when he lived in New York City. That he told someone it would be useless information to file away in usable brain space—if he needed to know what his address was, he’d just look it up in the phone book. I sighed.
“You mean the canister of sugar? It’s in the cupboard where it always is. I just filled it. Open the…”
“Yeah.” He interrupted me, which wasn’t typical. He’s the sweetest, most gentle, and polite of my crew. “Well, I know. I found it. But, well… It’s just that it was kinda heavy, and yesterday there was barely any in it, so…” This wasn’t sounding good, and I rounded the corner, picking up my pace as quickly as my fuzzy slippers would allow.
“So? What? What happened?” I was thinking calm, calm, but, when he backed up the stairs as I approached, the rhino mom instinct in me picked up the scent of fear. Not good. Not good at all.
“Well it came off. The lid. It just popped right off. But I scooped up some of the sugar and put it in the sink…” At this point, I edged past him, coffee mug first. Somewhere, I have forgotten my manners. I’m not sure why I think I’m entitled to forego them when it comes to interacting with my children. Rhino mom. Sugar was everywhere. Drifts of it spread across the kitchen tile and counter, outlining exactly where the sugar perpetration had occurred. The lazy Susan beneath the counter swung, well, lazily (as if ANYone in this house has a right to be lazy), residual motion from where the canister had crashed into it, dumping white powder into pots and pans on descent. “ …And I’m really sorry, Mom.”
“Go. Get. The. Vacuum.” You haven’t seen me first thing in the morning. Or, at anytime during a typical weekday I would presume. My four year old loves to take random, rapid pictures whenever she finds the digital camera lying about. Many of them, while blatantly honest in their looking-straight-up-the-nose while managing to catch the-circles-under-my-eyes angles, are not complimentary. Actually, the images make me gasp as I quickly delete them, and simultaneously pity my children and husband for having to witness my weekday-disarray. When I’m mad, my current fifth grader reports, my hair even stands straight up like the aforementioned Einstein. And I was livid. My poor son…
“Okay. Is it in the…”
“Closet. Yes. Now.” Snuffling, grunting, rhino mom sentences, wild hair, scowling snout…
A gritty, unfamiliar, sandy sort of sound accompanied my son’s hurrying footsteps as he shuffled down the hallway, across the house. “STOP!” I blasted. “SUGAR!” Communicative expression eluded me, the trumping, snorting, huffing Rhino Mom.
“Uhhm.” My son, too, had become a man of few words. I peek one bloodshot, hairy eyeball down the hall. Sugar had been trailed, pouring from my son’s pant cuff, down the hall, up toward my bedroom, through the living room, and now toward the closet, a Family Circle style map of his journey to find me. Find assistance.
“OHH!! You…. Ohh! You! Have! Made! Such! A! Mess!” I licked my lips to pause for calm. No exaggeration: they were coated in sugar dust.
“Mom…” I heard the plea in his wavering voice, but still my pulse raced on.
“This is a mess!” I jammed the vacuum cord into the outlet and began jabbing the hose at his pants. “Honestly!” I roared over the motor and sucking. “This is crazy! You’re going to be late for school!” Why not make him feel worse?
Just then, two of his siblings entered. Through a sugar drift. “Cool…” I thought I heard my eight year old say.
“Cool? COOL? You know, the sweet ants are probably going to come and carry me away while you’re at school today. And you think this is COOL?”
“Late for School.” He was mumbling, but was not foolish enough to correct me.
My daughter, in an effort ward off impending thermonuclear meltdown, began to run hot water into the sink where sugar had mounded. Of course, that side of the sink had lately been given to clogging. “Um. Mom?” Unknowingly, she had repeated the question that had started off the whole episode.
“That’s IT!” My emotions were beyond recovery, screaming, raging, glaring. “You know what, you guys? I. Have. Never. Made. This. Much. Of. A. Mess.” And with clarity and biting conviction, my own hypocrisy echoed around in my head, louder than the whistle, the gristle, the sucking, the slurping and puddling of my kitchen I turned off vacuum. Someone sniffed. Oh. My.
“That’s not true, though, is it?” My voice thickened, and my children, glistening with sugar and that eagerness to forgive which is just so characteristic of childhood, blinked. “I guess all of us standing here know about some of the messes I’ve made.” I took off my son’s glasses, wiped a sugar print away with the cuff of my bathrobe. “And I’ve not been repaid with yelling or putdowns. No, God has just heaped on the grace.”
I sighed. They exhaled. “Look, Guys…Can I try again? The sugar is not a big deal. Really.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I…” His eyes, those gentle, kind of slanty eyes that disappear when he laughs, were bright with tears.
“I know.” Suddenly, I couldn’t bear to hear him apologize. Rhino mom had been shamed, put away. “It’s okay. But, listen: I’m sorry too. ” His shrug was an understatement.
My son hadn’t dumped a Sahara full of sugar by handling it carefully. Nor had he purposefully created a mess in order to create an opportunity for me to extend forgiveness. Nevertheless, he was overwhelmed, and I was capable of helping, even though I wasn’t acting like it. But one honest moment’s reflection on how a Perfect Father has handled a wayward child’s mishandlings of lots of life’s blessings provided a clear solution to the problem, at a cost that would nourish rather than expend: grace.
Isaiah 30:18 says, “Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you, and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you.” Gracious, merciful. Attributes of a mighty, tender, comforting Parent. A reminder that I have so much to learn.
Having children is just the most amazing miracle. Not only in the most obvious ways, like being able to kiss tiny little Chiclets toes or fully inhale the scent of innocence on a newborn’s downy head, but in the ways that teach, really carve into the soul what I really hadn’t expected to ponder: by learning to be a parent, I’d really learn lots more about being a child, especially on a “what does it matter eternally” scale.
There are just thousands of moments I’d like to record, relish, stretch into, explore, but I’ve been so intimidated to do it, and isn’t that silly? My children, my thoughts, my journey, my growth… I’ve used excuses both valid (I barely have enough time to change a diaper before I need to pick someone up from cross country and put dinner on the table), and not so valid (I’m just not sure where I’m supposed to go with these ideas) to avoid taking the deeper look into my soul that writing affords, whether someone else will read about them or not.
It’s happening in smudgy snippets. My fledgling successes and heartbreaking failures reveal to me, gradually and sometimes repetitively, who God, as a sovereign Majestic Parent, is. And somewhere in the middle of sleepy lullabies and chaotic dashes to soccer practice, I’ve seen glimpses of what it means to be the child of a Perfect Father. The juxtaposition of the two realities reveals how far I have to go in learning about both. I call the phenomenon, “rockabye grace.”
The “nurture” in my nature and everyday experience grasps the idea of a rockabye. Do what is needed to soothe the ones who hurt. My baby is starting to walk. He takes these headlong strides, arms wide open, eyes sort of startled, slobbery grin gasping. And he’ll try it anywhere–hard floor, asphalt, off the edge of a bed, near me or away from me. When he’s near me, and I can catch him if his aerobatics are too daring, I can laugh with him, smother him with kisses. But when he has speed-crawled into the other room, and I hear that awful thud, followed by a frightened cry, I leap over everything–other siblings, sit and spins, kitchen chairs–to get to him as IMMEDIATELY as I can, to scoop him up, check for signs of wear and tear, smother him with kisses.
Sometimes, my heart breaks for his misadventures. “Honey, don’t DO that. Stairs aren’t for Mac to climb yet,” mumbling sentences I’m sure he doesn’t understand, but I want the words to be there, hanging just outside his ears so that, when he’s ready, his heart will engage and listen. Sometimes, I’m a little frustrated… Really? Off the end of the sofa AGAIN??
And I wonder. How often have I barreled headlong, stupid grin flashing, into danger, when God isn’t waving His arms, “NO! NO! Not there, I told you!” I crash and burn and cry and beg for Him to wrap my scabby elbows and knees in His healing arms. The thing is, the amazing mind blowing thing, is this: He is always there. I step just outside of His love, just far enough to get into trouble, and He uses it. He doesn’t watch me hurting and cheer with godly laughter and rainbows. But He lets me feel, lets me turn back from danger, lets me know, always, that He has been waiting. And His word, when I take the time to listen, is a soothing rockabye that saturates my soul.
The grace part? That I’m learning about the hard way. It seems I have lots to learn about remembering when I’ve received it, so that I can better extend it. Like the Sugar Incident.
I was in the laundry room, my private oasis, early in the morning. I almost always have a load in the washer, one in the dryer, and a couple more waiting in line. Dirt therapy, I tell myself. There’s always a mountain of it, but I know how to climb it. I tell myself I actually like it.
“Uhhh…Mooommm.” I sighed. I’d been discovered. Someone knew I was awake, where I was, and that I could hear him. My then eleven year old, an early riser by nature, was in the kitchen getting things ready for school, which I realize is a blessing. I know friends who share tales of dragging their kids out of bed by their feet every morning.
“Yes?” I dragged the word out wearily, for effect. Sometimes it’s enough to deter them, and I thought I might finish my coffee in peace.
“You, um… You know that sugar?”
“What sugar, Son?”
He sighed. “The sugar, Mom.” He’s very bright, this son of mine. Really, I mean it quantitatively. But, he has this way of leaving out the important parts of things, you know: the rest of the story. And logic? Looking for something or finding something? These processes escape him. I’ve heard that Albert Einstein didn’t even know his own address when he lived in New York City. That he told someone it would be useless information to file away in usable brain space—if he needed to know what his address was, he’d just look it up in the phone book. I sighed.
“You mean the canister of sugar? It’s in the cupboard where it always is. I just filled it. Open the…”
“Yeah.” He interrupted me, which wasn’t typical. He’s the sweetest, most gentle, and polite of my crew. “Well, I know. I found it. But, well… It’s just that it was kinda heavy, and yesterday there was barely any in it, so…” This wasn’t sounding good, and I rounded the corner, picking up my pace as quickly as my fuzzy slippers would allow.
“So? What? What happened?” I was thinking calm, calm, but, when he backed up the stairs as I approached, the rhino mom instinct in me picked up the scent of fear. Not good. Not good at all.
“Well it came off. The lid. It just popped right off. But I scooped up some of the sugar and put it in the sink…” At this point, I edged past him, coffee mug first. Somewhere, I have forgotten my manners. I’m not sure why I think I’m entitled to forego them when it comes to interacting with my children. Rhino mom. Sugar was everywhere. Drifts of it spread across the kitchen tile and counter, outlining exactly where the sugar perpetration had occurred. The lazy Susan beneath the counter swung, well, lazily (as if ANYone in this house has a right to be lazy), residual motion from where the canister had crashed into it, dumping white powder into pots and pans on descent. “ …And I’m really sorry, Mom.”
“Go. Get. The. Vacuum.” You haven’t seen me first thing in the morning. Or, at anytime during a typical weekday I would presume. My four year old loves to take random, rapid pictures whenever she finds the digital camera lying about. Many of them, while blatantly honest in their looking-straight-up-the-nose while managing to catch the-circles-under-my-eyes angles, are not complimentary. Actually, the images make me gasp as I quickly delete them, and simultaneously pity my children and husband for having to witness my weekday-disarray. When I’m mad, my current fifth grader reports, my hair even stands straight up like the aforementioned Einstein. And I was livid. My poor son…
“Okay. Is it in the…”
“Closet. Yes. Now.” Snuffling, grunting, rhino mom sentences, wild hair, scowling snout…
A gritty, unfamiliar, sandy sort of sound accompanied my son’s hurrying footsteps as he shuffled down the hallway, across the house. “STOP!” I blasted. “SUGAR!” Communicative expression eluded me, the trumping, snorting, huffing Rhino Mom.
“Uhhm.” My son, too, had become a man of few words. I peek one bloodshot, hairy eyeball down the hall. Sugar had been trailed, pouring from my son’s pant cuff, down the hall, up toward my bedroom, through the living room, and now toward the closet, a Family Circle style map of his journey to find me. Find assistance.
“OHH!! You…. Ohh! You! Have! Made! Such! A! Mess!” I licked my lips to pause for calm. No exaggeration: they were coated in sugar dust.
“Mom…” I heard the plea in his wavering voice, but still my pulse raced on.
“This is a mess!” I jammed the vacuum cord into the outlet and began jabbing the hose at his pants. “Honestly!” I roared over the motor and sucking. “This is crazy! You’re going to be late for school!” Why not make him feel worse?
Just then, two of his siblings entered. Through a sugar drift. “Cool…” I thought I heard my eight year old say.
“Cool? COOL? You know, the sweet ants are probably going to come and carry me away while you’re at school today. And you think this is COOL?”
“Late for School.” He was mumbling, but was not foolish enough to correct me.
My daughter, in an effort ward off impending thermonuclear meltdown, began to run hot water into the sink where sugar had mounded. Of course, that side of the sink had lately been given to clogging. “Um. Mom?” Unknowingly, she had repeated the question that had started off the whole episode.
“That’s IT!” My emotions were beyond recovery, screaming, raging, glaring. “You know what, you guys? I. Have. Never. Made. This. Much. Of. A. Mess.” And with clarity and biting conviction, my own hypocrisy echoed around in my head, louder than the whistle, the gristle, the sucking, the slurping and puddling of my kitchen I turned off vacuum. Someone sniffed. Oh. My.
“That’s not true, though, is it?” My voice thickened, and my children, glistening with sugar and that eagerness to forgive which is just so characteristic of childhood, blinked. “I guess all of us standing here know about some of the messes I’ve made.” I took off my son’s glasses, wiped a sugar print away with the cuff of my bathrobe. “And I’ve not been repaid with yelling or putdowns. No, God has just heaped on the grace.”
I sighed. They exhaled. “Look, Guys…Can I try again? The sugar is not a big deal. Really.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I…” His eyes, those gentle, kind of slanty eyes that disappear when he laughs, were bright with tears.
“I know.” Suddenly, I couldn’t bear to hear him apologize. Rhino mom had been shamed, put away. “It’s okay. But, listen: I’m sorry too. ” His shrug was an understatement.
My son hadn’t dumped a Sahara full of sugar by handling it carefully. Nor had he purposefully created a mess in order to create an opportunity for me to extend forgiveness. Nevertheless, he was overwhelmed, and I was capable of helping, even though I wasn’t acting like it. But one honest moment’s reflection on how a Perfect Father has handled a wayward child’s mishandlings of lots of life’s blessings provided a clear solution to the problem, at a cost that would nourish rather than expend: grace.
Isaiah 30:18 says, “Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you, and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you.” Gracious, merciful. Attributes of a mighty, tender, comforting Parent. A reminder that I have so much to learn.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Two posts in one day. But the other doesn't totally count, not because of what it contains, because that slams around in my soul. Mostly because I excerpted it from another collection. Is that cheating? If I wrote it, not just immediately now?
Anyways, I want to post again, because Ellie just came downstairs. THe whole house is coming alive actually, totally not prime time for writing, because something WILL get flushed down the toilet--Lightning McQueen or a Max and Ruby magnet perhaps--but I didn't want to lose this moment, and I'm afraid I would if I didn't write it all out.
So, Ellie. She had to scoot down the stairs, instead of her normal happy-dancing-seizejoy walk, because her arms were full. All of her favorite things were draped around her, like a fuzzy armory--Jesse, Hello Kitty blanket from Grandma, silky blanket, kitty, and a pony she's recently taken with. And I couldn't help but wonder how differently I would face the day if I draped around my conciousness all of the beautiful, favorite, fuzzy things that light up my heart, instead of keeping them neatly tucked in.
How is it that at four, the child has living more right than I do at ten times past? And how do I keep it there, this knowledge of hers, without smudging it away with practical advice of how to make a bed or keep things clean.
Anyways, I want to post again, because Ellie just came downstairs. THe whole house is coming alive actually, totally not prime time for writing, because something WILL get flushed down the toilet--Lightning McQueen or a Max and Ruby magnet perhaps--but I didn't want to lose this moment, and I'm afraid I would if I didn't write it all out.
So, Ellie. She had to scoot down the stairs, instead of her normal happy-dancing-seizejoy walk, because her arms were full. All of her favorite things were draped around her, like a fuzzy armory--Jesse, Hello Kitty blanket from Grandma, silky blanket, kitty, and a pony she's recently taken with. And I couldn't help but wonder how differently I would face the day if I draped around my conciousness all of the beautiful, favorite, fuzzy things that light up my heart, instead of keeping them neatly tucked in.
How is it that at four, the child has living more right than I do at ten times past? And how do I keep it there, this knowledge of hers, without smudging it away with practical advice of how to make a bed or keep things clean.
When my sister, bald from chemo and burned from radiation, came into the recovery room after her double mastectomy at age twenty-six, my mom took a picture. The worst part, other than my mom’s timing (which has just always been weird, like “we’re getting ready to leave a family gathering after a tense discussion and let’s stop and get a picture of us all together” weird and over the decades everyone has kind of gotten used to it), is that she wanted me to get into the picture.
“Mom. No. Really. Please, I don’t…” Mom stomped her foot. Squinted her eyes at me. I sighed. Tilted my head. Smiled into the flash.
So there’s this picture of me looking all tan and healthy, manicured nails and shirt tucked in, leaning over my sister with a wash cloth on her head. Only you can’t really see the washcloth because her skin was so pale they kind of meshed together. I hate that picture, I think as much as my sister does. Right after my mom took it, Heidi started throwing up what looked to be blue Kool-aid. I have no idea where it came from.
My little sister has always been my constant source of torment and joy. I can’t recount how many times I walked in to my bedroom find her and her friend Lynnie, who was orphaned when her parents were killed in a tragic car accident after Christmas shopping one night, with their butts up in the air farting out rotten gas, and then letting it absorb back in. “You. Are. Gross.” I would pound off, desperate to complain, but knowing it would do little good. Everyone still felt bad for Lynnie, and at least she was having fun.
But no matter how many times Heidi stole my clothes or stunk up my room or wiped my deodorant all over the place and blamed it on me (as if!), I’ve always loved my sister’s freckly smashed up nose, and the fact that she would sleep so soundly I could lift up her eyelids and watch her eyeballs roll around while she dreamed. And she has always been riotously full of energy, riding her Big Wheel naked down the sidewalk, falling off porches and breaking her arm, dragging the paper boy off his bike and to the ground so she could give him a kiss. Although I’ve always been a little envious of the fact that, despite her orneriness, she never got on my mom’s bad side like I seemed to, even when she plugged her smudgy nose to swallow down any food that wasn’t covered in chocolate, I’ve always hated that bad things seem to happen to her. Things like scoliosis, and record-breaking ovarian cysts, and breast cancer that I am helpless to do anything about.
Curious, this nature of relationships between siblings. Joseph and his brothers being all wound up over a coat and their dad’s attention. The Jacksons. My own toddlers who will beat the living tar out of each other, but if my son can’t find his cartoon wig to wear on Saturday mornings, my daughter, her own hot pink wig flying around as she searches, will turn the house upside looking for it. And how I, when my sister was being a boss during her rounds of chemo, looked at her browless face and told her she was out of “bandana points” and should shut up if she wanted me to stay for a visit. Mind you, for the two years of her life that she was in the depth of this fight, a giant fist had rammed its way down my throat and through my spine and had twisted my guts into jelly over what I couldn’t do for her.
I found a quote recently, from a 1964 Esquire magazine article about the boxer Floyd Patterson. He was asked to describe how he felt following a second, career bending knock-out punch he had been dealt. He replied: “This good feeling leaves you. You realize where you are, and what you're doing there, and what has just happened to you. And what follows is hurt, a confused hurt... Not a physical hurt--it's a hurt combined with anger; it's a what-will-people-think hurt. It's an ashamed-of-my-own-ability hurt.” It’s probably a good thing I didn’t know about that quote when my mom took that snapshot. If I had, I probably would have laid my head down on my sister’s bandaged, flattened out, tube-drained chest and wept. And I’m not sure I could have stopped, because sometimes being the one left standing is just as mind-cracking painful as being the one who can’t get up.
“Mom. No. Really. Please, I don’t…” Mom stomped her foot. Squinted her eyes at me. I sighed. Tilted my head. Smiled into the flash.
So there’s this picture of me looking all tan and healthy, manicured nails and shirt tucked in, leaning over my sister with a wash cloth on her head. Only you can’t really see the washcloth because her skin was so pale they kind of meshed together. I hate that picture, I think as much as my sister does. Right after my mom took it, Heidi started throwing up what looked to be blue Kool-aid. I have no idea where it came from.
My little sister has always been my constant source of torment and joy. I can’t recount how many times I walked in to my bedroom find her and her friend Lynnie, who was orphaned when her parents were killed in a tragic car accident after Christmas shopping one night, with their butts up in the air farting out rotten gas, and then letting it absorb back in. “You. Are. Gross.” I would pound off, desperate to complain, but knowing it would do little good. Everyone still felt bad for Lynnie, and at least she was having fun.
But no matter how many times Heidi stole my clothes or stunk up my room or wiped my deodorant all over the place and blamed it on me (as if!), I’ve always loved my sister’s freckly smashed up nose, and the fact that she would sleep so soundly I could lift up her eyelids and watch her eyeballs roll around while she dreamed. And she has always been riotously full of energy, riding her Big Wheel naked down the sidewalk, falling off porches and breaking her arm, dragging the paper boy off his bike and to the ground so she could give him a kiss. Although I’ve always been a little envious of the fact that, despite her orneriness, she never got on my mom’s bad side like I seemed to, even when she plugged her smudgy nose to swallow down any food that wasn’t covered in chocolate, I’ve always hated that bad things seem to happen to her. Things like scoliosis, and record-breaking ovarian cysts, and breast cancer that I am helpless to do anything about.
Curious, this nature of relationships between siblings. Joseph and his brothers being all wound up over a coat and their dad’s attention. The Jacksons. My own toddlers who will beat the living tar out of each other, but if my son can’t find his cartoon wig to wear on Saturday mornings, my daughter, her own hot pink wig flying around as she searches, will turn the house upside looking for it. And how I, when my sister was being a boss during her rounds of chemo, looked at her browless face and told her she was out of “bandana points” and should shut up if she wanted me to stay for a visit. Mind you, for the two years of her life that she was in the depth of this fight, a giant fist had rammed its way down my throat and through my spine and had twisted my guts into jelly over what I couldn’t do for her.
I found a quote recently, from a 1964 Esquire magazine article about the boxer Floyd Patterson. He was asked to describe how he felt following a second, career bending knock-out punch he had been dealt. He replied: “This good feeling leaves you. You realize where you are, and what you're doing there, and what has just happened to you. And what follows is hurt, a confused hurt... Not a physical hurt--it's a hurt combined with anger; it's a what-will-people-think hurt. It's an ashamed-of-my-own-ability hurt.” It’s probably a good thing I didn’t know about that quote when my mom took that snapshot. If I had, I probably would have laid my head down on my sister’s bandaged, flattened out, tube-drained chest and wept. And I’m not sure I could have stopped, because sometimes being the one left standing is just as mind-cracking painful as being the one who can’t get up.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
I love goat cheese
the way it
spreads around in my mouth
creamy and full and mellow
I love little toads
the way the little ones
are so little
and on a fingertip
I can feel their life pulse
I love Facebook
that I can still see
the sticky jelly fingerprints
of someone's life, alive on the
cup even though who they are-
their breathing- has exhaled
I love communion
mind lifting soul
almost by will into
a place of sorrow and joy
the bittersweet of love me because
I need
and You are
I love that Love is
as real as the condensing
of water on the cool of my glass
in the invisible heat that presses against
my skin, damp and begging for release
only to spill down, puddle
and move invisible back into the air
again
the way it
spreads around in my mouth
creamy and full and mellow
I love little toads
the way the little ones
are so little
and on a fingertip
I can feel their life pulse
I love Facebook
that I can still see
the sticky jelly fingerprints
of someone's life, alive on the
cup even though who they are-
their breathing- has exhaled
I love communion
mind lifting soul
almost by will into
a place of sorrow and joy
the bittersweet of love me because
I need
and You are
I love that Love is
as real as the condensing
of water on the cool of my glass
in the invisible heat that presses against
my skin, damp and begging for release
only to spill down, puddle
and move invisible back into the air
again
Friday, June 18, 2010
Letter to my Grandma.
Hi Gran!
It's our anniverary today. I look at the picture where you're grinning with some of the great grandkids stacked all around you, and marvel at God's wisdom in protecting from knowing what's to come. I'm sure we would have tried to run from it--your cancer, and fall, and passing on just a few short months later... but we didn't, because we didn't know, so I look at that moment, and think what a busy five years it's been, and it's so amazing how life changes.
Gran, I'm sorry the last few years were so hard for you. I'm sorry I was drowning, and you didn't really know how to help. And I know you weren't sure if you wanted to, or if you wanted to give me another dunk. And I am sorry about not getting that lemon meringue pie up to you at hospice. I really thought there was more time.
You taught me in that, you know. That at a certain point we find our cup full up to the brim of regrets, of moments lost, and we know we cannot, must not, will not add another drop, lest it spill over, and flood out the joy of today. I'm learning. But that doesn't really empty the cup...
So much has happened, as you've been tiptoeing around the edges of eternity. Day to day, our lives shift.
I've had three more little ones, and Heidi adopted a little girl!
Her little girl Mylie,3 and my little girl Ellerie,4 are best friends, and boy would you love them! They are sassy, sweet, adorable little things! I'm wondering if you do know them, actually. One day, Ellie was playing in the sunbeams by our front door, when something burst the door open. And I went walking toward her quickly as I was startled by the suddeness of it, and as I was just about there, she turned fully toward the sunlight, threw open her arms, and yelled, "Hi Honey!!" I gasped, and hugged her up, asked her who she was talking to, and she just blinked at me, and turned away to continue playing. It was you, wasn't it?
Connor is almost 3 and a sweet little doe-y eyed boy. His brown eyes are as deep as any of Miner descent could be. You just want to fall in when you look at them, even when he's making angry eyes. When he does this (we call it pirate mode), we'll tell him he needs quiet time to settle down, and he points one finger straight up in the air and yells, "NEV-OOO!!" and it's really hard to stay stern. You'd love 'im, I know.
Mac is the baby--well his fullname is Cormac, but that would probably bug you, 'cause you wouldn't remember it, so anyways, we call him Mac--and he is walking everywhere now. When he encounters a person, or tall flower, or lawn chair, he stops, and holds a jabbery, slobbery, joyful conversation. It's as if he's saying, "This world! It's so touchable! And did you know, there's a TON of stuff you can fit in your mouth, and it all tastes different! And my mom, she's so funny. Sometimes she's like 'Nononono!!!' And then sometimes she's telling me, 'Chewchewchew.' She can never make up her mind. And... Oh! I see something over there... I gotta go." And he'll wave around his chubby, wet hand and toddle off.
Hailey just got her driver's license. Seems like last week she was laying her binkies on a tissue on the seat of your car to keep them safe while she went into preschool. She misses you. But oh, she is beautiful! Too beautiful, probably. I hope she grows into what her blue eyes are before someone breaks her heart because of them...
And Tanner. Such a sweet, gentle, patient kid. But he's so TALL! He would tower over you. He's like, "Hey Mom... (croaking) Check it out (flexing arm) I'm like a man, huh?" Yes, Tanner. Such a dude. He would wrap you up in a hug, probably lift you off your feet like my dad always did. I know how you felt about your kids, know now why it was essential to feel their feisty, faithful, impulsive love bustling around you. I cook like a madwoman too.
Caden. TO end on Caden would probably annoy him, although I didn't do it intentionally. He's adorable in a freckly, messy hair, ten year old way. But, WOW his temper needs tempering. We're working on it. He's just ready to put up those emotional dukes, and then he regrets it. He's so bright, though. *sigh* He misses being with my dad the most, I think.
I remember coming in to the living room and seeing you cry once. Just once. And I know life dealt you sadness more than once. But I understand you, Gran, more than just being able to nail your Rhubarb Crunch recipe. Sometimes, it's just about determining that you will feel the sorrow later, to save the space in your day for joy. And so many people don't understand, can't know, what it takes to do that. How that lonely place is just so very alone. But I understand now, even though it didn't help you then. And I miss calling 849-3453 and hearing you say, Hello. Because you would understand me, without saying another word.
A million moments after you've gone on to paint sunsets--that's what Caden has decided you're doing--I hear you every time I stir my coffee and my spoon clinks against the mug. I use your sugar bowl. And I butter my saltines. When my tomatoes come in I'll have a warm toast sandwich with them. I remember you.
So. Gran. Here's to forever. Until then...
Love you.
Hi Gran!
It's our anniverary today. I look at the picture where you're grinning with some of the great grandkids stacked all around you, and marvel at God's wisdom in protecting from knowing what's to come. I'm sure we would have tried to run from it--your cancer, and fall, and passing on just a few short months later... but we didn't, because we didn't know, so I look at that moment, and think what a busy five years it's been, and it's so amazing how life changes.
Gran, I'm sorry the last few years were so hard for you. I'm sorry I was drowning, and you didn't really know how to help. And I know you weren't sure if you wanted to, or if you wanted to give me another dunk. And I am sorry about not getting that lemon meringue pie up to you at hospice. I really thought there was more time.
You taught me in that, you know. That at a certain point we find our cup full up to the brim of regrets, of moments lost, and we know we cannot, must not, will not add another drop, lest it spill over, and flood out the joy of today. I'm learning. But that doesn't really empty the cup...
So much has happened, as you've been tiptoeing around the edges of eternity. Day to day, our lives shift.
I've had three more little ones, and Heidi adopted a little girl!
Her little girl Mylie,3 and my little girl Ellerie,4 are best friends, and boy would you love them! They are sassy, sweet, adorable little things! I'm wondering if you do know them, actually. One day, Ellie was playing in the sunbeams by our front door, when something burst the door open. And I went walking toward her quickly as I was startled by the suddeness of it, and as I was just about there, she turned fully toward the sunlight, threw open her arms, and yelled, "Hi Honey!!" I gasped, and hugged her up, asked her who she was talking to, and she just blinked at me, and turned away to continue playing. It was you, wasn't it?
Connor is almost 3 and a sweet little doe-y eyed boy. His brown eyes are as deep as any of Miner descent could be. You just want to fall in when you look at them, even when he's making angry eyes. When he does this (we call it pirate mode), we'll tell him he needs quiet time to settle down, and he points one finger straight up in the air and yells, "NEV-OOO!!" and it's really hard to stay stern. You'd love 'im, I know.
Mac is the baby--well his fullname is Cormac, but that would probably bug you, 'cause you wouldn't remember it, so anyways, we call him Mac--and he is walking everywhere now. When he encounters a person, or tall flower, or lawn chair, he stops, and holds a jabbery, slobbery, joyful conversation. It's as if he's saying, "This world! It's so touchable! And did you know, there's a TON of stuff you can fit in your mouth, and it all tastes different! And my mom, she's so funny. Sometimes she's like 'Nononono!!!' And then sometimes she's telling me, 'Chewchewchew.' She can never make up her mind. And... Oh! I see something over there... I gotta go." And he'll wave around his chubby, wet hand and toddle off.
Hailey just got her driver's license. Seems like last week she was laying her binkies on a tissue on the seat of your car to keep them safe while she went into preschool. She misses you. But oh, she is beautiful! Too beautiful, probably. I hope she grows into what her blue eyes are before someone breaks her heart because of them...
And Tanner. Such a sweet, gentle, patient kid. But he's so TALL! He would tower over you. He's like, "Hey Mom... (croaking) Check it out (flexing arm) I'm like a man, huh?" Yes, Tanner. Such a dude. He would wrap you up in a hug, probably lift you off your feet like my dad always did. I know how you felt about your kids, know now why it was essential to feel their feisty, faithful, impulsive love bustling around you. I cook like a madwoman too.
Caden. TO end on Caden would probably annoy him, although I didn't do it intentionally. He's adorable in a freckly, messy hair, ten year old way. But, WOW his temper needs tempering. We're working on it. He's just ready to put up those emotional dukes, and then he regrets it. He's so bright, though. *sigh* He misses being with my dad the most, I think.
I remember coming in to the living room and seeing you cry once. Just once. And I know life dealt you sadness more than once. But I understand you, Gran, more than just being able to nail your Rhubarb Crunch recipe. Sometimes, it's just about determining that you will feel the sorrow later, to save the space in your day for joy. And so many people don't understand, can't know, what it takes to do that. How that lonely place is just so very alone. But I understand now, even though it didn't help you then. And I miss calling 849-3453 and hearing you say, Hello. Because you would understand me, without saying another word.
A million moments after you've gone on to paint sunsets--that's what Caden has decided you're doing--I hear you every time I stir my coffee and my spoon clinks against the mug. I use your sugar bowl. And I butter my saltines. When my tomatoes come in I'll have a warm toast sandwich with them. I remember you.
So. Gran. Here's to forever. Until then...
Love you.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Date night: Two words, one elusive moment for parents of six. This idea is something I grasp at with eager, greedy emotion. And it really doesn't have to be much to make my day. My husband and I have enjoyed "dates" at Sam's Club, the library, Starbucks (if we're feelin' fancy), and some favorite times at the free summer concerts in Willoughby.
Two years ago, we decided this concept of spending time alone together was... important. (Um, absolutely necessary if a certain mother of five at the time was to be pulled out of the corner in which she was rocking back and forth.) The first scheduled date was cancelled. Someone had pink eye. The second date (first in occurence) took place at a local restaurant known for ribs (I ordered fish). The seating was close,the napkins smelled musty, and... we had nothing to talk about. It was a disaster! I was in tears (mind you, I'm pretty sure I was pregnant with number six and just didn't know it yet). We had been reduced to other people's conversations. We finished eating quickly, and decided to find a sunset to watch. (We had hired a sitter, and couldn't figure out the right amount to pay for 45 minutes.) We missed the sunset, having been thoroughly turned around in the disorienting Fairport Harbor (think: Bermuda Triangle on Lake Erie), and decided to have ice cream on the beach. It rained.
After that first date, I was more determined than ever to re-introduce myself to my spouse. We both began to look for hidden gems of entertainment and conversation sparks, and took along bits of books and poetry (my contribution) to read to each other when the conversation waned. Interestingly, I think we only read a bit on the second date (my husband having been duly persuaded to keep me talking rather than having to listen to my poetry selections, more than likely). Whatever the cause, our date nights had received a much needed spark, and although there is no definable pattern, they do happen. In fact, one of the best occured this weekend.
I had been poking around on facebook, and there was an ad for Little Italy's Artwalk. I clicked on it, bought all the propaganda, hook-line-and-sinker, and begged my husband to take me there. I'd never been.
True to my tendency of loving all things eclectic, I am completely enamored with the place. Frank Sinatra set the tone as soon as we parked on one of the slanty sloping streets, his crooning wooing pedestrians through loudspeakers, although the elderly couple sitting on their porch (he in dark socks and snappy suspenders, she in a faded-soft housedress) looked a little tired of the hullabaloo. A warm breeze swished my skirt, and I took my husband's hand.
The breeze also carried scents so fragrant I literally wanted to swallow it down. Restaurant after restaurant lined the street. White tableclothes showcased linguini with mussels, bread and oil, sparkling red wine and votives... Conversation hummed and Venetian masks winked mysterious charm, hung in windows and propped on displays. We walked through a sidewalk massage station, complete with tattooed mannequins boasting wigs that were up for raffle. The saucy smell of Mama Santo's grabbed us by the nose, seemed to say, "You have arrived. Eat. Now."
Here the tables boasted no white coverings, and the paneled walls sported a few faded pics of Italy lit by red-white-and-green light sconces. Our waitress spoke in a thick Sicilian accent, encouraging me that the manicotti, all from scratch, were wonderful. We each ordered an entree. And a large pepperoni pizza to share. Later, as we were thick into our meals, she came back to survey us on our choices. "Umm. Uhm-mm," was all I could say, my eyes kind-of rolled back. (Think: subtle version of Meg Ryan re-enactment.) Manners had nothing to do with not opening my mouth. I couldn't have borne letting a flavor escape.
Later, we strolled the galleries, absorbing gorgeous paintings, jewelry, papers... We even took in a pink scooter with leopard seat covers, although the owners weren't giving rides--not that Jason would've accepted, mind you. I fingered a delicate ivory scarf, itched to buy it, but decided to ask for another visit, this one with an intentional shopping twist, on an upcoming birthday.
The humid evening ended with a thunderstorm, which seems to be our m.o. Personally, I think it just may be the way my heart pounds--when my sweet glances my way, catches me off guard with a kiss-- that causes these date night weather disturbances.
Two years ago, we decided this concept of spending time alone together was... important. (Um, absolutely necessary if a certain mother of five at the time was to be pulled out of the corner in which she was rocking back and forth.) The first scheduled date was cancelled. Someone had pink eye. The second date (first in occurence) took place at a local restaurant known for ribs (I ordered fish). The seating was close,the napkins smelled musty, and... we had nothing to talk about. It was a disaster! I was in tears (mind you, I'm pretty sure I was pregnant with number six and just didn't know it yet). We had been reduced to other people's conversations. We finished eating quickly, and decided to find a sunset to watch. (We had hired a sitter, and couldn't figure out the right amount to pay for 45 minutes.) We missed the sunset, having been thoroughly turned around in the disorienting Fairport Harbor (think: Bermuda Triangle on Lake Erie), and decided to have ice cream on the beach. It rained.
After that first date, I was more determined than ever to re-introduce myself to my spouse. We both began to look for hidden gems of entertainment and conversation sparks, and took along bits of books and poetry (my contribution) to read to each other when the conversation waned. Interestingly, I think we only read a bit on the second date (my husband having been duly persuaded to keep me talking rather than having to listen to my poetry selections, more than likely). Whatever the cause, our date nights had received a much needed spark, and although there is no definable pattern, they do happen. In fact, one of the best occured this weekend.
I had been poking around on facebook, and there was an ad for Little Italy's Artwalk. I clicked on it, bought all the propaganda, hook-line-and-sinker, and begged my husband to take me there. I'd never been.
True to my tendency of loving all things eclectic, I am completely enamored with the place. Frank Sinatra set the tone as soon as we parked on one of the slanty sloping streets, his crooning wooing pedestrians through loudspeakers, although the elderly couple sitting on their porch (he in dark socks and snappy suspenders, she in a faded-soft housedress) looked a little tired of the hullabaloo. A warm breeze swished my skirt, and I took my husband's hand.
The breeze also carried scents so fragrant I literally wanted to swallow it down. Restaurant after restaurant lined the street. White tableclothes showcased linguini with mussels, bread and oil, sparkling red wine and votives... Conversation hummed and Venetian masks winked mysterious charm, hung in windows and propped on displays. We walked through a sidewalk massage station, complete with tattooed mannequins boasting wigs that were up for raffle. The saucy smell of Mama Santo's grabbed us by the nose, seemed to say, "You have arrived. Eat. Now."
Here the tables boasted no white coverings, and the paneled walls sported a few faded pics of Italy lit by red-white-and-green light sconces. Our waitress spoke in a thick Sicilian accent, encouraging me that the manicotti, all from scratch, were wonderful. We each ordered an entree. And a large pepperoni pizza to share. Later, as we were thick into our meals, she came back to survey us on our choices. "Umm. Uhm-mm," was all I could say, my eyes kind-of rolled back. (Think: subtle version of Meg Ryan re-enactment.) Manners had nothing to do with not opening my mouth. I couldn't have borne letting a flavor escape.
Later, we strolled the galleries, absorbing gorgeous paintings, jewelry, papers... We even took in a pink scooter with leopard seat covers, although the owners weren't giving rides--not that Jason would've accepted, mind you. I fingered a delicate ivory scarf, itched to buy it, but decided to ask for another visit, this one with an intentional shopping twist, on an upcoming birthday.
The humid evening ended with a thunderstorm, which seems to be our m.o. Personally, I think it just may be the way my heart pounds--when my sweet glances my way, catches me off guard with a kiss-- that causes these date night weather disturbances.
Friday, June 04, 2010
I stick out my chin when I'm angry. Wrinkle my nose when I'm not convinced. I'm told laser beams shoot out of my eyes, or something like that, when I'm outraged or at least supremely annoyed. I've tried to catch a glimpse of myself doing this, as it seems to garner an effective response when employed, but the habit is entirely reflexive, not prone to re-enactment or pretend.
Mind you, I'm not particularly fond of the existence of any of these attributes. My desire is to be so slow to anger that my chin would merely dimple upon exertion. That I would be so ready to believe that my nose would remain perfectly alligned. And it would seem patience would damper the aforementioned laser beam device. Partially, this is a growth problem for me. I think, though, that genetics may also play a role.
My family, in particular the "Runion" side, is known for its... passion. My husband, having sadly been the target of a couple of flying shoes, might label the emotional tendencies differently. And although this "passion" can be problematic in personal relations, (well, okay, in ANY type of relating), I've found it can be very effective when facing a non-human opponent, such as a supposed "insurmountable task" or, more recently in the Runion side of life, cancer.
Today, my uncle, Mark, is having a gamma knife procedure on fifteen cancerous lesions on his brain. Again. He underwent the procedure, which involves having a helmet literally screwed into his skull while laying wide awake and motionless for four to seven hours as the surgeons zap away at his brain, just before Christmas also. He has endured two knee replacements, lifetime doses of chemo and radiation, a steel rod inserted into his leg to strengthen a broken hip, jaw surgery, pneumonia, and, oh, a stroke, over the course of the past four years after discovering he had lung cancer. He's fifty-four. And he's a little put out over it all. You might even call him cranky. He'd be REALLY ticked if he knew I was writing about him.
I can't help myself. He's always been special to me. He started (and maintained, much to my mother's chagrin) my first record collection, consisting of REO Speedwagon, Kiss, Donna Summers, and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band. He brought me a trophy when I won my first accordian contest that said, "Anything boys can do, girls can do better."
He always smelled good.
I thought he and his friends were the lost tribe of Fonzi's crew, or at least the seventies version of the Outsiders. They were cool, tough, and always ready to give my uncle's little niece a push on the swing in the apple tree.
I can not remember a dinner at my grandma's (and there were LOTS) where his... tempestous energy wasn't used to mash a giant pot of potatoes, where he didn't bump his head on the low ceiling on his way to the table, where he didn't finish off a gallon of milk (left sitting out on the floor by his chair), where he didn't pick a fight with my Uncle Norm, where he didn't kiss my grandma and tell her thanks for dinner when he finished.
He would tell anyone off in a heartbeat, if they deserved it, if he mistakenly thought they did, if he was just in a foul mood and THOUGHT they SHOULD deserve it... He would, all choked up, apologize from the bottom of his flip-flopped feet later, but only if they truly deserved it.
His grin is infectuos. White teeth and neatly trimmed mustache in place for as long as I can remember. His moustache is white now too, although the rest of his hair is gone. He is still smiling.
And, did I mention, cranky?
But you want to know a secret? Sometimes, when the heart is breaking, and the will is tired, and the strength is just about all used up, all you can do is stick out your chin, and wrinkle your nose, and blast some dumb cancerous thing to pieces. And not everyone will understand, and probably no one will give you a trophy, and you just might not be as grown up acting as somebody might think you should be, but you just, you just might make it because of that.
A picture message came through on my cell phone as I was writing this post. It's Uncle Mark, fitted in his Darth Vaderish gamma knife bug zapper cap. Guess what? He's smiling. I think I see him sticking out his chin.
Mind you, I'm not particularly fond of the existence of any of these attributes. My desire is to be so slow to anger that my chin would merely dimple upon exertion. That I would be so ready to believe that my nose would remain perfectly alligned. And it would seem patience would damper the aforementioned laser beam device. Partially, this is a growth problem for me. I think, though, that genetics may also play a role.
My family, in particular the "Runion" side, is known for its... passion. My husband, having sadly been the target of a couple of flying shoes, might label the emotional tendencies differently. And although this "passion" can be problematic in personal relations, (well, okay, in ANY type of relating), I've found it can be very effective when facing a non-human opponent, such as a supposed "insurmountable task" or, more recently in the Runion side of life, cancer.
Today, my uncle, Mark, is having a gamma knife procedure on fifteen cancerous lesions on his brain. Again. He underwent the procedure, which involves having a helmet literally screwed into his skull while laying wide awake and motionless for four to seven hours as the surgeons zap away at his brain, just before Christmas also. He has endured two knee replacements, lifetime doses of chemo and radiation, a steel rod inserted into his leg to strengthen a broken hip, jaw surgery, pneumonia, and, oh, a stroke, over the course of the past four years after discovering he had lung cancer. He's fifty-four. And he's a little put out over it all. You might even call him cranky. He'd be REALLY ticked if he knew I was writing about him.
I can't help myself. He's always been special to me. He started (and maintained, much to my mother's chagrin) my first record collection, consisting of REO Speedwagon, Kiss, Donna Summers, and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band. He brought me a trophy when I won my first accordian contest that said, "Anything boys can do, girls can do better."
He always smelled good.
I thought he and his friends were the lost tribe of Fonzi's crew, or at least the seventies version of the Outsiders. They were cool, tough, and always ready to give my uncle's little niece a push on the swing in the apple tree.
I can not remember a dinner at my grandma's (and there were LOTS) where his... tempestous energy wasn't used to mash a giant pot of potatoes, where he didn't bump his head on the low ceiling on his way to the table, where he didn't finish off a gallon of milk (left sitting out on the floor by his chair), where he didn't pick a fight with my Uncle Norm, where he didn't kiss my grandma and tell her thanks for dinner when he finished.
He would tell anyone off in a heartbeat, if they deserved it, if he mistakenly thought they did, if he was just in a foul mood and THOUGHT they SHOULD deserve it... He would, all choked up, apologize from the bottom of his flip-flopped feet later, but only if they truly deserved it.
His grin is infectuos. White teeth and neatly trimmed mustache in place for as long as I can remember. His moustache is white now too, although the rest of his hair is gone. He is still smiling.
And, did I mention, cranky?
But you want to know a secret? Sometimes, when the heart is breaking, and the will is tired, and the strength is just about all used up, all you can do is stick out your chin, and wrinkle your nose, and blast some dumb cancerous thing to pieces. And not everyone will understand, and probably no one will give you a trophy, and you just might not be as grown up acting as somebody might think you should be, but you just, you just might make it because of that.
A picture message came through on my cell phone as I was writing this post. It's Uncle Mark, fitted in his Darth Vaderish gamma knife bug zapper cap. Guess what? He's smiling. I think I see him sticking out his chin.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
My oldest child, my beautiful sweet sixteen, will be a junior in high school. This at once takes my breath away and makes my heart race. She's lovely, through and through, and if I were to wax poetic (or at least metaphorical), I'd tell you that she's like the peonies that are bobbing their heads outside my window. One day, tightly compressed around themselves, layer after layer of miracles building, hidden, and then exploding with life and fragrance and powerful delicate pink the next. Mind you, she's of a stronger constitution, I think, and doesn't bend after one strong rain, and, well, she isn't covered with ants. She does, however, want to play the tuba.
Amazingly, my daughter with a bend for all things athletic (in this way, she veers sharply from her mama), based on her mom's cajoling, pleading, tearful repetition of "Try it, TRY it", played in the marching band last year as a first year sophomore. And, she fell in love. Head over heels, labels herself a band geek, thinking about a music major in love... I couldn't be more pleased. Not that I'll let her know this right away.
Sitting in the parent meeting last fall, where all things marching were carefully laid out in front of us sweating, dedicated, to-practice-on-time deliverers, I was caught up in a swirl of memories. The band directors, for whom I have developed an INTENSE fondness and gratitude, have their acts together. They love these kids. Are realistic about these kids. Are straightforward, passionate and untiring in their dedication to these kids. And I was blown away with anticipation for my child to experience what was in store for her. The parent handbook spelled out details, but my heart beat out experience after experience...
The new uniform smell. Fresh out of the dry cleaner bag, carefully put together and as closely sized as the anonymity of the overcoat and stirruped pants would allow by other dedicated, sweating parents. The look of the hat. (I had worn a beanie. Drummers rocked.) Shiny buttons. A white shoe requirement. (I wore spats. Haven't said or thought of that word in years.) The feeling of belonging to something BIG. LOUD. ATTENTION, PLEASE.
Cold bleachers. Muddy fields. Marching the wrong way because my parka was blinding me, but letting everyone think it was Mary Kay Campbell since no one could tell us apart anyways. The fear of getting cocoa on the overlay during third quarter. Bleacher creatures (my director's pet name for the students that wanted to absorb a bit of our ONENESS, without the practice, uniform, or band camp sweat.)
Band camp. Being a MUN. The silence of a stadium before the drum roll of the National Anthem. Drum rolls. Rolling on my drum (this memory was a painful one).
The pulse of music. How it was life blood for me. How I had, in the process of kids and careers and laundry, forgotten it.
Memory after mental movie after a million exploding rememberings... but there I was, in the midst of reverie, in the midst of a parent meeting that I probably needed to listen to for my daughter. Who had suddenly bloomed and was going to fall in love with this face, this soul, this friend Music who I knew so well.
She had a blast, and I wonder about the million rememberings she started to collect. Wish I could watch her mental movies, at least a few--maybe lightly edited for my poor heart's sake. She became a permanent fixture in the band room. And allowed herself to be persuaded to switch from clarinet to TUBA, in the name of all things BIG and BLATTY.
I tease her that she'll look like Larry the Cucumber from Veggie Tales. That I can envision her snapping to attention and then slowly tipping backward like a fallen cedar. But really, I know she'll have a blast (no onomatopoeiac pun intended). The comradie of the section rivals (but won't compare with) the percussion section. Her big blue eyes will sparkle. She might even wear a beanie--but I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is how much I love her. And that if I could freeze frame this stage of her bloom, suspend it time for us to turn around, examine, cherish it, I would. Because it is so breathakingly lovely, and heart-pounding awesome.
Amazingly, my daughter with a bend for all things athletic (in this way, she veers sharply from her mama), based on her mom's cajoling, pleading, tearful repetition of "Try it, TRY it", played in the marching band last year as a first year sophomore. And, she fell in love. Head over heels, labels herself a band geek, thinking about a music major in love... I couldn't be more pleased. Not that I'll let her know this right away.
Sitting in the parent meeting last fall, where all things marching were carefully laid out in front of us sweating, dedicated, to-practice-on-time deliverers, I was caught up in a swirl of memories. The band directors, for whom I have developed an INTENSE fondness and gratitude, have their acts together. They love these kids. Are realistic about these kids. Are straightforward, passionate and untiring in their dedication to these kids. And I was blown away with anticipation for my child to experience what was in store for her. The parent handbook spelled out details, but my heart beat out experience after experience...
The new uniform smell. Fresh out of the dry cleaner bag, carefully put together and as closely sized as the anonymity of the overcoat and stirruped pants would allow by other dedicated, sweating parents. The look of the hat. (I had worn a beanie. Drummers rocked.) Shiny buttons. A white shoe requirement. (I wore spats. Haven't said or thought of that word in years.) The feeling of belonging to something BIG. LOUD. ATTENTION, PLEASE.
Cold bleachers. Muddy fields. Marching the wrong way because my parka was blinding me, but letting everyone think it was Mary Kay Campbell since no one could tell us apart anyways. The fear of getting cocoa on the overlay during third quarter. Bleacher creatures (my director's pet name for the students that wanted to absorb a bit of our ONENESS, without the practice, uniform, or band camp sweat.)
Band camp. Being a MUN. The silence of a stadium before the drum roll of the National Anthem. Drum rolls. Rolling on my drum (this memory was a painful one).
The pulse of music. How it was life blood for me. How I had, in the process of kids and careers and laundry, forgotten it.
Memory after mental movie after a million exploding rememberings... but there I was, in the midst of reverie, in the midst of a parent meeting that I probably needed to listen to for my daughter. Who had suddenly bloomed and was going to fall in love with this face, this soul, this friend Music who I knew so well.
She had a blast, and I wonder about the million rememberings she started to collect. Wish I could watch her mental movies, at least a few--maybe lightly edited for my poor heart's sake. She became a permanent fixture in the band room. And allowed herself to be persuaded to switch from clarinet to TUBA, in the name of all things BIG and BLATTY.
I tease her that she'll look like Larry the Cucumber from Veggie Tales. That I can envision her snapping to attention and then slowly tipping backward like a fallen cedar. But really, I know she'll have a blast (no onomatopoeiac pun intended). The comradie of the section rivals (but won't compare with) the percussion section. Her big blue eyes will sparkle. She might even wear a beanie--but I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is how much I love her. And that if I could freeze frame this stage of her bloom, suspend it time for us to turn around, examine, cherish it, I would. Because it is so breathakingly lovely, and heart-pounding awesome.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
I cannot write with abandon. That is, I cannot, CAN NOT simply write with no clear sense of where my writing is going, internal editor turned off, writing just to get all of my ideas out. This is, by turns, detrimental and self-preserving.
Imagine some amazing athlete, Jackie Joyner or Appollo Ono perhaps, entering their respective arenas. Imagine they have no restraints in place as to how they will exert themselves--gear fastened haphazardly, limbs wildly moving, lightening-speed chaos. While it would be fascinating to watch, and momentarily, satisfyingly exertive (exhortive, even??), they could be hurt! Seriously, or at the very least, completely wrung out, over-stretched...
Being a, as I've heard the term expressed, constant mental blogger,wouldn't I wear myself out if I didn't provide myself with restraints? And imagine the butchered grammar, senseless mispellings, tragic nonsensical exploration of ideas that could ensue... I might even discover things hidden deep inside myself, potentials I've never thought to plunder, much less exploit.
Hmm. This could be delicious. It could be fascinating to be wreckless with sound and image. Irresponsible with puns. Think ee cummings. Think Dr. Seuss. Think... well, no. Don't think. That's the detrimental, isn't it? Overthinking, overwringing, over-doing.
I'd love to explore these thoughts, these imaginings. Maybe I will. Later, when I don't have a million demands, like kids to pick up, set down, change, bathe, feed, entertain, nourish... Because it's almost lunch time and a storm is brewing so everyones antsy,even me.
So, I'll post. My first rambling, not perfectly finished, unedited, haven't thought out or tied together blog. For me, this is a big step.
Imagine some amazing athlete, Jackie Joyner or Appollo Ono perhaps, entering their respective arenas. Imagine they have no restraints in place as to how they will exert themselves--gear fastened haphazardly, limbs wildly moving, lightening-speed chaos. While it would be fascinating to watch, and momentarily, satisfyingly exertive (exhortive, even??), they could be hurt! Seriously, or at the very least, completely wrung out, over-stretched...
Being a, as I've heard the term expressed, constant mental blogger,wouldn't I wear myself out if I didn't provide myself with restraints? And imagine the butchered grammar, senseless mispellings, tragic nonsensical exploration of ideas that could ensue... I might even discover things hidden deep inside myself, potentials I've never thought to plunder, much less exploit.
Hmm. This could be delicious. It could be fascinating to be wreckless with sound and image. Irresponsible with puns. Think ee cummings. Think Dr. Seuss. Think... well, no. Don't think. That's the detrimental, isn't it? Overthinking, overwringing, over-doing.
I'd love to explore these thoughts, these imaginings. Maybe I will. Later, when I don't have a million demands, like kids to pick up, set down, change, bathe, feed, entertain, nourish... Because it's almost lunch time and a storm is brewing so everyones antsy,even me.
So, I'll post. My first rambling, not perfectly finished, unedited, haven't thought out or tied together blog. For me, this is a big step.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Four years have passed since my first post. Four years, and the arrival of two more children, and, in reference to said first post, the shedding of several layers of skin. No, I'm not a snake, and with six kids have barely enough time to brush my teeth, much less exfoliate. I'm just... stretching, sighing, becoming the person who actually lives in my skin.
I've been thinking about this whole "becoming" idea. I think I always used to think of life in terms of arrivals. I watched other people, going about their days and lives and imagined them neatly arrived and unpacking--happy with their flight, destination, the outfits they picked out. I seemed to never feel that way.
For me, I had packed too new of shoes, ones that rubbed tender blisters, and sported a fanny pack that signaled I was a)outdated and b)definitely a tourist. I longed for a place to "move into". You know, some place comfy and perfect, maybe with dinner already simmering on the stove.
To "arrive" at this quilt-wrapped, perfectly-packed place, I employed this backward practice of erasing. I glanced over one shoulder to see where I ought to be, and then rub, rub, rubbed this giant pink eraser over the story lines of my life I'd crafted, imagining them to be too full of mistakes and mismatched socks to possibly be the ones I needed to get me where I thought I wanted to be.
The problem, other than GIGANTIC piles of eraser bits (I remember this boy in second grade who saved his, neatly swept into the wooden groove at the front of his desk), was that a)leaden memories still taunted from the stubborn paper fibers and b)all that I had smudged out was the good stuff--evidence of growth, grace, answered prayers. And the truth is, I started to miss people. Because I was so worried about where I thought I should be, and where I shouldn't have been that I was letting these most beautiful people and moments just... rub away.
When I was little, maybe five or six, my parents had taken me to my first accordian contest, and predawn, I awoke to my mom frantically banging all of our shoes on the floor. She didn't tell me at the time, but I found out years later that the big, old beautiful hotel also hosted big, old beautiful cockroaches, and Mom had discovered one and preferred not to bring home souvenirs. So I'm shaking out my bags. I might uncover some roaches. (I hope not, and if I do they'll just have to leave.) What I'm really hoping for are dusty, quirky souvenirs, that with a little love will look just right on the mantle, despite my neglect.
And you know what? I've realized my Trip Tik doesn't have a destination marked. Just some really great points of interest that I'd like to check out.
I've been thinking about this whole "becoming" idea. I think I always used to think of life in terms of arrivals. I watched other people, going about their days and lives and imagined them neatly arrived and unpacking--happy with their flight, destination, the outfits they picked out. I seemed to never feel that way.
For me, I had packed too new of shoes, ones that rubbed tender blisters, and sported a fanny pack that signaled I was a)outdated and b)definitely a tourist. I longed for a place to "move into". You know, some place comfy and perfect, maybe with dinner already simmering on the stove.
To "arrive" at this quilt-wrapped, perfectly-packed place, I employed this backward practice of erasing. I glanced over one shoulder to see where I ought to be, and then rub, rub, rubbed this giant pink eraser over the story lines of my life I'd crafted, imagining them to be too full of mistakes and mismatched socks to possibly be the ones I needed to get me where I thought I wanted to be.
The problem, other than GIGANTIC piles of eraser bits (I remember this boy in second grade who saved his, neatly swept into the wooden groove at the front of his desk), was that a)leaden memories still taunted from the stubborn paper fibers and b)all that I had smudged out was the good stuff--evidence of growth, grace, answered prayers. And the truth is, I started to miss people. Because I was so worried about where I thought I should be, and where I shouldn't have been that I was letting these most beautiful people and moments just... rub away.
When I was little, maybe five or six, my parents had taken me to my first accordian contest, and predawn, I awoke to my mom frantically banging all of our shoes on the floor. She didn't tell me at the time, but I found out years later that the big, old beautiful hotel also hosted big, old beautiful cockroaches, and Mom had discovered one and preferred not to bring home souvenirs. So I'm shaking out my bags. I might uncover some roaches. (I hope not, and if I do they'll just have to leave.) What I'm really hoping for are dusty, quirky souvenirs, that with a little love will look just right on the mantle, despite my neglect.
And you know what? I've realized my Trip Tik doesn't have a destination marked. Just some really great points of interest that I'd like to check out.
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