Kindergarten, the little girl looked up at the woman who would be her teacher and wondered what it would be like. Her family had moved here in time to have Thanksgiving dinner in their new home and celebrate her fifth birthday. They had come here so she could be in Kindergarten, because there wasn’t one in their old town.
Her mother left and the teacher took her to a table where other children were painting with bright red paint on huge sheets of paper. Bricks, the teacher said. They were painting bricks to make a Santa house. Taking the long brush in her hand, she watched the paint drip off of it and fall in big red splashes before she could pull it across the paper. She watched the puddles of paint, thinking how much they looked like the drops in the bathroom sink when she had a nosebleed. Red was her favorite color, her red blood, her red toothbrush and now her very first lesson in the big kids school. Painting red bricks requires all of your concentration when you are five years old and in your first hour of kindergarten.
After they finished painting, the teacher took her to a table where she sat with two little boys and one other little girl. The little girl wouldn’t talk to her, but the boys smiled. The one with reddish blonde hair handed her a napkin and the one with brown hair passed her a bottle of chocolate milk with a straw in it.
At recess she walked around the big tree, balancing on the roots that stuck out of the ground, trying to see who could go the fastest. At rest time she put her red rug with the red and black fringe in between the two boys’ rugs. The other little girl fell asleep, but they all lay there together looking up at the long rows of lights above their heads. She sat between them in the circle while she listened to the story their teacher told and when it was lunchtime she walked the one short block to her house with the little brown haired boy.
The next day her mother invited him over to play at her house and she won all his marbles, but he didn’t cry and she gave them back. A few days later he invited her over to his house and the little red haired boy was there too. He showed them how to put the chessmen on the board.
Three small children whose last name began with P. At first it was a strange and tenuous connection. Later on, it would be so much more, but beginnings are often deceptively simple.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The Ties That Bind
Growing up I discovered little things that my great grandmother had stashed away. Little mementos of her children and grandchildren, a boxful of red baby curls that belonged to my mother, a bullet removed from her husband’s hip when he was shot at Vicksburg during the Civil War, a penny with the lead melted into it like a tiny bowl memorializing the coin that saved her youngest son’s life when his wife tried to protect him by taking his gun away and it went off and hit the penny. I still have one of the dolls she played with, now wearing clothes that my mother, her granddaughter made for it. And I have one of the Ojibwa moccasins my great, great, great grandmother made for my grandfather when he was a baby.
Families are like pieces of well made cloth, interwoven and folded again and again, touching each other through the creases of a time that does not understand minutes and months and years, but only love.
I am sure my Ojibwa grandmother learned to make moccasins from her mother and poured all the love and skill she had into the moccasin she made for my grandfather, her great grandson. When I hold it in my hand, I am holding over 220 years of love.
I don’t know what she looked like. I wouldn’t recognize her voice if I heard it, but the love we share for our children is a bridge that spans eternity.
Families are like pieces of well made cloth, interwoven and folded again and again, touching each other through the creases of a time that does not understand minutes and months and years, but only love.
I am sure my Ojibwa grandmother learned to make moccasins from her mother and poured all the love and skill she had into the moccasin she made for my grandfather, her great grandson. When I hold it in my hand, I am holding over 220 years of love.
I don’t know what she looked like. I wouldn’t recognize her voice if I heard it, but the love we share for our children is a bridge that spans eternity.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Full Circle
Life is amazing. I go through a period where it feels like I have nothing more to offer. I feel sort of sad and depressed and wonder if I am through being creative. It is an honest and very real period of walking through shadows for me.
Then in the course of a few hours, I am gifted with a new idea and send it out in My Thots, mostly because they have been sort of dismal lately and even though I try to be honest when I write them, in retrospect I am always a little embarrassed by my emotional out bursts. I am the first to admit I write from the heart, but publicly expressing it can be awkward.
Then, I am suddenly inundated with all sorts of wonderful things! I can’t begin to tell you how many people expressed an interest in a book whose conception is still only a whisper in the air. Thank you! Your confidence in me brings tears to my eyes and warms my heart to the very core.
And, to top it all off, someone quoted me! I can’t think of anything more wonderful for my ego than that!
I have jokingly written that “I love your responses to My Thots, well the good responses,” but in all honesty, I need to tell you that you are all more important to me than you probably think.
Thank you again. I love you all.
Then in the course of a few hours, I am gifted with a new idea and send it out in My Thots, mostly because they have been sort of dismal lately and even though I try to be honest when I write them, in retrospect I am always a little embarrassed by my emotional out bursts. I am the first to admit I write from the heart, but publicly expressing it can be awkward.
Then, I am suddenly inundated with all sorts of wonderful things! I can’t begin to tell you how many people expressed an interest in a book whose conception is still only a whisper in the air. Thank you! Your confidence in me brings tears to my eyes and warms my heart to the very core.
And, to top it all off, someone quoted me! I can’t think of anything more wonderful for my ego than that!
I have jokingly written that “I love your responses to My Thots, well the good responses,” but in all honesty, I need to tell you that you are all more important to me than you probably think.
Thank you again. I love you all.
Book Making
Sometimes I just need a vehicle for slipping out of the shadows and back into the world of the living. It appears it will be a book.
No, I'm not reading a new book, or really even writing one, at least not yet. I am designing one! My son's new hobby has reached out and grabbed me.
He made the best little book for Christmas. It is a real, hard back book, complete with a real spine, dedication page, front and back covers and a story with pictures that he and Lennon put together. It isn't some book he had made. He did it all himself and I love it! Now I am learning how to do this and it is fascinating.
There are so many possibilities that the hardest part, in the beginning, will just be deciding what to do.
No, I'm not reading a new book, or really even writing one, at least not yet. I am designing one! My son's new hobby has reached out and grabbed me.
He made the best little book for Christmas. It is a real, hard back book, complete with a real spine, dedication page, front and back covers and a story with pictures that he and Lennon put together. It isn't some book he had made. He did it all himself and I love it! Now I am learning how to do this and it is fascinating.
There are so many possibilities that the hardest part, in the beginning, will just be deciding what to do.
Empathy Digs Deep
I have decided I really don’t like holidays. I haven’t liked weekends for a long time. They disrupt my routine. Everyone pairs off on the weekends. They do that on holidays too. I don’t have a problem with people pairing off, I just decided not to do that a while ago.
Pairing is fine. It is un-pairing that is hard. With all the solvents they have invented, there do not seem to be any that are really effective on pairs. Of people that is. I can separate frozen bread, or beads on a wire. I can pry two pieces of wood apart and even separate the wheat from the chaff, but feelings are just too ephemeral.
Trying to separate feeling is like dissecting the wind, or decanting drinking water. Who knows what the real thing looks like? Who knows what the real thing feels like?
It’s a conundrum that goes beyond paradox. All the definitions in the world cannot describe the “indescribable pain” of separation. It changes person to person, breath to breath, minute to minute. It goes into hibernation and suddenly resurrects itself at the most inopportune moments. It is erratic, it is something that comes from two sides of one thing that has already divided itself into two things before one of them knows it.
Oh, it is easy enough if one side knocks the other up along one side of the head, but that hardly ever happens. It’s more like tearing home made paper apart. There are all these little frayed ends and random little strands that still have pieces of both parts on them. We stay friends. How can we not, but it’s kind of like brushing up against a cactus naked on purpose.
Whittle away all those little pointy feelings and I become too dull to work. Leave them alone and it hurts!
Where did all this come from?
Pairing is fine. It is un-pairing that is hard. With all the solvents they have invented, there do not seem to be any that are really effective on pairs. Of people that is. I can separate frozen bread, or beads on a wire. I can pry two pieces of wood apart and even separate the wheat from the chaff, but feelings are just too ephemeral.
Trying to separate feeling is like dissecting the wind, or decanting drinking water. Who knows what the real thing looks like? Who knows what the real thing feels like?
It’s a conundrum that goes beyond paradox. All the definitions in the world cannot describe the “indescribable pain” of separation. It changes person to person, breath to breath, minute to minute. It goes into hibernation and suddenly resurrects itself at the most inopportune moments. It is erratic, it is something that comes from two sides of one thing that has already divided itself into two things before one of them knows it.
Oh, it is easy enough if one side knocks the other up along one side of the head, but that hardly ever happens. It’s more like tearing home made paper apart. There are all these little frayed ends and random little strands that still have pieces of both parts on them. We stay friends. How can we not, but it’s kind of like brushing up against a cactus naked on purpose.
Whittle away all those little pointy feelings and I become too dull to work. Leave them alone and it hurts!
Where did all this come from?
Sunday, December 27, 2009
This too shall pass away
Depression is a large bird that flies over dimming the light on all parts of my existence. Like a prehistoric pterodactyl it should be, and has been, extinct for a long time. I can’t really see it, only feel the after effects from it’s wings as they alter everything from afar.
I wonder what opened this time warp, how it got through to me here high in the mountains of North Carolina, where life has been so fresh and beautiful for so long, but I suppose there is no one reason. There hardly ever is.
Life changes, people come, people go, people grow and each tiny chink in my armor is an opening for thoughts to seep in and weigh me down. And mentioning weighing down, my weight seems to be stuck here, which only adds to the tightness of my present situation. I am not who I used to be.
I know. None of us are who we used to be. Part of life is living with changes. I should be a pro by now. By the time I was Lennon’s age I had lived in five houses, including three different towns. Before I graduated from high school I had gone to two elementary schools, three junior highs and two high schools, including a new one senior year. I was groomed for change. Most of the time I have learned to thrive on change. New houses, new friends, new experiences, maybe that is part of it. There is a great sameness to living here, but the changes do come. The old ways no longer work for me, I don't know where to look.
I miss friends I no longer see and sometimes no longer even hear from.
I have ideas for writing, but cannot seem to make them gel. Reading takes too much concentration. So I have been watching videos and even those must be specific. I discover I can only focus on those I really care about. Everything else falls by the way side. I find if I focus on a particular person, I can still focus, so I dig around looking for old photos in the archives and find many that snag my interest -- just not enough to draw things into a story right now. The woods are lovely, the mountains and lakes sparkling, the trees used in particularly creative ways, surely my imagination will kick in soon.
The only thing that helps is that I know this too shall pass. All things do.
I wonder what opened this time warp, how it got through to me here high in the mountains of North Carolina, where life has been so fresh and beautiful for so long, but I suppose there is no one reason. There hardly ever is.
Life changes, people come, people go, people grow and each tiny chink in my armor is an opening for thoughts to seep in and weigh me down. And mentioning weighing down, my weight seems to be stuck here, which only adds to the tightness of my present situation. I am not who I used to be.
I know. None of us are who we used to be. Part of life is living with changes. I should be a pro by now. By the time I was Lennon’s age I had lived in five houses, including three different towns. Before I graduated from high school I had gone to two elementary schools, three junior highs and two high schools, including a new one senior year. I was groomed for change. Most of the time I have learned to thrive on change. New houses, new friends, new experiences, maybe that is part of it. There is a great sameness to living here, but the changes do come. The old ways no longer work for me, I don't know where to look.
I miss friends I no longer see and sometimes no longer even hear from.
I have ideas for writing, but cannot seem to make them gel. Reading takes too much concentration. So I have been watching videos and even those must be specific. I discover I can only focus on those I really care about. Everything else falls by the way side. I find if I focus on a particular person, I can still focus, so I dig around looking for old photos in the archives and find many that snag my interest -- just not enough to draw things into a story right now. The woods are lovely, the mountains and lakes sparkling, the trees used in particularly creative ways, surely my imagination will kick in soon.
The only thing that helps is that I know this too shall pass. All things do.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The world today does not understand, in either man, or woman, the need to be alone.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gifts from the Sea.
Alone time is for the brave and truthful among us. It is that time when thoughts come up like, “Am I the only one who ever feels this way?” Or, “Does anyone else ever think about this?” Or, “Do other people want to see these things, do these things, try these things?”
And in the beginning, I think I am unique, perhaps odd, or even damaged in some way because the answers appear to be, “No.”
I separate myself from what I perceive as a judging world and eventually find the courage to be me, discover who I am, let go of the shoulds and musts and oh mys. In the beginning that brings forth all sorts of feelings that are not particularly pleasant, but that is just part of growing into my own skin. I need to be alone to do that.
Finally, coming to a level of comfort that allows me to reach outside of my own perceptions, I even discover someone else who understands, someone else who can ask the questions in my head, someone who I can speak freely to and be confident they will not turn away.
Now, my alone time is richer than you can imagine because it is not consumed by doubts and second guessing myself. A friend who understands the sacredness of being alone, the simple beauty of being who I am, and the joy of knowing a door is always open, is perhaps one of the greatest gifts one person can give another.
Alone time is for the brave and truthful among us. It is that time when thoughts come up like, “Am I the only one who ever feels this way?” Or, “Does anyone else ever think about this?” Or, “Do other people want to see these things, do these things, try these things?”
And in the beginning, I think I am unique, perhaps odd, or even damaged in some way because the answers appear to be, “No.”
I separate myself from what I perceive as a judging world and eventually find the courage to be me, discover who I am, let go of the shoulds and musts and oh mys. In the beginning that brings forth all sorts of feelings that are not particularly pleasant, but that is just part of growing into my own skin. I need to be alone to do that.
Finally, coming to a level of comfort that allows me to reach outside of my own perceptions, I even discover someone else who understands, someone else who can ask the questions in my head, someone who I can speak freely to and be confident they will not turn away.
Now, my alone time is richer than you can imagine because it is not consumed by doubts and second guessing myself. A friend who understands the sacredness of being alone, the simple beauty of being who I am, and the joy of knowing a door is always open, is perhaps one of the greatest gifts one person can give another.
Friday, December 25, 2009
The Gift Of Gab
I have been hearing about all the great gifts everyone got for Christmas and it occurs to me that I have some thoughts about things most people don’t seem to talk about.
For one thing, clothes. Although I like clothes and have been known in the past to spend a great deal on some of them, for the most part I have a very definite idea about the use of them. They are great cover-ups. They hide all those things I would prefer the world no longer see. Other than that, I think the ideal clothes are the ones I never have to think about once they are on. Clothes that do not interfere with what ever I am doing are the perfect ones, clothes that compensate for the fact that not wearing them is my idea of a perfect day. Sadly, those days ended a few years ago for me unless I am very much alone.
Music is another one. Mp3 players and headphones are awesome. You hear your music. I hear mine and any chance we might have at sharing this experience is purely voluntary. I believe with my whole heart that we all have a right to listen to those tunes that turn us on….or off….or however you like to use them. It’s just that if forced to listen to some music for extended periods of time, I have discovered a Mrs. Hyde who dwells deep within me and who is ready, willing and able to leap out, claws bared and teeth gnashing at the bit.
Last, but not least, body art. I have pierced ears. My mother even had twice pierced ears! I think my sister might have thrice pierced ones, but I’m not sure. I know people with pierced everythings and while that is their prerogative, I can only imagine that hugging them is like loving a porcupine. Along with that goes tattoos. My preference for art has changed over the years. The funky posters I hung on my dorm walls gave way to Monet reproductions and have lately transitioned into mostly my own work. Dear god am I glad I only had to patch the holes in the wall when that changed!
The gift of gab is not one that is given as much as endured by others. I am grateful for all those folks who endure mine!
For one thing, clothes. Although I like clothes and have been known in the past to spend a great deal on some of them, for the most part I have a very definite idea about the use of them. They are great cover-ups. They hide all those things I would prefer the world no longer see. Other than that, I think the ideal clothes are the ones I never have to think about once they are on. Clothes that do not interfere with what ever I am doing are the perfect ones, clothes that compensate for the fact that not wearing them is my idea of a perfect day. Sadly, those days ended a few years ago for me unless I am very much alone.
Music is another one. Mp3 players and headphones are awesome. You hear your music. I hear mine and any chance we might have at sharing this experience is purely voluntary. I believe with my whole heart that we all have a right to listen to those tunes that turn us on….or off….or however you like to use them. It’s just that if forced to listen to some music for extended periods of time, I have discovered a Mrs. Hyde who dwells deep within me and who is ready, willing and able to leap out, claws bared and teeth gnashing at the bit.
Last, but not least, body art. I have pierced ears. My mother even had twice pierced ears! I think my sister might have thrice pierced ones, but I’m not sure. I know people with pierced everythings and while that is their prerogative, I can only imagine that hugging them is like loving a porcupine. Along with that goes tattoos. My preference for art has changed over the years. The funky posters I hung on my dorm walls gave way to Monet reproductions and have lately transitioned into mostly my own work. Dear god am I glad I only had to patch the holes in the wall when that changed!
The gift of gab is not one that is given as much as endured by others. I am grateful for all those folks who endure mine!
Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve 2009 and a huge rain and windstorm rages outside my windows! The patio furniture just blew off over the fence! (Just into the big part of our yard, though.) But I am toasty warm and dry inside here, with power and hot chocolate and a computer to write on! So much better than a few days ago. I am feeling very nostalgic as I recall Christmas’s past.
I remember:
Going to Grandma’s house where I was crushed in a pack of dogs, all bigger than me and the piano and harp seemed to take up the whole living room and I got the most beautiful set of doll dishes I had ever seen!
The huge Christmas tree my father always brought home and wired into the corner of our living room so it wouldn’t fall over on his brood of rambunctious kids while we decorated it.
My first Christmas away from home when we decorated our little tree with popcorn, cookies and our pink “floozy” feathered angel that cost 35 cents at the dime store. A little mouse came out at night and ate the popcorn off the strings and I cried when my husband caught it and killed it.
Our first Christmas with our daughter, who we later adopted, and how big her eyes were when she saw all those presents!
Our next Christmas with our newly adopted son and how I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. My heart was so full I thought I would burst!
Now my life is filled with children and grandchildren, scattered all over this country, each one celebrating the holidays in their own special way and I think how much I love my life.
All of us have warm homes, loving families, food to eat, friends and much to look forward to. What could Santa Claus possibly bring that would be better than that?
I remember:
Going to Grandma’s house where I was crushed in a pack of dogs, all bigger than me and the piano and harp seemed to take up the whole living room and I got the most beautiful set of doll dishes I had ever seen!
The huge Christmas tree my father always brought home and wired into the corner of our living room so it wouldn’t fall over on his brood of rambunctious kids while we decorated it.
My first Christmas away from home when we decorated our little tree with popcorn, cookies and our pink “floozy” feathered angel that cost 35 cents at the dime store. A little mouse came out at night and ate the popcorn off the strings and I cried when my husband caught it and killed it.
Our first Christmas with our daughter, who we later adopted, and how big her eyes were when she saw all those presents!
Our next Christmas with our newly adopted son and how I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. My heart was so full I thought I would burst!
Now my life is filled with children and grandchildren, scattered all over this country, each one celebrating the holidays in their own special way and I think how much I love my life.
All of us have warm homes, loving families, food to eat, friends and much to look forward to. What could Santa Claus possibly bring that would be better than that?
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Dream Catcher
I am very late tonight. It has been a busy evening.
This afternoon while Lennon and I were making instruments for his band he found the beads and feathers I use to make dream catchers. Immediately intrigued he asked what they were for and I told him.
A dream catcher is like a spider web only I make them out of waxed thread. They say if you hang it in your room, all your dreams will flow through it and the good dreams will come to you, but bad dreams get caught in the web and evaporate in the morning light.
He usually takes this sort of thing with a knowing smile and a glint in his eye, but he suddenly became very serious. “Gramma, do you think it would work?” It was heartbreaking to see such hope in that tiny face.
“I don’t know Lennon, it might. Would you like me to make you a Dream Catcher? He nodded without any trace of humor at all.
So that is what I did tonight. I made my grandson a dream catcher to catch all his bad dreams, because I know what it is like to be terrorized by my own thoughts in the middle of the night.
If it works for him, that is all that matters.
This afternoon while Lennon and I were making instruments for his band he found the beads and feathers I use to make dream catchers. Immediately intrigued he asked what they were for and I told him.
A dream catcher is like a spider web only I make them out of waxed thread. They say if you hang it in your room, all your dreams will flow through it and the good dreams will come to you, but bad dreams get caught in the web and evaporate in the morning light.
He usually takes this sort of thing with a knowing smile and a glint in his eye, but he suddenly became very serious. “Gramma, do you think it would work?” It was heartbreaking to see such hope in that tiny face.
“I don’t know Lennon, it might. Would you like me to make you a Dream Catcher? He nodded without any trace of humor at all.
So that is what I did tonight. I made my grandson a dream catcher to catch all his bad dreams, because I know what it is like to be terrorized by my own thoughts in the middle of the night.
If it works for him, that is all that matters.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Gather In The Family
I watch Lennon playing with the Nativity scene. He gathers everyone in as close as they can be around the baby and I remember doing the same thing as a child.
My grandmother had a what not stand where she kept an assortment of little figurines, including a manger with baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph, shepherd boy, lambs, kings, the whole bit, out all year. I would play with it when I went to visit, playing out different little fantasies. They were not always holy little fantasies, children are honest little creatures, but they always ended up with everyone gathered together, warm and close and safe.
I inch in closer to Lennon so I can hear him playing, “Hurry Joseph, follow me. Our arch enemy King Herod is coming.” He moves the shepherd boy closer, grabbing the baby in the manger and putting him into a nearby box. “Angel, get Herod’s henchmen, wipe them off the face of the earth! I’ll lock the baby in a secret room where nobody can find him!”
As I lean in listening, it occurs to me that someone probably did the same thing to me. Now, even all these years later, I am mortified to think about that!
Then, as Lennon places all the figures close together into that secret room and locks his door against the invisible bad guys, I realize no one ever censured me for my little thoughts back then. Had they known all along who I was and loved me anyway? It is a difficult thought for me to grasp.
I haven’t changed much at all. I still have the same type of fantasies, still want the same things. I love the idea of the family gathered in close and warm, safe and sound together for Christmas.
My grandmother had a what not stand where she kept an assortment of little figurines, including a manger with baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph, shepherd boy, lambs, kings, the whole bit, out all year. I would play with it when I went to visit, playing out different little fantasies. They were not always holy little fantasies, children are honest little creatures, but they always ended up with everyone gathered together, warm and close and safe.
I inch in closer to Lennon so I can hear him playing, “Hurry Joseph, follow me. Our arch enemy King Herod is coming.” He moves the shepherd boy closer, grabbing the baby in the manger and putting him into a nearby box. “Angel, get Herod’s henchmen, wipe them off the face of the earth! I’ll lock the baby in a secret room where nobody can find him!”
As I lean in listening, it occurs to me that someone probably did the same thing to me. Now, even all these years later, I am mortified to think about that!
Then, as Lennon places all the figures close together into that secret room and locks his door against the invisible bad guys, I realize no one ever censured me for my little thoughts back then. Had they known all along who I was and loved me anyway? It is a difficult thought for me to grasp.
I haven’t changed much at all. I still have the same type of fantasies, still want the same things. I love the idea of the family gathered in close and warm, safe and sound together for Christmas.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Forging Friendships
I open my eyes and lie here in the dark wondering what awakened me? Moonlight glances off the ice on the butterfly bush and tiny flashes chase each other across the walls of my bedroom.
I hear music in the distance, or is that only the hum of some motor too distant to make out clearly? It draws me upright and I gaze into the corner where the shadows have taken on new depth.
Staring, I think I see something move and although every bone in my body says to close my eyes and cower under the blankets, I cannot.
The shadow unfolds from the chair and stands before me as solid as the dresser behind him. I rub my eyes thinking that they must be deceiving me because I see a man, with twinkling eyes and merry dimples, grinning at me.
Stepping out from under the covers, my toes reach the floor, when, gently reaching out with one hand, he invites me into the dance and I find myself beside a lake, tall primordial trees surrounding us, mossy ground beckoning for us to follow a path deeper into the woods. It is a pas de deux beyond imagining with leaps of faith so daring that I would only attempt them with this beautiful manifestation of perfection.
He is bright and bold, a bit reckless and freer than the wind that seems to lift us into the air with every turn. It is a night to remember. A forging of an understanding that will last long after the dream is gone and I wonder how this magic found me, but it has and its echo will forever become my friend and confidante when this night is over.
I hear music in the distance, or is that only the hum of some motor too distant to make out clearly? It draws me upright and I gaze into the corner where the shadows have taken on new depth.
Staring, I think I see something move and although every bone in my body says to close my eyes and cower under the blankets, I cannot.
The shadow unfolds from the chair and stands before me as solid as the dresser behind him. I rub my eyes thinking that they must be deceiving me because I see a man, with twinkling eyes and merry dimples, grinning at me.
Stepping out from under the covers, my toes reach the floor, when, gently reaching out with one hand, he invites me into the dance and I find myself beside a lake, tall primordial trees surrounding us, mossy ground beckoning for us to follow a path deeper into the woods. It is a pas de deux beyond imagining with leaps of faith so daring that I would only attempt them with this beautiful manifestation of perfection.
He is bright and bold, a bit reckless and freer than the wind that seems to lift us into the air with every turn. It is a night to remember. A forging of an understanding that will last long after the dream is gone and I wonder how this magic found me, but it has and its echo will forever become my friend and confidante when this night is over.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
I Chose To Stand And Fight
Holidays are stressful for many people. They over-book, over-buy, over-do, and feel obligated to do so and guilty if they don’t. I have no idea why. It causes unbelievable tension for them and the people around them. I’m assuming some part of them learned this behavior from people in their lives.
I learned a lot from people in my life, but as I grew older I discovered a great deal of it was what not to do. I remember times when it seemed all we did was argue and other times when we barely spoke and even worse times when all I wanted was to be somewhere other than where I was. These are the times when I said things I shouldn’t have said. Oh, sometimes I really meant them at the time, but it was usually because I was unhappy about something and angry, or frustrated and usually not really with the person I acted out upon. They were just conveniently close.
That’s the problem with being around people I love. They are close and often become that little punching bag that helps relieve stress. But, I’ll tell you a secret you might not want to hear. Many of those words and times have come back to haunt me. Distance puts them into perspective, but time has taken many of those people out of my life, indeed, out of this life. It is way too late to sit down and talk it over with them now.
Now? Now I am older and I live alone. Living alone teaches me who is really at fault (and who is responsible too!) It almost eliminates stress unless I choose to involve myself. Of course, that was always the case. I was never in a position where I could not have turned and walked away silently. I chose to stand and fight.
Now I choose to wait. Funny thing about those big personal issues, most of them shrink over time. I don’t want to look back and regret anymore moments in my life. I want to savor them.
There are plenty of ways to love.
I learned a lot from people in my life, but as I grew older I discovered a great deal of it was what not to do. I remember times when it seemed all we did was argue and other times when we barely spoke and even worse times when all I wanted was to be somewhere other than where I was. These are the times when I said things I shouldn’t have said. Oh, sometimes I really meant them at the time, but it was usually because I was unhappy about something and angry, or frustrated and usually not really with the person I acted out upon. They were just conveniently close.
That’s the problem with being around people I love. They are close and often become that little punching bag that helps relieve stress. But, I’ll tell you a secret you might not want to hear. Many of those words and times have come back to haunt me. Distance puts them into perspective, but time has taken many of those people out of my life, indeed, out of this life. It is way too late to sit down and talk it over with them now.
Now? Now I am older and I live alone. Living alone teaches me who is really at fault (and who is responsible too!) It almost eliminates stress unless I choose to involve myself. Of course, that was always the case. I was never in a position where I could not have turned and walked away silently. I chose to stand and fight.
Now I choose to wait. Funny thing about those big personal issues, most of them shrink over time. I don’t want to look back and regret anymore moments in my life. I want to savor them.
There are plenty of ways to love.
Hot Coffee And A Computer!
My power went out yesterday morning due to the snow and cold winds blowing in over the mountains and while it is fun to play in the snow and I love taking pictures of it, some of that paled beside the rest. No gas stoves here, no fireplace down here and no woodstove in my house, just electricity.
It is very cold here without any source of heat at all and the snow was so deep I decided to weather it out rather than trying to make it upstairs. Partly in the hope that it would be a short outage, which it was compared to the winter before last in Illinois where I was stranded behind downed power lines after an ice storm for five, or six, days. Can you believe I no longer remember which?
When my refrigerator started smelling a little off, I took the important things out in containers and stuck them down in the snow, but it froze solid overnight and today when the power came on, I had to chip it out! I dug out my oil lamp and at first it felt very romantic and rustic to be able to read by its light, but soon I began computer withdrawal.
I had one friend on the road and several others I was hoping to hear from, not that any of this really matters I suppose, I just don’t like being out of touch and my computer is truly my window to the world. I survived in spite of myself. I even did some writing by hand, the old way, but the computer deprivation kept stealing my thoughts away.
It finally got so cold I put an extra cover on the bed, added socks and another shirt and climbed under the covers where Chauncey’s doggie breath and my own warmed up my frozen hands and toes.
Then, at last, this afternoon, I heard what seemed like the roar of the refrigerator and it dawned on me, the power was on!
My priorities? First I turned on the heater. Then I booted up the computer while I made a cup of coffee and my own version of MacDonald’s sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich. Yeah, I know, having survived the storm I am now killing myself with food. Oh well, that’s me you know.
Now I’m writing my thots and all is well with my world.
It is very cold here without any source of heat at all and the snow was so deep I decided to weather it out rather than trying to make it upstairs. Partly in the hope that it would be a short outage, which it was compared to the winter before last in Illinois where I was stranded behind downed power lines after an ice storm for five, or six, days. Can you believe I no longer remember which?
When my refrigerator started smelling a little off, I took the important things out in containers and stuck them down in the snow, but it froze solid overnight and today when the power came on, I had to chip it out! I dug out my oil lamp and at first it felt very romantic and rustic to be able to read by its light, but soon I began computer withdrawal.
I had one friend on the road and several others I was hoping to hear from, not that any of this really matters I suppose, I just don’t like being out of touch and my computer is truly my window to the world. I survived in spite of myself. I even did some writing by hand, the old way, but the computer deprivation kept stealing my thoughts away.
It finally got so cold I put an extra cover on the bed, added socks and another shirt and climbed under the covers where Chauncey’s doggie breath and my own warmed up my frozen hands and toes.
Then, at last, this afternoon, I heard what seemed like the roar of the refrigerator and it dawned on me, the power was on!
My priorities? First I turned on the heater. Then I booted up the computer while I made a cup of coffee and my own version of MacDonald’s sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich. Yeah, I know, having survived the storm I am now killing myself with food. Oh well, that’s me you know.
Now I’m writing my thots and all is well with my world.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Just Living
We just had the first snowball fight of the season, which was made much more exciting once the dogs were let out of the house and tried to catch all the snowballs in the air, crunching them into nothing before dashing off to catch others. We made a snowman in the Lennon’s image and then went inside to have hot chocolate topped with lots of whipped cream before making cut out Christmas cookies. It was a grand day all around.
Until I tried to come home this evening! In the middle of this season’s first snowstorm, I found myself stepping off the deck into snow so deep I had trouble taking the next step and when I finally reached my yard? I was barely able to push the gate open far enough to get in. Now, inside, I am enjoying the view out my window of Christmas lights down the mountain and huge snowflakes still drifting down all around me. As long as the electricity stays on, I am fine. If it goes off, so does all my heat! That would mean moving upstairs where there is a wood burning stove though, so all would still be well.
Pretty basic living, but that’s what it is out here.
Until I tried to come home this evening! In the middle of this season’s first snowstorm, I found myself stepping off the deck into snow so deep I had trouble taking the next step and when I finally reached my yard? I was barely able to push the gate open far enough to get in. Now, inside, I am enjoying the view out my window of Christmas lights down the mountain and huge snowflakes still drifting down all around me. As long as the electricity stays on, I am fine. If it goes off, so does all my heat! That would mean moving upstairs where there is a wood burning stove though, so all would still be well.
Pretty basic living, but that’s what it is out here.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Rumi’s Wedding Night
Tonight is Rumi’s wedding night. Rumi, a thirteenth century poet, died on this night in 1273, but it is not his death that drew me to him. His death set him free, his life captured me in the ecstatic poetry that poured out of him.
Coleman Barks translated this poetry that speaks to me like my own heart. I read it time and again, amazed that it was written so long ago by a Sufi poet and teacher. I understand the Divine Beloved, it is a concept most of us can understand even if we never find it, but if we find it? Then nothing is ever the same again.
The perfect man. The complete man. The Divine Beloved. A companion who leads us into an understanding that goes beyond comprehension. It is a way of relating to everything and seeing the order and the beauty that lurks in the darkest corners and explodes out of the brightest lights. It is best explained to me in this poem where I could put the name of my own Divine Beloved in place of Joseph.
Learn about your inner self from those who know such things,
But don’t repeat verbatim what they say.
Zuleikha let everything be the name of Joseph, from the celery seed
To aloe’s wood. She loved him so much she concealed his name
In many different phrases, the inner meanings
Known only to her. When she said, The wax is softening
Near the fire, she meant, My love is wanting me.
Or if she said, Look, the moon is up or The willow has new leaves
Or the branches are trembling, The coriander seeds
Have caught fire or The roses are opening
Or The king is in a good mood today or Isn’t that lucky?
Or The furniture needs dusting or
The water carrier is here or It’s almost daylight or
These vegetables are perfect or The bread needs more salt
Or The clouds seem to be moving against the wind
Or My head hurts, or My headache’s better,
Anything she praises, it’s Joseph’s touch she means,
Any complaint, it’s his being away.
When she’s hungry, it’s for him. Thirsty, his name is a sherbet.
Cold, he’s a fur. This is what the Friend can do
When one is in such love. Sensual people use the holy names
Often, but they don’t work for them.
The miracle Jesus did by being the name of God,
Zuleikha felt in the name of Joseph.
I understand this.
Coleman Barks translated this poetry that speaks to me like my own heart. I read it time and again, amazed that it was written so long ago by a Sufi poet and teacher. I understand the Divine Beloved, it is a concept most of us can understand even if we never find it, but if we find it? Then nothing is ever the same again.
The perfect man. The complete man. The Divine Beloved. A companion who leads us into an understanding that goes beyond comprehension. It is a way of relating to everything and seeing the order and the beauty that lurks in the darkest corners and explodes out of the brightest lights. It is best explained to me in this poem where I could put the name of my own Divine Beloved in place of Joseph.
Learn about your inner self from those who know such things,
But don’t repeat verbatim what they say.
Zuleikha let everything be the name of Joseph, from the celery seed
To aloe’s wood. She loved him so much she concealed his name
In many different phrases, the inner meanings
Known only to her. When she said, The wax is softening
Near the fire, she meant, My love is wanting me.
Or if she said, Look, the moon is up or The willow has new leaves
Or the branches are trembling, The coriander seeds
Have caught fire or The roses are opening
Or The king is in a good mood today or Isn’t that lucky?
Or The furniture needs dusting or
The water carrier is here or It’s almost daylight or
These vegetables are perfect or The bread needs more salt
Or The clouds seem to be moving against the wind
Or My head hurts, or My headache’s better,
Anything she praises, it’s Joseph’s touch she means,
Any complaint, it’s his being away.
When she’s hungry, it’s for him. Thirsty, his name is a sherbet.
Cold, he’s a fur. This is what the Friend can do
When one is in such love. Sensual people use the holy names
Often, but they don’t work for them.
The miracle Jesus did by being the name of God,
Zuleikha felt in the name of Joseph.
I understand this.
Where Is Christmas?
I have lots of thots tonight. For one thing I notice that in every My Thots that I email out lately, there seems to be one error that I don’t catch, no matter how many times I read it. Then, the moment it is gone, that little flaw pops up and glows like Rudolph’s nose. I guess that is just the way it is going to be.
I remember doing community theatre long ago and thinking how funny it was that we called each other, “father, or maid number one, or whatever our character was.” Once more I find myself referring to people under those funny assumed names that come along when the need to connect steps over boundaries that would normally separate us. Only now it is “G in Texas, or Bob in England, or Tundra Chile on Facebook.” People I’d like to know better.
Also I just watched one of the most beautiful films that I have ever seen. It is from India and called Jodhaa Akbar.
And last but not least is a conversation I had with Lennon today while we were baking oatmeal raison cookies.
“Gramma, where is Christmas?”
“What do you think Christmas is?”
“Christmas is not presents Gramma. It is love.”
“How do you know that?”
“Daddy says so.”
“What do you think love is?”
“I know all about love! It’s hugs and kisses!”
“So where do you think Christmas is?”
“At the North Pole!”
“Why do you think it’s at the North Pole?”
“I want to go there!”
“What would you do there?”
“About fifty miles an hour.”
I remember doing community theatre long ago and thinking how funny it was that we called each other, “father, or maid number one, or whatever our character was.” Once more I find myself referring to people under those funny assumed names that come along when the need to connect steps over boundaries that would normally separate us. Only now it is “G in Texas, or Bob in England, or Tundra Chile on Facebook.” People I’d like to know better.
Also I just watched one of the most beautiful films that I have ever seen. It is from India and called Jodhaa Akbar.
And last but not least is a conversation I had with Lennon today while we were baking oatmeal raison cookies.
“Gramma, where is Christmas?”
“What do you think Christmas is?”
“Christmas is not presents Gramma. It is love.”
“How do you know that?”
“Daddy says so.”
“What do you think love is?”
“I know all about love! It’s hugs and kisses!”
“So where do you think Christmas is?”
“At the North Pole!”
“Why do you think it’s at the North Pole?”
“I want to go there!”
“What would you do there?”
“About fifty miles an hour.”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Finding The True Spirit
During a season where most people seem to be looking for the biggest deals, or the tallest tree, or most elaborate decorations, or even those celebrating Chanukah, or Christmas with great religious fervor; I am most touched by those who simply continue on, doing what they do all year long.
These are the people who continually reach out to those around them, offering support in thought, word and deed. People, not touched by the holiday spirit, but by the spirit of compassionate and loving living. People who help out others as naturally as they eat, sleep, or do any of the other million things that come up every day.
Amazing and beautiful people whose example is often lost in the hustle and bustle of people who feel they are busy doing the important things.
Nothing is more important than another human being.
These are the people who continually reach out to those around them, offering support in thought, word and deed. People, not touched by the holiday spirit, but by the spirit of compassionate and loving living. People who help out others as naturally as they eat, sleep, or do any of the other million things that come up every day.
Amazing and beautiful people whose example is often lost in the hustle and bustle of people who feel they are busy doing the important things.
Nothing is more important than another human being.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Lesson
I just watched Frank Capra’s 1937 film, Lost Horizon. It is the third time I’ve seen it and this time the movie is flawed by lost footage backed only with the audio, still I hang on every word. The first time I saw it was when my Dad allowed me to stay up and watch it with him on a school night when I was eleven years old. One of those rare occasions that seemed special then, but priceless now. I wonder what was so important to him that he wanted me to see it with him that night? I see so much of Dad in Conway and I think how well he would have fit into that mythical place where the main directive for living was be kind.
I am finding myself settling in here after nearly 18 months. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself becoming the stereotypical grandmother, but I seem to be doing that. My hours with the Lennon become the main focal point of my days instead of my writing, and it seems to suit me. Be kind, that is how we live here.
I still don’t know many people locally, but my life is fleshing out bit by bit and I am feeling better than I have in a very long time. Partly the lifestyle, partly because of the friendships I can maintain through my computer, and partly because a friend’s gift freed up some money that went directly into healthcare. Be kind.
That theme comes up again and again. I see it in action, experience it personally, watch it vicariously. This lesson is easy and clear. Be kind.
I am finding myself settling in here after nearly 18 months. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself becoming the stereotypical grandmother, but I seem to be doing that. My hours with the Lennon become the main focal point of my days instead of my writing, and it seems to suit me. Be kind, that is how we live here.
I still don’t know many people locally, but my life is fleshing out bit by bit and I am feeling better than I have in a very long time. Partly the lifestyle, partly because of the friendships I can maintain through my computer, and partly because a friend’s gift freed up some money that went directly into healthcare. Be kind.
That theme comes up again and again. I see it in action, experience it personally, watch it vicariously. This lesson is easy and clear. Be kind.
Rising
Once upon a time, I dreamed of the perfect man, a writer, a musician, a leader whose every word fell on the avid ears of those who adored him. I thought if I could just meet him, my life would be complete. I not only met him, I became his girl friend for a while and discovered that it is harder to be with real people than with dreams. Still, he was a muse beyond imagining. One who still inspires me.
Generosity, brilliance, compassion, sensitivity, these are qualities I love. Wrap them up in sweetness and the inherent cuteness that goes along with it all and you have extraordinary human beings.
I have met several of these in my lifetime. People who become the spark that sets me on fire. People who open the door to my deepest creativity and force me to write.
Words become cathartic. I write because I must, or I will be eaten alive by the passions of my imagination. The steam rising into the ether is filled with hero worship and a knowledge that I must write the imperfections into the story even if I don‘t believe in them, because without them there is no story.
Muses! I don’t even know if you know who you are! Yet you are my reason to rise in the morning and write in the night and if I could give you a fraction of what you give me, you might begin to understand how I feel about you. You fill me so full that I must find a way to empty.
Generosity, brilliance, compassion, sensitivity, these are qualities I love. Wrap them up in sweetness and the inherent cuteness that goes along with it all and you have extraordinary human beings.
I have met several of these in my lifetime. People who become the spark that sets me on fire. People who open the door to my deepest creativity and force me to write.
Words become cathartic. I write because I must, or I will be eaten alive by the passions of my imagination. The steam rising into the ether is filled with hero worship and a knowledge that I must write the imperfections into the story even if I don‘t believe in them, because without them there is no story.
Muses! I don’t even know if you know who you are! Yet you are my reason to rise in the morning and write in the night and if I could give you a fraction of what you give me, you might begin to understand how I feel about you. You fill me so full that I must find a way to empty.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Be Sharp
People can be proud of the craziest things. It usually seems to manifest when something new comes along. Instead of jumping in there and learning more about it, there is a sort of inherent distrust that masquerades as arrogance, or false pride.
How many people have I heard boast about their ineptness when it comes to using a computer? Don’t they realize that people once did the same thing with calculators, telephones, even automobiles?
The world is going to move forward and anything that facilitates that is going to take root in our culture. Some of it won’t last, but some of it not only will last, it is actually good for the world.
Choosing to be stuck at a particular place in time doesn’t really mean you live more simply. It doesn’t mean you live more frugally, or that the world is a better place because you won’t move forward.
On the contrary, anything that cuts down on the trees we use, or the gas and oil we use is a good thing. Being able to contact a doctor faster that jumping on a horse and riding around the countryside looking for help, is a good thing. Using a simple email that needs no paper, or stamp, or gas to deliver it, is a good thing. Not only is it good for the earth, it makes it easier to keep in touch with friends and family. Digital pictures can be shared in an instant. Grandma no longer needs to wait weeks, or months, to see baby Jean.
Progress is no worse than you make it. You don’t have to answer your phone if you are eating dinner with your family, or visiting with a friend. Messages make it possible to do it at a more convenient time. A reasonable person uses technology for their own purposes.
Continuing to learn new things keeps your mind sharp and keeps you involved in the world. Why would anyone not want that?
How many people have I heard boast about their ineptness when it comes to using a computer? Don’t they realize that people once did the same thing with calculators, telephones, even automobiles?
The world is going to move forward and anything that facilitates that is going to take root in our culture. Some of it won’t last, but some of it not only will last, it is actually good for the world.
Choosing to be stuck at a particular place in time doesn’t really mean you live more simply. It doesn’t mean you live more frugally, or that the world is a better place because you won’t move forward.
On the contrary, anything that cuts down on the trees we use, or the gas and oil we use is a good thing. Being able to contact a doctor faster that jumping on a horse and riding around the countryside looking for help, is a good thing. Using a simple email that needs no paper, or stamp, or gas to deliver it, is a good thing. Not only is it good for the earth, it makes it easier to keep in touch with friends and family. Digital pictures can be shared in an instant. Grandma no longer needs to wait weeks, or months, to see baby Jean.
Progress is no worse than you make it. You don’t have to answer your phone if you are eating dinner with your family, or visiting with a friend. Messages make it possible to do it at a more convenient time. A reasonable person uses technology for their own purposes.
Continuing to learn new things keeps your mind sharp and keeps you involved in the world. Why would anyone not want that?
Saturday, December 12, 2009
My Very Late Thots
Once more I sit here in the wee small hours of the morning. Being a night owl is not something new to me, but tonight I am restless.
I went to bed, but it is cold and I couldn’t get to sleep, not even under a cozy pile of blankets and cuddled up next to one sweetly snoring dog, so here I am.
I played through all the Christmas Carols hoping to warm my fingers up on the piano, but ended up only warming my heart. Pictures of Christmas past spent rehearsing for the local theatre’s holiday productions fill my head and make me nostalgic. Finally leaving the piano, I move onto a blank screen, thinking it is past time to start writing, or maybe re-writing, but my mind wanders.
Sweet wanderings, imaginary adventures, but nothing I can use for real. Imaginations are awkward companions, eliciting feelings that have no place beyond this moment.
I am filled to the brim with love. Over flowing and beyond what I should be at this point in my life, but it is what it is and I guess I should just be grateful. I suppose I could be some dried up old crone, bitter and lonely, but that’s just not who I am. I can’t imagine that ever being me.
Passionate? Yes. Angry? Sometimes. But always alive and immersed in love!
I went to bed, but it is cold and I couldn’t get to sleep, not even under a cozy pile of blankets and cuddled up next to one sweetly snoring dog, so here I am.
I played through all the Christmas Carols hoping to warm my fingers up on the piano, but ended up only warming my heart. Pictures of Christmas past spent rehearsing for the local theatre’s holiday productions fill my head and make me nostalgic. Finally leaving the piano, I move onto a blank screen, thinking it is past time to start writing, or maybe re-writing, but my mind wanders.
Sweet wanderings, imaginary adventures, but nothing I can use for real. Imaginations are awkward companions, eliciting feelings that have no place beyond this moment.
I am filled to the brim with love. Over flowing and beyond what I should be at this point in my life, but it is what it is and I guess I should just be grateful. I suppose I could be some dried up old crone, bitter and lonely, but that’s just not who I am. I can’t imagine that ever being me.
Passionate? Yes. Angry? Sometimes. But always alive and immersed in love!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Dreams
Every infant‘s first breath is filled with his parent’s dreams. The swaddling clothes, wrapped tightly around flailing arms and legs, are woven with expectations that might once have been spread over as many as ten, or twelve children.
No longer fostered by wet nurses who hang their charges up in rows along the wall, today’s children still find themselves on foreign ground. The blacksmith’s son is tended to by the music teacher’s wife and the scribe’s child by a dairy maid. Is it any wonder that conflict arises?
Leaving home at the same tender age as Hansel and Gretel, our children don’t even have the benefit of the old stories. It never occurs to them to take along a piece of bread in order to find their way home. They simply wander off into the world, knowing that their parents are too busy to notice.
Over wrought, over worked, under educated in the most important subject they will ever deal with, parents stumble along hoping that nature will succeed wherever they fall short and by some stroke of luck, these tiny creatures they barely know will turn out to be race car drivers or doctors, lawyers or teachers. And the top few percent do, because they will succeed no matter what.
Unfortunately many children simply flounder on desperately trying to impress the ones who gave them life, trying to get their sea legs under them before they even see the harbor, and being eaten alive by the orcas who throw themselves upon the shore looking for unsuspecting pups. Promising new lives are ended before they even begin.
Tough love is not the same thing as neglect and power plays. Saving face and impressing the neighbors is not the same thing as success. Parenting is not a soap opera chocked full of emotional drama that can be turned off twenty three hours a day.
Slow, steady, consistent and kind, the rules for living must be put in place one at a time until they stick and each child is independent, successful and mature. The formula stays the same, but the data changes all the time.
Dreams, or nightmares? It really depends on the parents.
No longer fostered by wet nurses who hang their charges up in rows along the wall, today’s children still find themselves on foreign ground. The blacksmith’s son is tended to by the music teacher’s wife and the scribe’s child by a dairy maid. Is it any wonder that conflict arises?
Leaving home at the same tender age as Hansel and Gretel, our children don’t even have the benefit of the old stories. It never occurs to them to take along a piece of bread in order to find their way home. They simply wander off into the world, knowing that their parents are too busy to notice.
Over wrought, over worked, under educated in the most important subject they will ever deal with, parents stumble along hoping that nature will succeed wherever they fall short and by some stroke of luck, these tiny creatures they barely know will turn out to be race car drivers or doctors, lawyers or teachers. And the top few percent do, because they will succeed no matter what.
Unfortunately many children simply flounder on desperately trying to impress the ones who gave them life, trying to get their sea legs under them before they even see the harbor, and being eaten alive by the orcas who throw themselves upon the shore looking for unsuspecting pups. Promising new lives are ended before they even begin.
Tough love is not the same thing as neglect and power plays. Saving face and impressing the neighbors is not the same thing as success. Parenting is not a soap opera chocked full of emotional drama that can be turned off twenty three hours a day.
Slow, steady, consistent and kind, the rules for living must be put in place one at a time until they stick and each child is independent, successful and mature. The formula stays the same, but the data changes all the time.
Dreams, or nightmares? It really depends on the parents.
The Price
I am watching the Lennon tonight while his mother does open mike. It is really cold out so we opted not to go count the stars, but we did make ice cream this afternoon and now I am watching him eat it.
He eats every spoonful standing at the coffee table, too intent to even sit down and I sit here watching him with grandmotherly adoration. Then the tears come and I have to look away. I am remembering another young family I learned about today whose parents are so poor they often go hungry and their baby, who is nursing, is failing to thrive because of this.
That baby has grandparents too. They talked his parents out of putting him up for adoption because if you get a girl pregnant, according to them, you pay the price.
Adoption, the ultimate sacrifice, the most loving thing a parent can give a child he is not equipped to take care of. This is how we explained it to our adopted children. “Your parents knew they couldn’t take care of you and they loved you so much, they allowed us to love you too.”
Now that the grandparents have stopped the adoption they refuse to share any of what they have with their children who are doing everything humanly possible to make this work. The father was badly injured last year and still is not totally recovered, but he works at any and all jobs he can get. Unfortunately with his skills, he is often the first to be laid off. Now he not only must work when he feels too ill to get up, but he must watch his baby and wife suffer too. Who extracts this price from their own children and grandchildren?
Lennon looks up and smiles at me, ice cream dripping off his chin, "Gramma, are you crying?" I just shake my head and smile at him. Then I have to get up and go hug him.
He eats every spoonful standing at the coffee table, too intent to even sit down and I sit here watching him with grandmotherly adoration. Then the tears come and I have to look away. I am remembering another young family I learned about today whose parents are so poor they often go hungry and their baby, who is nursing, is failing to thrive because of this.
That baby has grandparents too. They talked his parents out of putting him up for adoption because if you get a girl pregnant, according to them, you pay the price.
Adoption, the ultimate sacrifice, the most loving thing a parent can give a child he is not equipped to take care of. This is how we explained it to our adopted children. “Your parents knew they couldn’t take care of you and they loved you so much, they allowed us to love you too.”
Now that the grandparents have stopped the adoption they refuse to share any of what they have with their children who are doing everything humanly possible to make this work. The father was badly injured last year and still is not totally recovered, but he works at any and all jobs he can get. Unfortunately with his skills, he is often the first to be laid off. Now he not only must work when he feels too ill to get up, but he must watch his baby and wife suffer too. Who extracts this price from their own children and grandchildren?
Lennon looks up and smiles at me, ice cream dripping off his chin, "Gramma, are you crying?" I just shake my head and smile at him. Then I have to get up and go hug him.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
One Long Picnic
Once upon a time, a young girl packed up a picnic basket and left the castle she was born in. She only intended to sneak away and go to school in the next castle over and that is exactly what she did for the first couple of years. Since school was considered a good thing in her kingdom, her father and mother did not put up a fuss. In fact they put up a great deal of money so she could continue on.
The money might not have been the best idea, because it freed the girl from having to join the ranks of pot scrubbers and boot blackers in the kitchen. She used that time to hob knob with the court jesters and poet laureates, even the local bard once in a while. The people she met were astounding. She might have stayed there forever, but one day an angel swooped down and carried her off to his kingdom. In order to preserve her good name she married him and spent the next thirty years trying to be happy in a castle called Heavenly bliss.
In his castle they allowed jesters and poets and other entertainers, but one was expected to keep her distance from them and the girl was not good at that. She put on the obligatory balls and spent hours with her ladies in waiting in chapel, but her heart kept walking the countryside with those kindred spirits she missed.
One day the angel brought home a new girl and the old one packed up a picnic basket and left the castle she had lived in for so long. She avoided mirrors and never sang in public, but bit by bit, she found that the people she liked enjoyed her almost as much as she did them. What a revelation that was!
In fact it was almost unbelievable. She forgot she was old and not perfect and began to just do the things she loved. She still could not look in mirrors, or sing in public, but she could tell great tales and because of her schooling, write them down.
Finally she had her own home where there were no jesters, or entertainers, just friends of the heart and she never packed another picnic basket the rest of her life.
The money might not have been the best idea, because it freed the girl from having to join the ranks of pot scrubbers and boot blackers in the kitchen. She used that time to hob knob with the court jesters and poet laureates, even the local bard once in a while. The people she met were astounding. She might have stayed there forever, but one day an angel swooped down and carried her off to his kingdom. In order to preserve her good name she married him and spent the next thirty years trying to be happy in a castle called Heavenly bliss.
In his castle they allowed jesters and poets and other entertainers, but one was expected to keep her distance from them and the girl was not good at that. She put on the obligatory balls and spent hours with her ladies in waiting in chapel, but her heart kept walking the countryside with those kindred spirits she missed.
One day the angel brought home a new girl and the old one packed up a picnic basket and left the castle she had lived in for so long. She avoided mirrors and never sang in public, but bit by bit, she found that the people she liked enjoyed her almost as much as she did them. What a revelation that was!
In fact it was almost unbelievable. She forgot she was old and not perfect and began to just do the things she loved. She still could not look in mirrors, or sing in public, but she could tell great tales and because of her schooling, write them down.
Finally she had her own home where there were no jesters, or entertainers, just friends of the heart and she never packed another picnic basket the rest of her life.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Good Egg
Christmas is coming and the Lennon is excited. He remembers last year, but this year is still a brand new experience for him. He carefully explains everything to me as if he thinks it is also a brand new one for me too.
And it is! Because I am seeing it through his eyes, and through the eyes of my child, seeing it through his child’s eyes. It doubles the wonder for me.
Looking at the world from his point of view is exciting and sweet and sometimes very difficult.
Yesterday he must have chewed one bite of scrambled eggs for nearly two hours! I told him he could spit them out, but that if he did there would be no candy. That was in the beginning. I would rue those words later on. He chewed and chewed. Could he go play on the computer? I told him not until his mouth was empty. Could he go lie down? I said not with eggs in your mouth. He drank some juice to help wash them down to no avail. He ate a bite of toast to help make them go down and that only added to the ordeal.
I finally asked him why he couldn’t swallow them (I remember one time when I discovered five raisons in his mouth hours and hours after I had given them to him and he loves raisons!) We discussed this problem at great length without any real solution. He finally told me he had swallowed some of the eggs and now the bite in his mouth was only medium sized.
Eventually I said, “Please just go spit the eggs out.”
His answer? “I am not spitting them out and I am not swallowing them.”
He wasn’t trying to be difficult, at least not any more and I was wishing I had never put that bite of eggs on his plate. He tried another drink of juice and I heard this exultant little voice from the kitchen, “Gramma! I have something to tell you! The eggs are gone!” He’d finally swallowed it!
We celebrated with two pieces of candy! He was not angry, or sulky, just glad those eggs were gone. And so was I! Who can think children are bad at this age?
And it is! Because I am seeing it through his eyes, and through the eyes of my child, seeing it through his child’s eyes. It doubles the wonder for me.
Looking at the world from his point of view is exciting and sweet and sometimes very difficult.
Yesterday he must have chewed one bite of scrambled eggs for nearly two hours! I told him he could spit them out, but that if he did there would be no candy. That was in the beginning. I would rue those words later on. He chewed and chewed. Could he go play on the computer? I told him not until his mouth was empty. Could he go lie down? I said not with eggs in your mouth. He drank some juice to help wash them down to no avail. He ate a bite of toast to help make them go down and that only added to the ordeal.
I finally asked him why he couldn’t swallow them (I remember one time when I discovered five raisons in his mouth hours and hours after I had given them to him and he loves raisons!) We discussed this problem at great length without any real solution. He finally told me he had swallowed some of the eggs and now the bite in his mouth was only medium sized.
Eventually I said, “Please just go spit the eggs out.”
His answer? “I am not spitting them out and I am not swallowing them.”
He wasn’t trying to be difficult, at least not any more and I was wishing I had never put that bite of eggs on his plate. He tried another drink of juice and I heard this exultant little voice from the kitchen, “Gramma! I have something to tell you! The eggs are gone!” He’d finally swallowed it!
We celebrated with two pieces of candy! He was not angry, or sulky, just glad those eggs were gone. And so was I! Who can think children are bad at this age?
Honesty
I am the dream, the biology, and the reality, all mixed up together.
The stories come into my head. I write them down and they change the next day, but the dreams are the same until they are shattered. Then like eggs filled with new life they grow again.
And underneath it all is the force that carries these thoughts and hopes, fears and dreams, my life force. This body with its own challenges and needs, it’s own drives to carry on in ways as ancient as time, shoulders the burden of living as best it can.
I am a whole being. I’ve always been one and I am pretty sure I will continue on this way until the day I die. I am wiser than I was at twenty five, but not really all that different in most ways. My heart still soars and breaks. Only the shell becomes thinner, weaker, opening, I suppose, the way for learning new things every day.
As a child I needed the protection of something heavier and stronger, but now, as the rest of me becomes stronger, I can afford to be less on the outside, because there is so much more on the inside.
The stories come into my head. I write them down and they change the next day, but the dreams are the same until they are shattered. Then like eggs filled with new life they grow again.
And underneath it all is the force that carries these thoughts and hopes, fears and dreams, my life force. This body with its own challenges and needs, it’s own drives to carry on in ways as ancient as time, shoulders the burden of living as best it can.
I am a whole being. I’ve always been one and I am pretty sure I will continue on this way until the day I die. I am wiser than I was at twenty five, but not really all that different in most ways. My heart still soars and breaks. Only the shell becomes thinner, weaker, opening, I suppose, the way for learning new things every day.
As a child I needed the protection of something heavier and stronger, but now, as the rest of me becomes stronger, I can afford to be less on the outside, because there is so much more on the inside.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
My Friend
If everyone reached out as far as he does, there would be no wars, no poverty and no hunger, of spirit, or body. The world would be one of compassion, love and those random acts of kindness that keep people slightly off kilter and in line.
How does one grow a man like this? Intelligent, kind, creative, reasonable? Do we give the credit to his mother, or someone else? Surely he did not get here alone and yet, knowing what I do, I find that quite possible. Whatever the formula, we need to discover it before one more child grows up without it.
Perhaps it was a series of helping hands along the way, each one adding just a bit more to a man who is already generous beyond understanding. He seems to give back to this world with an abandon that would leave most of us fearing for ourselves.
I am hard put to find any fault in him at all. Yet, I know it is there because he is so very exquisitely human. Both his tears and his rants adding to the perfection of his humanity, making him one of the most approachable people I have ever met.
I call him my friend, but the reality of that leaves me in an almost constant state of wonder.
How does one grow a man like this? Intelligent, kind, creative, reasonable? Do we give the credit to his mother, or someone else? Surely he did not get here alone and yet, knowing what I do, I find that quite possible. Whatever the formula, we need to discover it before one more child grows up without it.
Perhaps it was a series of helping hands along the way, each one adding just a bit more to a man who is already generous beyond understanding. He seems to give back to this world with an abandon that would leave most of us fearing for ourselves.
I am hard put to find any fault in him at all. Yet, I know it is there because he is so very exquisitely human. Both his tears and his rants adding to the perfection of his humanity, making him one of the most approachable people I have ever met.
I call him my friend, but the reality of that leaves me in an almost constant state of wonder.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Call To Smiles
Absolutely perfect day! First of all a call from someone we’ve all been waiting to hear from. If nothing else had happened, I’d still be smiling.
But something else did happen. We had the Lennon’s birthday party and it was so much fun. Little boys from ages two to five are the best party goers anyone could ask for.
The Lennon Band got together for their first jam session, with Lennon on drums, Indio on small guitar, Swanee on tambourine and the Martin backpacker and Will dancing with great abandon as the Dads joined in too! The paparazzi went wild! Everyone was nearly blinded by the flashes of cameras coming from all corners of the room!
We ate calzones, chicken Alfredo, and ziti. had cake and ice cream, opened presents and finished up by decorating little gingerbread houses. Well, most of us decorated. Will ate his way through his.
Like I said, a perfect day!
But something else did happen. We had the Lennon’s birthday party and it was so much fun. Little boys from ages two to five are the best party goers anyone could ask for.
The Lennon Band got together for their first jam session, with Lennon on drums, Indio on small guitar, Swanee on tambourine and the Martin backpacker and Will dancing with great abandon as the Dads joined in too! The paparazzi went wild! Everyone was nearly blinded by the flashes of cameras coming from all corners of the room!
We ate calzones, chicken Alfredo, and ziti. had cake and ice cream, opened presents and finished up by decorating little gingerbread houses. Well, most of us decorated. Will ate his way through his.
Like I said, a perfect day!
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Wrath Of Khan
I took my first run in a long time chasing Chauncey from the Groomer’s front yard, down a busy boulevard, across the park and onto the trail this morning. I might still be chasing him if some kind woman had not stopped the little beggar and caught him for me! He has no conscience at all. He would stop every so often and grin at me while wagging his tail and cocking his head as if to say, aren’t I just too cute? I alternated between firm commands and embarrassing pleading.
At home he responds to commands pretty consistently (in a Shih-Tzu sort of way.) Out in the world he evidently thinks they no longer matter. It’s funny how scared I can be one moment and how angry the next. Never again will we go anywhere without a collar on.
I have never had a child who did not respond to my super quiet threatening command voice after the age of two, even my teenagers sensed that the wrath of Khan was about to descend upon them at that point. I’m not sure what they thought I was going to do, but no one ever pushed me far enough to call my bluff. Chauncey could have cared less.
I am not generally a slow learner, but it might have cost him his life today.
At home he responds to commands pretty consistently (in a Shih-Tzu sort of way.) Out in the world he evidently thinks they no longer matter. It’s funny how scared I can be one moment and how angry the next. Never again will we go anywhere without a collar on.
I have never had a child who did not respond to my super quiet threatening command voice after the age of two, even my teenagers sensed that the wrath of Khan was about to descend upon them at that point. I’m not sure what they thought I was going to do, but no one ever pushed me far enough to call my bluff. Chauncey could have cared less.
I am not generally a slow learner, but it might have cost him his life today.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Remember
Once in a rare while two people meet who should not have met, good people who appear to have nothing in common, but who find a kindred spirit out of place and time.
In the space of that anomaly, there is a brightening of everything that is and ever was and both of them realize it must be preserved.
Yet it is an anomaly and so far out of step with the rest of the universe that to share it with them would be a tragedy of misunderstandings, tarnishing perfection for no good reason at all.
So an agreement is reached to preserve what is and that agreement cannot be broken by either one, no matter what, even if it is a one sided agreement. It is right and good and important to them both.
Only when a person, whose incredible heart reaches out to both of them, comes along, does this agreement become difficult to maintain. It is important to remember his unfailing generosity and goodness. He deserves to be remembered with the same compassion and love that he extended.
ET phone home.
In the space of that anomaly, there is a brightening of everything that is and ever was and both of them realize it must be preserved.
Yet it is an anomaly and so far out of step with the rest of the universe that to share it with them would be a tragedy of misunderstandings, tarnishing perfection for no good reason at all.
So an agreement is reached to preserve what is and that agreement cannot be broken by either one, no matter what, even if it is a one sided agreement. It is right and good and important to them both.
Only when a person, whose incredible heart reaches out to both of them, comes along, does this agreement become difficult to maintain. It is important to remember his unfailing generosity and goodness. He deserves to be remembered with the same compassion and love that he extended.
ET phone home.
Hold Fast
My thots tonight are caught up in the wild sounds of highland music and the deep, sometimes dark passions that rise out of the rugged mountains and cold winds that make up that forbidding country.
In contrast to the unforgiving nature of the land, the people found their lives like that of the fires in their huge hearths. Lusty, loud, and loving on the outside, roaring through one tragedy after another, unable to yield even the tiniest amount if they were to survive. Soft and sentimental on the inside, so warm and in love and loving that their great hearts broke even as their claymores slashed down with frenzied fierceness upon those who would destroy them.
The women bore one child after another while defending their homes and fields, weaving their plaids and never knowing which man, or son would not come home next. They were a hardy lot, hiding their tears in their work, appearing much sterner than they felt.
And after Culloden, many came to this new world where my distant ancestors, related to Thomas Boyd who died shortly after 1469, but was described by his wife, Princess Mary of Scotland, as “the most courteous, gentlest, wisest, kindest, most bounteous knight and fairest archer, devoutest, most perfect and truest to his lady.“ were drawn by the Highlands of the Carolinas and settled their proud bodies and brave hearts into the city of Charleston.
Just a piece of me, but a piece I am proud to own. Good people with more honor than wealth.
In contrast to the unforgiving nature of the land, the people found their lives like that of the fires in their huge hearths. Lusty, loud, and loving on the outside, roaring through one tragedy after another, unable to yield even the tiniest amount if they were to survive. Soft and sentimental on the inside, so warm and in love and loving that their great hearts broke even as their claymores slashed down with frenzied fierceness upon those who would destroy them.
The women bore one child after another while defending their homes and fields, weaving their plaids and never knowing which man, or son would not come home next. They were a hardy lot, hiding their tears in their work, appearing much sterner than they felt.
And after Culloden, many came to this new world where my distant ancestors, related to Thomas Boyd who died shortly after 1469, but was described by his wife, Princess Mary of Scotland, as “the most courteous, gentlest, wisest, kindest, most bounteous knight and fairest archer, devoutest, most perfect and truest to his lady.“ were drawn by the Highlands of the Carolinas and settled their proud bodies and brave hearts into the city of Charleston.
Just a piece of me, but a piece I am proud to own. Good people with more honor than wealth.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Small Gifts
The smallest moments in my life are some of the richest. I say it doesn’t take much to make me happy and yet, that tiny bit is sometimes more unexpected and extraordinary than almost anyone else could ever understand.
Not knowing is the hardest thing in the world. One adjusts to it, because there are no choices, but when that changes….
Precious moments are meant to be savored and sometimes shared, but promises must be honored too. Otherwise the gift of a moment might truly end forever. I don’t think I could bear that.
Tonight I am just grateful…and joyful…and more content than anyone can imagine.
Not knowing is the hardest thing in the world. One adjusts to it, because there are no choices, but when that changes….
Precious moments are meant to be savored and sometimes shared, but promises must be honored too. Otherwise the gift of a moment might truly end forever. I don’t think I could bear that.
Tonight I am just grateful…and joyful…and more content than anyone can imagine.
Contentment
A young father sits holding his son in his arms. Bone weary, tired beyond imagining, he would not trade this moment for anything else in the world. This baby, this beautiful boy, whose clear eyes stare back at him, makes all of this worthwhile.
The baby clings to his father’s finger, comforted by the strength of the arms cuddling him, lulled by the familiar tones that read to him, talk to him, sing in short little bursts. This is his world, his security, all that he knows.
The father has given up much for this child. He has left the valley where he was born, traveled thousands of miles so that his son’s mother might have a roof over her head and food in her belly. He has left behind the familiar landscapes of his own childhood and the faces too, all in order that he might find work and keep his promise to his own son.
The baby’s eyes close and he nods off, tiny face smiling, sweet little body snuggling against the great heart he is so familiar with.
The father’s eyes close too, his young face smiling quietly as he promises, one more time, never to leave this tiny creature he loves more than life itself. He is content. This is all he ever wanted and he will preserve it at any cost.
And so it is that the young mother comes in a few moments later to see them both sound asleep and gently snoring in a rough old chair on a cold December night.
The baby clings to his father’s finger, comforted by the strength of the arms cuddling him, lulled by the familiar tones that read to him, talk to him, sing in short little bursts. This is his world, his security, all that he knows.
The father has given up much for this child. He has left the valley where he was born, traveled thousands of miles so that his son’s mother might have a roof over her head and food in her belly. He has left behind the familiar landscapes of his own childhood and the faces too, all in order that he might find work and keep his promise to his own son.
The baby’s eyes close and he nods off, tiny face smiling, sweet little body snuggling against the great heart he is so familiar with.
The father’s eyes close too, his young face smiling quietly as he promises, one more time, never to leave this tiny creature he loves more than life itself. He is content. This is all he ever wanted and he will preserve it at any cost.
And so it is that the young mother comes in a few moments later to see them both sound asleep and gently snoring in a rough old chair on a cold December night.
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