The Artist

This is better than anything I could have done. Paige is almost five, and this was her final art project. I am so proud of her I could do jumping jacks for a week!

Ice Skating

I took Paige and Tony ice skating this Sunday. I haven't been on ice skates since I was 17 and that was the first time. So, I was really excited... yeah right. My cousin John - he's a hockey player - met us there. He took Tony and I was in charge of Paige. She did well. She held onto the wall and walked, but every once in a while, we'd be talking and she'd forget she was afraid and she'd skate by herself. What I liked the most about it was that the rink was so big and we skated the entire thing, talking. We talked about school, about the dogs, about how funny Tony is, and about going ice skating every other weekend until she's got a hockey stick in her hands and is shooting pucks. Then she saw John skate by with Tony, and wanted nothing to do with me!

So, I took Tony while John held Paige's hands and twirled her around. Tony and I lasted about 30 seconds before we were both on our butts. He cried so hard, and I felt so bad. But we got back up and made it another 30 seconds... I'm not such a good skater. He fell on his butt again and said, "I'm done Mommy!" John convinced him to keep skating (bribing him with a hot chocolate) but after he fell the third time he said, "I need more hands!" He promised to keep trying, so we're on for two weeks from now.

The cool thing about it was that Paige said, "Now this is perseverance, right? We have to keep trying and it'll get better?" And I gave her a big hug and said, "Right on!" Perseverance: keep going and it'll get better.

Mantra. Mantra. Mantra.

"There's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted..."

Love your best friend,
Bruce

Pangs of What Exactly?

There is something in the mood, the air, the taste in my mouth that brings the past back to me, noticing images and faces and rooms long forgotten. The presence of a room,
the feeling of a moment, the sameness of emotions smothering me again.

A birdsong outside moves me back there – a chill through my bones, the brightness of the room where I sit writing, the sound of far off cars, airplanes landing, the breeze in the trees. The staleness of it all, the repetition of it.

Me? Perhaps it is me… reliving it again, the same emotion, unsettled, unarmored, unsure. Drinking black, bitter coffee, escaping for moments in sleep, twenty minutes at a time, captured by the past, awakened to now, to the hum of the abode, the rhythm of life, the drumbeat of my scribbling pencil, reliving, and rehashing, revealing regret. The sameness of the past.

Now, small footsteps on the stairs.

“Mommy?”

No, not the same at all. No regrets. Much, much better.

Long Time Comin'

Out where the creek turns shallow and sandy

And the moon comes skimmin' away the stars

The wind in the mesquite comes rushin' over the hilltops

Straight into my arms

Straight into my arms

I'm ridin' hard carryin' a cache of roses

And a fresh map that I made

Tonight I'm gonna get birth naked and bury my old soul

And dance on it's grave

And dance on it's grave

It's been a long time comin', my dear

It's been a long time comin',

but now it's here

And now it's here

My best friend Bruce wrote these words... amazing, huh? And again, it is precisely how I feel.

I woke up this morning after spending a fitful night tossing and turning, intermittently throwing prayers to God that I would have the strength and perseverance to get through another step in this divorce: mediation today. I didn't think much about my sadness, didn't give my unrest a second thought. I knew that I had to get through the day doing work before I could even begin thinking about mediation again.

[If there is one thing I've learned during this process, and it's a recent lesson, I need to start compartmentalizing things. My kids are separate from my work, my work is separate from my thoughts, my thoughts are separate from my feelings and my feelings are just a jumbled up mess of something entirely unfamiliar to me because there is no definitive emotion attached to them. Yet, every emotion is attached to them in some way.]

Last February (hard to believe it is nearly a year), I was having a tough time of things. I began getting headaches, backaches, heart palpitations that even Lance Armstrong on his last leg of the race has never felt, an empty tank of spirituality, depression and a couple of panic attacks here and there. I was lost, completely and utterly lost. I would look into the mirror and was unrecognizable to myself, nothing mattered but the kids and even then, I wasn't giving them enough - there wasn't enough of me to give.

I know I am being incredibly personal, but there is a point.

I was at my lowest and I had no idea why. NONE. But then I did. I woke up one morning and I heard a voice. It said, "Do something Carrie!" Now, the "do something" wasn't the part that got me, it was the "Carrie" part that got me. The voice contained the tenor of my father, my mother, my grandparents and my friends. It was a voice that spoke to the part of me that was lost - the "Carrie" part of me - or as Dupree would say, the "Carrie-ness" part of me and the voice that came out the strongest was my own. "Do Something Carrie!"

I thought about it the entire day as I cared for the kids, made dinner, greeted my husband, fed the dogs. When I settled into bed, I put aside the novel I had been reading, I closed my eyes and I prayed. It was the most fervent, heartfelt pray I have ever prayed. And it was simple: "Dear God, help me." I let the prayer settle into my bones and I felt it coming out of every pour because I was unhappy with who I had become, or rather, with losing who I was, that I couldn't pray for anything definitive - it was general. When I was done, I pulled out my journal and I wrote. I wrote until the panic ran away in fear of my strength; I wrote until my depression deflated into itself; I wrote until my headache pounded away on two feet; and I wrote until my backache was so crippled that it couldn't bother me anymore. It didn't go away for long, but it went away long enough that I could finally get a solid night of sleep without waking up in fear.

The next day I made an appointment with an acupuncturist. I had never thought of going to an acupuncturist - ever - until I woke up that morning. I went to her and said, "I don't know if you can help me, but I hate who I am becoming." I told her about the past three years, I told her about hating my husband every few weeks, about how I felt as though I was failing as a mother and as a professional. I told her about my personality before falling into the pit - my smiling, my wit, my intellect and my compassion. All those things I had forgotten about in myself, I suddenly remembered - like I was reflecting not upon myself, but upon an old college roommate that I once loved. But who I was, was not within my reach. Not yet. She worked on my for two hours and asked me to come back.

I started going to church more regularly, and like a good Catholic (another attribute I had disregarded), I began to pray and recognize the Lenten season. I read a meditation every night, I wrote in my journal every night and I slowly started to stop hating myself. I began writing, making plans with friends, and absolutely, unequivocally loved going to acupuncture. It was "me" time. I began getting to know Carrie again, and more importantly, I began to like her.

This morning, it was still snowing a little. I had to get a shower, get the kids up and dressed, feed them, feed myself, feed the dogs and get out the door so that I could rush back here to do work - more work! I go the kids down at the table for breakfast and went outside to start the truck and clean it off. As I was putting on my boots, I glanced at my truck and saw on the flat hood of the SUV, there was a pattern. It wasn't just a flat surface of snow like it was on every other vehicle in the driveway - there was a distinct patter of four triangles in a half circle - like the sunrise. I called my cousin over and told her to take a look. She said, "Wow, that's so cool. How did that get there?" I shook my head. I had no idea, but I stood and stared at it for a good few minutes.

[My friends and I discussed this during one of our book clubs (we don't just drink wine and get silly). Basically, we all agreed that there were signs, evidence of something greater than us, out there for us to cling to every day. We just had to be open to them, acknowledge them and believe in them].

Earlier this week I wrote of a quote I had read: "When you truly realize the miracle of the sunset, you will no longer cling to the remains of the day." That sunrise on my car this morning helped me to realize the miracle of the sunset. Initially, I had thought that the sunset was a metaphor for the ending of my marriage; that the sunset was something that I should consider when trying to let go of my daily stresses. But I was wrong. I didn't truly realize the miracle of the sunset. Do you?

I think the miracle of the sunset was God's answer to my heartfelt prayer. I can hear his voice, not booming like James Earl Jones, but whispering like the sweetest melody I've ever heard. He is saying, "It's over - you wanted your "Carrie-ness", well here it is. You wanted help. You prayed to Me, you did something for yourself, for Me, and here it is. Your pain, your lack of recognition of yourself, your sadness, your insecurities, all of it, it is over. Let the sun set on that person. Here is your miracle."

He answered my prayer! I am going through a painful divorce. I am going through the most stressful time of my life. I am worrying every day about my children. But I am doing it as Carrie. I am doing it as Carrie because He answered my prayer. This had to happen in order for me, well (not to get too philosophical), but for me to be. And it's been a long time comin'.

I'll close now. It's late and I have to get birth naked, bury my old soul and dance on it's grave.

Grandpa Fuzzy (January 25)

Today is your birthday and I think of you still.

Your age showed in your eyes,
in the weakness of your walk,
or as you sat in your favorite chair
and complained about the television shows where
they left nothing to the imagination anymore.

My age showed in a fleeting kiss upon your cheek
and in the way I traveled and unraveled through adolescent school days.

Now, as an adult, I miss those moments.

What I wouldn’t give to smell your hair tonic
as I bend down to give you a kiss on the cheek.
What I wouldn’t give to have you whisper “Grandpa loves you”
after I tell you I must go.

There are times when I look at my father
and I am reminded of your laughter and wisdom,
and I pray that all the grandchildren will understand
and embrace the love of a grandfather
while they still have it within their grasp.

Sometimes I cry for a chance to go back in time,
a chance to understand your outspokenness,
your life experience;
to seek your advice about my life,
my homesickness,
my slow slipping loss of youth;
I cry sometimes for that!

At night I take my rosary
and say a prayer for all my grandparents,
all of you at once,
and I find that when I most need your consolation,
it is there.
There is unconditional love coming from above,

it is constant.

You are in my memory,
you are in my blood,
you are in my heart…
a heart that soars with love above
and beyond the problems I face
and I miss you many times.

But I feel you beside me,
guiding me,
many,
many more times.

Happy Birthday Grandpa.

Truth

A great friend of mine told me that I must go through the grieving processes of this divorce; that I must dive into the grief and find comfort in what it reveals to me. He also told me that I must do this in faith, and that I must struggle for the truth of things because it leads to something greater than "just existing." Sound advice, since perhaps for the first time in this process, I am feeling fantastic about facing the truth.

I was down and out for a few days with the flu, and being sick does things to the psyche. It's hard not to fall into self-pity, it's difficult to see the positive when you're feeling lousy, and it's very difficult to take care of two equally sick children and not lose your wits. I did it. I felt myself falling into despair, struggling with the notions that 2008 was going to be different. How could I not become saddened? My first five days of the new year were spent cleaning and wiping up diarrhea and vomit or hugging the toilet to relieve myself of the pain in my stomach. But another good friend of mine said that maybe I am purging the bad things right off the bat in this new year. I must say if this is the worst of my new year, I'll take it.

Back to my point. Truth. I looked at my relationship (purely the relationship, not the marriage, not the kids, dogs or house) and the truth was revealed to me. It was not a good thing for me. He's a nice guy, had high hopes but we didn't expand each other in positive ways - we were not a good match. I still think we could've made it work - I may always think that because I am from the school of thought that you can achieve anything if you work at it - but would it have reached the level of happiness we both deserve? I don't know. We were on top of some peaks at certain points in the marriage, but we often spent time at different altitudes, looking down or up at each other, but never straight on. That was revealed to me subconsciously as my body struggled to bring itself back to health, and I woke up this morning and the sky was just gorgeous... the air cleaner... the attitudes of myself and my children so grateful in our good health. The truth revealed freedom. And that great friend of mine revealed the truth just by being there for me. God exists in everything we do - even in our sickness, even in our most desperate moments and he reveals the truth to us everywhere. I feel better - inside and out.

Early Morning Sunrise

Shifts of air found the tiny air pockets of the wood in my house this morning and made for a makeshift cottage on the beach, creaking and replacing the subtle movements of its frame. I was awake at five, wide awake, refreshed even though I had anticipated a full eight hours of sleep. Satisfied with a mere five, I opened my eyes to look up at the shaded ceiling of my bedroom. My mind was free of the turmoil that has plagued me lately, the myriad of competing stresses of every day life. For once, it was void of thought and even more importantly, it was bare of any pressure. It was five o’clock in the morning and the house was beckoning me to move, but the peace of solitude made steady my thoughts. After some time, again void of thought, void of to-do lists, I lay there staring, not willing myself back to sleep nor exasperated that I didn’t get a full night.

The coffee was warm on my throat and I sipped it in the shadowed kitchen. I leaned against the kitchen counter, resting my lower back against it, my feet crossed in front of me; the coffee cupped in both hands. I stared hypnotized at the floor with nothing on my mind but the delicate sighs of the flexible house. Not even the dogs stirred up this solitude; they just slept on, allowing me to reflect without reflecting, to think without thought.

Bracing myself for the cold slap of wind against my bones, I stepped out onto the back deck, a cup of coffee in hand. Immediately, I was pleased by the freshness of the air and the obscure reminiscence of the beach at sunrise. I sat on the deck chair and propped my feet on the table in front of me, resting my cradled coffee on my chest. The shifts of wind weaved through the trees, and with my eyes closed, I felt the air and tasted it and smelled it. Its movement through me became a lullaby, a mother’s caress as it held me in its hands and rocked me to peace. The subtle waves whitewashed against the shore as I sat on the sand, hugging my knees to my chest and stared at the horizon; the only knocking on my door of responsibilities was from the beckoning waters before me. Life moved in slow motion, my mind as well, as the ocean flowed back and forth, waning and waving. My eyes steadied themselves on the horizon as the sun rose above glimmering waters. The vacation I’ve longed for was granted to me and time had no place in this pleasure before me.

The coffee, having done its job, allowed me to stand and face the day, embracing it. This short span of being in the present, of being in my imagination, of being in peace, is a gift. A gift that delights me because I know that I will continually repackage and unwrap it throughout the entire day.

A Day is a Day

A man walks down the street, he says why am I soft in the middle now?
Why am I soft in the middle? The rest of my life is so hard.

This is the first line from a song by Paul Simon called 'You can call me Al'. I laughed when I heard it. Why am I soft in the middle? The rest of my life is so hard.

I picture this balding man, a beer belly, a sloppy outfit and an unhappy demeanor, and he's thinking everything is wrong in my life, and I'm fat too! It's not fair. Life is not fair!

How many people have heard this statement? How many have said it?

I've also heard the statement, attitude is everything. I believe this much more than I believe life is not fair.

I heard in a cartoon that my children watch every day. The show is called "Little Bear." And in one episode, little bear wakes up, jumps out of bed and steps on his toy wooden ship, breaking it. When he reaches down to pick it up, he smacks his head on the bed frame and says, "ouch!" We see him going through little things like this throughout the morning. His mother kicks him outside because he is knocking into everything and is just miserable. He meets up with his friend the frog and the frog asks him to climb over a log and across the stream to sit down next to him. Little bear says, "I'd better not, I'm having a bad day." And the frog says, "Days aren't bad. A day is just a day."

Why am I soft in the middle now? The rest of my life is so hard. Life is not hard. Life is just life.

Game Night

In keeping with one of my new year's resolutions, tonight is the first Wednesday of the year for game night. Does anyone have any pointers on how I can outsmart my 3 and 4 year old at Candyland? I thought about introducing Texas Hold 'em for cash, but realized that the only money they have comes from the cookie jar full of spare change on the kitchen counter. Plus, they get rambunctious and want to start slugging beers and smoking cigars (and I hate cigar smoke in my house, so we'll have to wait for the summer).

Thinking about game night, I have a vivid image in my head of my mother's smile. We were always big on games at my house - a way for the kids to reconnect at the holidays (usually Thanksgiving and Christmas night). It usually ended in the tipping of the board and a bunch of screaming that someone cheated, but always a fond memory. One in particular comes to mind. We were in the middle of playing Scategories, a game where you roll a dice with letters on it and then you have to find words that start with that letter from a list of general categories; and you were timed. (e.g. the Letter T, category: book = answer like "To Kill a Mockingbird"). Well, my mother always had an answer, was never stumped. The reality of this is that she made up answers that didn't fit and then would argue her point so succinctly that everyone would be convinced there was such a bird called the "Ziti" bird, or an author named "Cinnamon Candy" (double points for double letters). Then, after the game was over, she'd sit and giggle at the fact that she snowed us all. I miss playing those games, even with the arguments and debilitating insults that ultimately accrued. It has nothing to do with winning or losing either - it has to do with making a memory to last a lifetime.

So, if my kids want to play Candyland, they better expect me to win. After all, I am my mother's daughter.

Back on the Horizon

Hope. Hope in my heart, knotted struggles loosened, and a candle that burns beside my bed as I write. My sleeping dog curled up beside me, two kids dreaming in their beds and a blanket covering my legs and hips. Warmth. I am finally recognizing the pain of others, the suffering and struggles of those around me, and I am beckoning to them, "come to me, I am strong enough to help you." And this is true. The hardship I am facing is strengthening my compassion, it is moving me forward toward a deeper understanding of the people surrounding me. My life is tough right now. But that's only because it is mine. Others lives are not so tough for me. Yet that is how it is supposed to be so that I may reveal myself to them, so that I may allow myself to be, for them. I am strong enough to use my knowledge, to use my pain, to use my experiences so that others may benefit. I would like to be a warm ray of sunshine coming through a break in the curtains during this cold season.

I wasn't here yesterday or for the past several weeks. I wasn't here, in the present, in the community of shared experiences. I was stuck inside my own head, listening to my heart rate fluctuate, listening to my hatred as it shattered inside my head and caused frequent moments of self-pity. But now, I am calm. I am standing outside the curtained window and peeking inside at all those people who are struggling in this life like me. And I am trying to smile, and guide them outside with me so that I may take their hand and walk with them. Hope crept quietly back into my heart as I moved throughout my day. Hope crept quietly into my heart and swept the mundane, the unnecessary and the toxicity from the crevices of my heart and mind, clearing it for its purpose. Compassion. I am still angry and that is fine. But the need for vengeance, the need to degrade, the need to shield my pride is gone. The anger is with the sinner and the sins, but it is not going to beat the person I am out of me. Perseverance. Perseverance is the word of the year, and it is the mantra of my four and a half year old, and it is the reflection she needs to see from me.

Hope. Warmth. Compassion. Perseverance.

Happy Effing New Year

Yeah, yeah, yeah, happy new year, blah, blah, blah. The year of the rat, I am a rat. I was born on the 8th, it's 2008 and 8 is my lucky number in numerology and tarot. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here is how I spent my day:

The kids had gas. Not just the cute, giggly releases of extraneous air - bad, foul smelling, someone-stuffed-a-rotten-egg-in-their-intestines-peppered-it-with-Red-Hot-dipped-in-turpentine-and-allowed-a-dead-animal-to-light-the-fuse-that-unleashed-the-rankness kind of gas. Poor babies. It didn't help that I drank whiskey sours and vodka tonics like 2008 was another year of prohibition and I had to get my licks (or in this case slugs) in before midnight; like I was in some kind of battle with my sister to see who could drink the most; like it wasn't the last day of one of the worst years of my life (2005 still takes the cake) and I woke up with a pounding headache and queasy stomach expounded by the pong of gases filling my nostrils every time a giggling toddler passed by. Then we had breakfast. My daughter ate like a champ - scrambled eggs, sausage and toast. My son, well, not so well. Poor guy didn't feel that great.

We left my sister's house, after I spent an hour and a half gathering the socks from beneath the mattress, the barbies, cars, toys and books strewn all over the house, showering, dressing the foul smelling children and cleaning off the seven inches of snow that had accumulated over night. We went to my mother's house, where Tony whined and winnied like a mule with a broken back and finally begged me to put him up in the crib my parents still have. I put him up there feeling so bad for him - especially since I had to get him up in less than an hour so we could drive to the airport and get on a plane to come back to Maryland. About thirty minutes after, I went to check on him, he was sleeping soundly. I tiptoed out the door, shut it and heard RAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLPPPHHHHHH! The flu flew in and swooped the rankness of my baby's belly and forced it out the other way... his clothes, the blanket, the wall, his precious puppy dog, the floor, the mattress. I cleaned up his sobbing face, stripped him of his clothes and started over. He wouldn't stop clinging to me, wanted his mama to hold him. Finally, he seemed okay and that was good because we needed to make it to the airport. We got in the truck, I pulled out a ziploc bag just in case and we were on our way. And yep, he did it again but I got it all in the bag, all of it!

We got to the airport, sat at gate 18 where the well-tipped bag checker told us to go and waited and waited and waited. Finally, we heard our names being called over the loudspeaker that they were holding up the plane for us at gate 16. We ran there and just about made it. Of course, there were only middle seats left so I had to get people to move so that I could sit by the babies. I snatched a couple vomit bags on my way down the aisle (just in case). We settled into the flight, I even got to do the crossword in the magazine. I put my head back on the seat for the descent into Baltimore and glanced out the window, seeing the wing come up then go back down then up, then down. I looked at Tony's face, pulled out the vomit bag and feeling a little queasy in my stomach because obviously the pilot was heaving over the steering wheel (or whatever it is they do) in order to make it move so much like a boat on choppy waters. I held the bag under his chin and yep, he did it again. Poor guy was crying and so upset, but I got it all. One hand held the bag over his mouth, the other arm crossed over and reached beneath the seat for wipes. He didn't get a drop on him or his sister. Perfect. He got it out of his system, it was smooth sailing from here on in except for the inebriated pilot making swirly patterns and writing "I was here" in the dark, Baltimore sky. I wiped Tony all up, gave him another puppy to hold onto and rested my head back again. I was thinking that 2008 was going to be my year to shine.

Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllpppphhhhhhhhh! No! Paige was having a go at it (she hates it when Tony gets too much attention!). She got my coat, Tony's coat, my laptop bag (which was unzipped), her shoes and everything else below her. I didn't have a bag ready, but I just happened to glance to my left and saw that the man sitting across the aisle from me was handing one over. Just in time! She filled it, and then half of another. I was out of wipes, and my hands were covered. We landed, I jumped up and got a bag, some towels, washed my hands and fixed everything within five minutes. They were calm and happy.

It took us another 45 minutes to get our luggage, get a bus to the long-term parking lot and begin our journey home. As I drove, Tony went for round three. By this time, I didn't even flinch. Just do it boy, I'm driving. We got in the house and he was fine, laughing and dancing around so happy to be home. When he ran to hug me, I held out my arms and just after squeezing him to me realized that he was full of puke. Great. I also realized that my house was freezing.

The heater down in our basement went up. That's okay right, because I just spent a grand on the upstairs unit last week. But that was 2007. This is 2008.

The way I see it, this is going to be the worst day of the year - I just needed to get it out of the way. Yeah, I see it that way. Or maybe it is just a preview of what's ahead. Whatever, I'll have my vomit bag at the ready and I shall overcome.