Originally published in 2010, but still holds true. . .
'Twas the Night Before Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Enzo was tearing up Paige’s stuffed mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Until Enzo decided to rip down a pair;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of Enzo attacking their heads;
And Gracie in her collar, and I with no chap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When down in the living room there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Down each stair I flew like a flash,
Until I tripped on a toy, and received a great gash.
The moon wasn’t shining and the sky did not snow
I was greeted with discomfort from the havoc below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a fallen Christmas Tree and Enzo, my dear,
He ran from my reach, so lively and quick,
I spun in place and gave a high kick.
More rapid than eagles his legs they came,
And I whistled, and shouted, and called him a name;
"Now, Bastard! now, Moron! now, Enzo, you chicken!
I’ll send you to the pound with Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the couch! to the top of the wall!
He dashed away! dashed away! dashed away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When he met with an obstacle, I said, “Oh my!”,
Over the tree, he leapt and he flew,
He stomped on the toys and the ornaments too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard his big bark
He pranced and he pawed his way through the dark.
As I flipped on a switch, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur; Enzo got a hold on his foot,
And he fell on his back in the ashes and soot;
The bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
Flew around the room as Enzo attacked.
His teeth -- how they nibbled! his paws how they buried
Santa’s cheeks were like bonies, his nose like a cherry!
Enzo’s droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And on the beard of Santa’s chin Enzo had a great hold;
The stump of a pipe was chomped by his teeth,
And the paws of this Doberman encircled Santa’s head like a wreath;
Santa pushed Enzo off his little round belly,
They tussled and shook like a bowlful of jelly.
Pawing and pushing, right jolly old elves,
And I laughed when I saw them, in spite of myself;
A push on his snout, a paw on his head,
They played and they laughed on Enzo’s big bed;
When Enzo got tired, Santa went straight to his work,
Laughing while calling the dog a big jerk,
And laying his finger aside of Enzo’s nose,
And giving a shove, Enzo whined as he rose;
He sprang to his feet when Santa gave a whistle,
And flew to his crate like the down of a thistle.
I heard Santa exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to Enzo, and to Enzo good-night."
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
The White Board
So, the kids and I have taken to writing notes to each other on the white board. Every day, I'll walk by and see a note from either Paige or Tony. "Hi Mom, I love you, and Gracie, and Enzo and Jack-o-lantern (the pet caterpillar). . . just thought I'd let you know. Love, Paige. Or Tony will draw a picture of poop, and with an arrow, label it "Paige".
The other day it was my turn. I wrote, "My Dear Paige and Tony. I ADORE you both. I think you're AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful you're in my life. ALWAYS. Love, Mommy"
Last night, I tucked the kids in, and I walked by the white board. Tony had mentioned that he wrote me a note after he came down from his shower, but I didn't have a chance to read it before then. It read:
My Dear Tony,
I ADORE you . I think Tony is AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful HE is in my life. ALWAYS. Love, Mommy. P.S. Tony is my faverit. Sorry Paige, but he is the BEST.
I fell into a sound sleep, giggling. I can only imagine what Paige's response will be. . .
The other day it was my turn. I wrote, "My Dear Paige and Tony. I ADORE you both. I think you're AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful you're in my life. ALWAYS. Love, Mommy"
Last night, I tucked the kids in, and I walked by the white board. Tony had mentioned that he wrote me a note after he came down from his shower, but I didn't have a chance to read it before then. It read:
My Dear Tony,
I ADORE you . I think Tony is AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful HE is in my life. ALWAYS. Love, Mommy. P.S. Tony is my faverit. Sorry Paige, but he is the BEST.
I fell into a sound sleep, giggling. I can only imagine what Paige's response will be. . .
Sunday, December 2, 2012
S.A.D.
Into yet another December, and last year I felt lousy, the year before I felt lousy and the three years prior to that I felt lousy. I blamed it on the divorce, and then the deaths.
Last year, I had been going through a health scare early in December, that carried into January. And so, I had another thing to add to the misery of the month.
Yet, as I look back on 2012, it wasn't as bad of a year as the last five or six. I am employed at a company that I actually like, working with people I actually like, doing work I actually like. I've been dating someone for the majority of the year, and although it's not the ideal dating arrangement (long-distance), it's working. My kids are both exceling at school, and they make me giggle on a daily basis .
I'm tired, but I've been tired since I started working at the age of 14. (It happens to people who never stop working - ever - [ask any of my siblings]), so that doesn't explain the lousy feeling that this year is bringing.
A couple people close to me suggested that I might have that seasonal disorder, SAD. (Seasonal A-something, D-something). Quite possible.
I mean, does this disorder/disease/disfunction/discombobulation allow people to dwell on the losses? I guess that's what I've been doing lately, and it's all been subconscious.
I think about my sister's 50th birthday coming up this week, and I reach for my cell phone to call Jeff to talk to him about the celebration.
I walk into a restaurant (yesterday) and Frank Sinatra is singing a song (You and Me), and I immediately think of the time when I was about 13 and I played the song on the jukebox at Speedy's (a hometown hangout that used to be), while my dad was working in California and I recall the tears that ran down my mother's face as she stared at the jukebox and missed my dad. . . and I actually reached for my phone to call my dad to tell him of the memory.
"Dominick the Donkey" or "Lazy Mary" come up on my iPod and I am in my parents' basement watching my father sing the Italian words without a hitch, and seeing Jeff spinning Rocco around in his arms. . .
Does this SAD thingy do that?
So I suppose it's not the misery of the actual year (2012) that causes the sadness. It's the misery of this life. And maybe the SAD thingy just happens to coincide with the time of the year. Maybe we should propose celebrating Christmas at a different time, or maybe we should say SAD is a bunch of nonsense. . .
We all bring baggage into the holidays, and I certainly wish the baggage I was carrying was whether Grandma's feelings would be hurt because nobody ate her god-awful fruitcake, or the drama came from my mother making up names of author's while we played board games; or even the over-indulgence of alcohol by one of my brothers or my father or all of us.
I wish the baggage came from the drama of one of the couples in the family fighting. I wish the drama came from the fact that I washed all the dishes, and somebody else sat on their ass. I wish the drama came from my father screaming at the grandchildren to calm down. I wish the drama came from my brothers fighting and one of them going through the two-plated window. I wish, I wish, I wish. . .
I might have this SAD thingy, and I could shoot Vitamin D into my veins like an addict, but I very much doubt it would work. . .
Perhaps Tracy Chapman summed it up best when, in one of her down times (maybe she has SAD?), she wrote: "For Christmas and for New Year's, I wish and I resolve. . . but I'm disappointed by myself, Jesus and Santa Claus. . ."
Last year, I had been going through a health scare early in December, that carried into January. And so, I had another thing to add to the misery of the month.
Yet, as I look back on 2012, it wasn't as bad of a year as the last five or six. I am employed at a company that I actually like, working with people I actually like, doing work I actually like. I've been dating someone for the majority of the year, and although it's not the ideal dating arrangement (long-distance), it's working. My kids are both exceling at school, and they make me giggle on a daily basis .
I'm tired, but I've been tired since I started working at the age of 14. (It happens to people who never stop working - ever - [ask any of my siblings]), so that doesn't explain the lousy feeling that this year is bringing.
A couple people close to me suggested that I might have that seasonal disorder, SAD. (Seasonal A-something, D-something). Quite possible.
I mean, does this disorder/disease/disfunction/discombobulation allow people to dwell on the losses? I guess that's what I've been doing lately, and it's all been subconscious.
I think about my sister's 50th birthday coming up this week, and I reach for my cell phone to call Jeff to talk to him about the celebration.
I walk into a restaurant (yesterday) and Frank Sinatra is singing a song (You and Me), and I immediately think of the time when I was about 13 and I played the song on the jukebox at Speedy's (a hometown hangout that used to be), while my dad was working in California and I recall the tears that ran down my mother's face as she stared at the jukebox and missed my dad. . . and I actually reached for my phone to call my dad to tell him of the memory.
"Dominick the Donkey" or "Lazy Mary" come up on my iPod and I am in my parents' basement watching my father sing the Italian words without a hitch, and seeing Jeff spinning Rocco around in his arms. . .
Does this SAD thingy do that?
So I suppose it's not the misery of the actual year (2012) that causes the sadness. It's the misery of this life. And maybe the SAD thingy just happens to coincide with the time of the year. Maybe we should propose celebrating Christmas at a different time, or maybe we should say SAD is a bunch of nonsense. . .
We all bring baggage into the holidays, and I certainly wish the baggage I was carrying was whether Grandma's feelings would be hurt because nobody ate her god-awful fruitcake, or the drama came from my mother making up names of author's while we played board games; or even the over-indulgence of alcohol by one of my brothers or my father or all of us.
I wish the baggage came from the drama of one of the couples in the family fighting. I wish the drama came from the fact that I washed all the dishes, and somebody else sat on their ass. I wish the drama came from my father screaming at the grandchildren to calm down. I wish the drama came from my brothers fighting and one of them going through the two-plated window. I wish, I wish, I wish. . .
I might have this SAD thingy, and I could shoot Vitamin D into my veins like an addict, but I very much doubt it would work. . .
Perhaps Tracy Chapman summed it up best when, in one of her down times (maybe she has SAD?), she wrote: "For Christmas and for New Year's, I wish and I resolve. . . but I'm disappointed by myself, Jesus and Santa Claus. . ."
Thursday, November 29, 2012
What Do You Love?
I cannot answer for all, but I know what I know:
* I love the way the sky is sometimes pink and blue, sometimes purple, and sometimes new.
* I love the heart, the way it beats so kind, and though sometimes tender, it beats in rhyme.
(It beats in rhyme).
* I love that love can bring greatness forth and true, I love that I love everything it can do.
* I love great spirits that interrupt my dreams; and I love my father, who has a way, it seems.
* I love that I wear jeans when I can, and when they're loose. . . it seems a great part of the plan.
* I love the idea that miracles are made, but I love even more that they happen every day.
(Every day).
* I love great writers, like my brother and some, who use big words, or nothing or none.
* I love the great stories of marriages bound, no divorces, no hurt, only happiness found.
* I love ampleness of love, to that be sure; but sometimes, I worry, that loneliness hurts.
* I love that I know that loneliness hurts, but am happy to know the loneliness cure.
(Love).
* I love that I love to write, no matter what.
* I love that I can, everyday or not.
* I love that I tried, and you read it all through; I love that I truly, honestly, love you!
(I do).
* I love the way the sky is sometimes pink and blue, sometimes purple, and sometimes new.
* I love the heart, the way it beats so kind, and though sometimes tender, it beats in rhyme.
(It beats in rhyme).
* I love that love can bring greatness forth and true, I love that I love everything it can do.
* I love great spirits that interrupt my dreams; and I love my father, who has a way, it seems.
* I love that I wear jeans when I can, and when they're loose. . . it seems a great part of the plan.
* I love the idea that miracles are made, but I love even more that they happen every day.
(Every day).
* I love great writers, like my brother and some, who use big words, or nothing or none.
* I love the great stories of marriages bound, no divorces, no hurt, only happiness found.
* I love ampleness of love, to that be sure; but sometimes, I worry, that loneliness hurts.
* I love that I know that loneliness hurts, but am happy to know the loneliness cure.
(Love).
* I love that I love to write, no matter what.
* I love that I can, everyday or not.
* I love that I tried, and you read it all through; I love that I truly, honestly, love you!
(I do).
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Pick a Topic
So, recognizing that it is fun to write, just to write, I sat down with the kids while they slurped and spooned rootbeer floats into their mouths, and asked, "What should I write about tonight?" Paige piped up, "Oooh, write about how we're learning words every week! Like, malev, uh, malevo, um, malevolent!"
I smiled, "Already wrote about that." We all slumped, and thought.
"Oh, I know," Tony said, "you can write about how big my head is!" That got a laugh, and I said, "Nope, already covered that topic too." They both giggled.
"I could write about how poor Jack-o-Lantern (their pet caterpillar who refuses to make a cocoon!) is constantly ignored by his parents, and how your mom always has to take care of him. . ." We all looked over at Jack-o-Lantern's habitat. Then Paige grabbed the flashlight and ran outside to get him some fresh grass and leaves.
When she got back in, she exclaimed, "Oh, you can write about how your bed doesn't squeak anymore!"
Back story: my bed is a piece of crap. I bought it cheap, shortly after the divorce, had two hoodlums from the furniture store put it together, and it has squeaked since I purchased it. I got to the point, a couple months ago, where Gracie's fat ass tossing and turning some nights would make me think I was being attacked by a pack of machete-wielding mice, and so, on a Sunday afternoon, I grabbed all the spare screws I had lying around the house, plugged in my electric screw driver and screwed away. . . (not as fun as it sounds). After a grueling couple of hours, I replaced the mattress, and had the kids test the squeaks. They jumped on it, nothing. So I invited Gracie up there and got her riled up. No squeaks! Awesome. Right? Yes, for a few weeks, even. Then I decided to rearrange the bedroom, and in so doing, I loosened the thousands of screws, and though Gracie doesn't sleep on my bed too often, she did last night. She shook her fat ass to get comfortable and the machete-wielding mice were back.
So, no, I couldn't write about that.
We sat and thought. Thought and sat.
"How about. . . um, no." One of us would proffer, "Or maybe. . . nah."
"I could write about how yellow Tony's teeth are because he refuses to brush them unless I scream. . ." I offered. Tony ran into the bathroom and started brushing.
"Or I could write about how it is 7 o'clock and neither of you are in your PJs, and settled for the tv show yet." They both ran upstairs and got in their PJs.
Then my phone beeped, and a message came up: "Cliff F. just played SongPop".
We all looked at the phone, took the turn, Paige screaming in my ear the answer she thought it was and Tony pushing whatever button he could as I glared at him. After the loss, Paige said, "You could write about how you kicked Uncle Cliffy's butt on SongPop!" I looked at her and said, "Yes, but I didn't. He kicked mine."
"So?" Then both of them giggled.
So, here I am still thinking about a topic to write about. . . Any ideas?
I smiled, "Already wrote about that." We all slumped, and thought.
"Oh, I know," Tony said, "you can write about how big my head is!" That got a laugh, and I said, "Nope, already covered that topic too." They both giggled.
"I could write about how poor Jack-o-Lantern (their pet caterpillar who refuses to make a cocoon!) is constantly ignored by his parents, and how your mom always has to take care of him. . ." We all looked over at Jack-o-Lantern's habitat. Then Paige grabbed the flashlight and ran outside to get him some fresh grass and leaves.
When she got back in, she exclaimed, "Oh, you can write about how your bed doesn't squeak anymore!"
Back story: my bed is a piece of crap. I bought it cheap, shortly after the divorce, had two hoodlums from the furniture store put it together, and it has squeaked since I purchased it. I got to the point, a couple months ago, where Gracie's fat ass tossing and turning some nights would make me think I was being attacked by a pack of machete-wielding mice, and so, on a Sunday afternoon, I grabbed all the spare screws I had lying around the house, plugged in my electric screw driver and screwed away. . . (not as fun as it sounds). After a grueling couple of hours, I replaced the mattress, and had the kids test the squeaks. They jumped on it, nothing. So I invited Gracie up there and got her riled up. No squeaks! Awesome. Right? Yes, for a few weeks, even. Then I decided to rearrange the bedroom, and in so doing, I loosened the thousands of screws, and though Gracie doesn't sleep on my bed too often, she did last night. She shook her fat ass to get comfortable and the machete-wielding mice were back.
So, no, I couldn't write about that.
We sat and thought. Thought and sat.
"How about. . . um, no." One of us would proffer, "Or maybe. . . nah."
"I could write about how yellow Tony's teeth are because he refuses to brush them unless I scream. . ." I offered. Tony ran into the bathroom and started brushing.
"Or I could write about how it is 7 o'clock and neither of you are in your PJs, and settled for the tv show yet." They both ran upstairs and got in their PJs.
Then my phone beeped, and a message came up: "Cliff F. just played SongPop".
We all looked at the phone, took the turn, Paige screaming in my ear the answer she thought it was and Tony pushing whatever button he could as I glared at him. After the loss, Paige said, "You could write about how you kicked Uncle Cliffy's butt on SongPop!" I looked at her and said, "Yes, but I didn't. He kicked mine."
"So?" Then both of them giggled.
So, here I am still thinking about a topic to write about. . . Any ideas?
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
You Never Know What You're Gonna Get
Sometimes, my brain hurts. It's not a physical sensation at all. It just gets muddled, and my thoughts move like ping-pong balls served and returned by Forrest Gump in the world ping-pong championship; and by the end of a day at work, after lobbing thoughts and ideas and answers back and forth, I just want to close my eyes and let my brain stop pulsating, bend at the waist, and breathe. Breathe.
"Life is a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." There are days when I get the white, sugary kind, that taste like stale Reeboks, and then there are other days, I get a piece that tastes like filet mignon and mashed potatoes (I'm not much of a chocolate eater. . . but oh, if there was chocolate that tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes, I sure would be).
Good days, bad days, happy days, sad days. . . 'tis the season, I suppose.
Last week, I was without the kids for the entire Thanksgiving break. It ended up being six full days of no blankets left on the kitchen floor, no stacks of books left on the bathroom floor, no strewn clothes thrown on every floor, no name-calling, no popcorn throwing at Enzo, no giggles, no cuddles, no softness, no kisses. . . and it was sad. And I was lonesome without the blankets, and books, and clothes, and insults, and popcorn, and giggles and cuddles and softness and kisses.
And I thought, - - - every time my phone rang, throughout every single one of those days, with a FaceTime call from Paige and Tony - - - "I'm taking this call." It didn't matter if I had just gotten out of bed, out of the shower, was blow-drying my hair, was reviewing a contract at work, was in the middle of a meeting at work, I answered. We would talk about crazy things like words or the weather, or the dogs, or the sky when it was pink or blue or purple.
I was eating the stale Reeboks that, at times, tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes.
It seems that there are moments in every day, after my brain stops hurting, where I can see the pink or blue or purple. . . and it seems that there are moments in every day where I can see the clothes strewn about the house as well.
And I realize that Forrest Gump was not only a good ping-pong player, he was also wise.
Tomorrow, I just might get a piece of chocolate that tastes like a meatball.
"Life is a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." There are days when I get the white, sugary kind, that taste like stale Reeboks, and then there are other days, I get a piece that tastes like filet mignon and mashed potatoes (I'm not much of a chocolate eater. . . but oh, if there was chocolate that tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes, I sure would be).
Good days, bad days, happy days, sad days. . . 'tis the season, I suppose.
Last week, I was without the kids for the entire Thanksgiving break. It ended up being six full days of no blankets left on the kitchen floor, no stacks of books left on the bathroom floor, no strewn clothes thrown on every floor, no name-calling, no popcorn throwing at Enzo, no giggles, no cuddles, no softness, no kisses. . . and it was sad. And I was lonesome without the blankets, and books, and clothes, and insults, and popcorn, and giggles and cuddles and softness and kisses.
And I thought, - - - every time my phone rang, throughout every single one of those days, with a FaceTime call from Paige and Tony - - - "I'm taking this call." It didn't matter if I had just gotten out of bed, out of the shower, was blow-drying my hair, was reviewing a contract at work, was in the middle of a meeting at work, I answered. We would talk about crazy things like words or the weather, or the dogs, or the sky when it was pink or blue or purple.
I was eating the stale Reeboks that, at times, tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes.
It seems that there are moments in every day, after my brain stops hurting, where I can see the pink or blue or purple. . . and it seems that there are moments in every day where I can see the clothes strewn about the house as well.
And I realize that Forrest Gump was not only a good ping-pong player, he was also wise.
Tomorrow, I just might get a piece of chocolate that tastes like a meatball.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Why Haven't I Written?
For the past two months, I've gotten emails or texts, or a phone call that asks me why I haven't written - - - from various people that span across seasons of my life. All great.
And I've asked myself the same question nearly every day for a month. Why haven't I written?
Too much time spending the millions of dollars I have beneath my mattress?
Too many days of vacationing in the sun?
Kids?
Work?
Dogs?
Boredom?
Self-abuse?
I don't entirely know why I haven't written. Sometimes I think it's because I am afraid of what I will learn about myself if I do write. A lot of times I think it's because I am tired of digging deep and I just want to skate for awhile, along the avenues of mediocrity and ease.
Quite honestly, I am just tired. Work, kids, dogs, boredom, self-abuse. . . they all take their turns at emptying the tank. I think I might just need a few too many days of vacationing with the millions of dollars I have stashed beneath my mattress.
Yet, when I put pen to paper (which I've been doing instead of typing for all the world to see), I find happiness in words.
Paige and I have a thing going now. . . when she acts up - - - talks smack, calls her brother a name, whines - - - I give her the "that is very unbecoming of a little girl. . . for your punishment, you must correctly spell the word pseudonym, define it and use it correctly in a sentence. You have until Friday." She did well on the first go 'round, I am now waiting for the word "malevolent" from her.
She stumped me though. We were at church and she looked down at a word in the song, oblation, and whispered, "What does that mean?" I read it in the context of the song, and had no idea. I shrugged. "Looks like you have a word for Friday," she said. "Looks like I do," I whispered back.
Oblation: A solemn offering or presentation to God or a deity. The oblations I make seem insufficient. . .
Why do I write?
I love words.
Thanks to my readers who have asked why I haven't written. . . still don't know why, for certain, but will keep pushing.
After a nap. . . ?
And I've asked myself the same question nearly every day for a month. Why haven't I written?
Too much time spending the millions of dollars I have beneath my mattress?
Too many days of vacationing in the sun?
Kids?
Work?
Dogs?
Boredom?
Self-abuse?
I don't entirely know why I haven't written. Sometimes I think it's because I am afraid of what I will learn about myself if I do write. A lot of times I think it's because I am tired of digging deep and I just want to skate for awhile, along the avenues of mediocrity and ease.
Quite honestly, I am just tired. Work, kids, dogs, boredom, self-abuse. . . they all take their turns at emptying the tank. I think I might just need a few too many days of vacationing with the millions of dollars I have stashed beneath my mattress.
Yet, when I put pen to paper (which I've been doing instead of typing for all the world to see), I find happiness in words.
Paige and I have a thing going now. . . when she acts up - - - talks smack, calls her brother a name, whines - - - I give her the "that is very unbecoming of a little girl. . . for your punishment, you must correctly spell the word pseudonym, define it and use it correctly in a sentence. You have until Friday." She did well on the first go 'round, I am now waiting for the word "malevolent" from her.
She stumped me though. We were at church and she looked down at a word in the song, oblation, and whispered, "What does that mean?" I read it in the context of the song, and had no idea. I shrugged. "Looks like you have a word for Friday," she said. "Looks like I do," I whispered back.
Oblation: A solemn offering or presentation to God or a deity. The oblations I make seem insufficient. . .
Why do I write?
I love words.
Thanks to my readers who have asked why I haven't written. . . still don't know why, for certain, but will keep pushing.
After a nap. . . ?
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Giggles
Easily, the best part of every day for me is when I can get Paige and Tony to giggle. It happens daily, and it usually arises after my best efforts to get them from bickering back and forth, or to calm them down and keep them from jumping on the sofa or on the little bastard, Enzo.
The other day I was out on my back deck, taking a phone call for work. Tony waited until I ended the conversation, and then said, "Do you care if I scream as loud as possible?"
"Go for it."
He took a deep breath and let out a loud, loud, ear-bleeding scream. When he was done he smiled and said, "I bet that airplane heard me."
I glanced up at the sky, and said, "It may not have heard you, but it certainly saw your big head."
His laugh was contagious, and beautiful. We giggled for ten minutes, and throughout the night, he kept coming back to it.
It has gotten to the point in our household for each of us - - - Paige, Tony and myself - - - to have at least one deadpan comment, not always insults, that tie us up in those gracious moments of perfection.
Since they were little, I've worked from home on many occasions. If they see that I'm in the middle of writing an email or reading a document (always seated at my kitchen island in front of the laptop), they will wait until I take a breath or my fingers stop typing. If the phone rings, I put a finger up and there is silence. They've had the great misfortune of listening to me on conference calls, and hearing the voices of my coworkers.
Every single time the topic of my job arises, for the past three months, they've said, "Whatever. You're boring." When I offered to go talk to Paige's class for career day, Paige said, "Um no. Lawyers are boring and no offense, but no thanks."
I am always telling them that someday they are going to eat their words, and they're going to realize how brilliant their mother really is. They roll their eyes, and say, "Booooooring. . ." It has gotten to the point where I'll say, "Oh, I have a funny story from work. . ." and the simultaneous reply is, "Boring" and they look back down to what they were doing.
"Okay, then I'm not going to tell you how I shot a stink bug off the ceiling with a Nerf gun today. . ." And I walk out of the room.
"Wait? What? Boring lawyers do that?"
And so it goes. I make fun of Tony's gigantic head, and the beauty of Paige's singing voice, and they insult me daily on my career. Yet, there is always a laugh - - - a nice, hearty laugh.
The other day I was out on my back deck, taking a phone call for work. Tony waited until I ended the conversation, and then said, "Do you care if I scream as loud as possible?"
"Go for it."
He took a deep breath and let out a loud, loud, ear-bleeding scream. When he was done he smiled and said, "I bet that airplane heard me."
I glanced up at the sky, and said, "It may not have heard you, but it certainly saw your big head."
His laugh was contagious, and beautiful. We giggled for ten minutes, and throughout the night, he kept coming back to it.
It has gotten to the point in our household for each of us - - - Paige, Tony and myself - - - to have at least one deadpan comment, not always insults, that tie us up in those gracious moments of perfection.
Since they were little, I've worked from home on many occasions. If they see that I'm in the middle of writing an email or reading a document (always seated at my kitchen island in front of the laptop), they will wait until I take a breath or my fingers stop typing. If the phone rings, I put a finger up and there is silence. They've had the great misfortune of listening to me on conference calls, and hearing the voices of my coworkers.
Every single time the topic of my job arises, for the past three months, they've said, "Whatever. You're boring." When I offered to go talk to Paige's class for career day, Paige said, "Um no. Lawyers are boring and no offense, but no thanks."
I am always telling them that someday they are going to eat their words, and they're going to realize how brilliant their mother really is. They roll their eyes, and say, "Booooooring. . ." It has gotten to the point where I'll say, "Oh, I have a funny story from work. . ." and the simultaneous reply is, "Boring" and they look back down to what they were doing.
"Okay, then I'm not going to tell you how I shot a stink bug off the ceiling with a Nerf gun today. . ." And I walk out of the room.
"Wait? What? Boring lawyers do that?"
And so it goes. I make fun of Tony's gigantic head, and the beauty of Paige's singing voice, and they insult me daily on my career. Yet, there is always a laugh - - - a nice, hearty laugh.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Underlying Something
I have always known that my contentment arises when I have clarity of mind. (Perhaps that's true for everyone). I also know that when I write regularly, I gain clarity of mind. Writing to me is a reaching into the soul and grabbing what is real and true and tangible.
Yet, I avoid it. I've been avoiding it, turning instead, to temporary fixes or to ennui, where there is not motion one way or another.
I've found, over the past few months that I've begun to tie my identity to my work. That is something I've never done. I realize that it's a slippery slope. What if the job changes or goes away? What if it decides to find a younger, more attractive person to take my place? What if my commitment to it is mere illusion?
I know a job doesn't betray as a spouse might, but you get my point. The thing is, I love my job and I have no plans to leave it. Rather, I want to mold it around myself and my personality, and my strengths.
Yet, I cannot do that if I avoid the growth of myself and my personality, and my strengths. There is always the struggle to find the better part of me. Maybe struggle is too strong a word. The task? The battle? The responsibility? Yes, that's it! It is my responsibility to always find the better parts of myself, and use them in my work, my home and my relationships.
It is 7 am on a Sunday, and I have no work, no children and I am free from my relationship this weekend. So what do I do?
I struggle to fill in the hours. But I don't do. And I haven't done.
Laundry, cleaning, running errands - - - that's all good stuff and needs to be completed, and there is a sense of satisfaction in completing those tasks. Yet, they're not enough.
I cried uncontrollably one time this weekend. I heard the note of one song (The Last Carnival), and every facet of sorrow came, not on a breeze as has been happening, but on a hurricane wind.
When it was over, I sat there, stunned. Is this what my life is? During the down times, when work, kids and errands are completed (or temporarily muted), I get hit with a tsunami of sorrow?
Perhaps.
Yet I know there is something more, and every day is a struggle (and this time I use the word fittingly) to do something worthwhile for me. Just me. Not work, not kids, not home, not my friendships. Just me. For months now, I've struggled with that.
I reluctantly picked up this pencil today. I knew what I wanted to write, the words in sentence form played like a banner through my mind - - - contentment comes with clarity, always seek the better part of yourself - - - but I fought putting the words down. What's the point, I asked. What does it matter? I can just sit on the couch and watch talk shows until it's time to get ready for church. Or I could exercise. (I giggled with that thought).
There is a Van Morrison song called Underlying Depression. The first few times I heard it, I dismissed it. Yet, after understanding the gale winds that move into my psyche, I wonder if we all have a strand of it somewhere inside. After all, life can be very disappointing at times, as every one of you can attest.
So now I think about that song and what it means, and I wonder. I realize that if it does exist, if that indeed is a strand of reality, then I have to deal with it. Recognize it first, and then deal with it. Thus the need for pencil and paper, thus the need for clarity of mind, thus the responsibility to constantly seek the better parts of myself.
Should I share this on the blog? One part says: why not? The other says: hell, no. I've disappointed myself over the past few months because I've avoided pencil and paper, and every once in awhile I'll share and think: Yes, I am back. I can write on here regularly. Then the ennui returns, the disappointments return, the insecurities return and the eyes that are supposed to be on the horizon are crossed or squeezed shut against the needs of myself.
It seems that hope is somewhere bobbing in an ocean current, and I am on the beach, praying it doesn't go under.
Though I am not unhappy. I laugh every day, I work hard and come home satisfied, and I don't worry, worry, worry about the little things anymore.
I think it was C.S. Lewis who said something along the lines of the soul never truly being content until it meets its maker. Maybe that's where I am today? Heck of a place to be, I suppose. Lucky me: content in all facets of life but yearning for no earthly existence so I can meet my maker? That's a hell of a spin. I think I might go with Van Morrison's theory, and try to live contentedly with his notion. Yet, funny, I am pretty sure that song means exactly what C.S. Lewis meant.
So, I'll go with another quote. This one comes from Gloria Steinem:
"When I write, it is the only time I don't feel I need to be doing something else."
Clarity of mind? Not sure, but it rings true to me, and my paper and pencil - - - tools that I use, and need to use, to find the better part of me.
Yet, I avoid it. I've been avoiding it, turning instead, to temporary fixes or to ennui, where there is not motion one way or another.
I've found, over the past few months that I've begun to tie my identity to my work. That is something I've never done. I realize that it's a slippery slope. What if the job changes or goes away? What if it decides to find a younger, more attractive person to take my place? What if my commitment to it is mere illusion?
I know a job doesn't betray as a spouse might, but you get my point. The thing is, I love my job and I have no plans to leave it. Rather, I want to mold it around myself and my personality, and my strengths.
Yet, I cannot do that if I avoid the growth of myself and my personality, and my strengths. There is always the struggle to find the better part of me. Maybe struggle is too strong a word. The task? The battle? The responsibility? Yes, that's it! It is my responsibility to always find the better parts of myself, and use them in my work, my home and my relationships.
It is 7 am on a Sunday, and I have no work, no children and I am free from my relationship this weekend. So what do I do?
I struggle to fill in the hours. But I don't do. And I haven't done.
Laundry, cleaning, running errands - - - that's all good stuff and needs to be completed, and there is a sense of satisfaction in completing those tasks. Yet, they're not enough.
I cried uncontrollably one time this weekend. I heard the note of one song (The Last Carnival), and every facet of sorrow came, not on a breeze as has been happening, but on a hurricane wind.
When it was over, I sat there, stunned. Is this what my life is? During the down times, when work, kids and errands are completed (or temporarily muted), I get hit with a tsunami of sorrow?
Perhaps.
Yet I know there is something more, and every day is a struggle (and this time I use the word fittingly) to do something worthwhile for me. Just me. Not work, not kids, not home, not my friendships. Just me. For months now, I've struggled with that.
I reluctantly picked up this pencil today. I knew what I wanted to write, the words in sentence form played like a banner through my mind - - - contentment comes with clarity, always seek the better part of yourself - - - but I fought putting the words down. What's the point, I asked. What does it matter? I can just sit on the couch and watch talk shows until it's time to get ready for church. Or I could exercise. (I giggled with that thought).
There is a Van Morrison song called Underlying Depression. The first few times I heard it, I dismissed it. Yet, after understanding the gale winds that move into my psyche, I wonder if we all have a strand of it somewhere inside. After all, life can be very disappointing at times, as every one of you can attest.
So now I think about that song and what it means, and I wonder. I realize that if it does exist, if that indeed is a strand of reality, then I have to deal with it. Recognize it first, and then deal with it. Thus the need for pencil and paper, thus the need for clarity of mind, thus the responsibility to constantly seek the better parts of myself.
Should I share this on the blog? One part says: why not? The other says: hell, no. I've disappointed myself over the past few months because I've avoided pencil and paper, and every once in awhile I'll share and think: Yes, I am back. I can write on here regularly. Then the ennui returns, the disappointments return, the insecurities return and the eyes that are supposed to be on the horizon are crossed or squeezed shut against the needs of myself.
It seems that hope is somewhere bobbing in an ocean current, and I am on the beach, praying it doesn't go under.
Though I am not unhappy. I laugh every day, I work hard and come home satisfied, and I don't worry, worry, worry about the little things anymore.
I think it was C.S. Lewis who said something along the lines of the soul never truly being content until it meets its maker. Maybe that's where I am today? Heck of a place to be, I suppose. Lucky me: content in all facets of life but yearning for no earthly existence so I can meet my maker? That's a hell of a spin. I think I might go with Van Morrison's theory, and try to live contentedly with his notion. Yet, funny, I am pretty sure that song means exactly what C.S. Lewis meant.
So, I'll go with another quote. This one comes from Gloria Steinem:
"When I write, it is the only time I don't feel I need to be doing something else."
Clarity of mind? Not sure, but it rings true to me, and my paper and pencil - - - tools that I use, and need to use, to find the better part of me.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Ditched
Nearly three months ago, I bought my tickets to the Springsteen concert that is taking place at Nationals stadium in D.C. on September 14th. My date has never seen Bruce, and so, after three months of me playing Bruce whenever we were together (and often singing at the top of my lungs as we rolled down the highway), he informed me that he wouldn't be able to make it to the concert, after all.
What could possibly be more pressing? A root canal? Community Service? Helping the homeless? Moving?
Was it my singing "Hidin' on the backstreets, hidin' on the backstreets, hidin' on the backstreets" nineteen times in a row with the windows rolled down as we drove through the shadiest part of the D.C. ghetto?
"It's alright to go hidin' on the backstreets, it's alri-i-ight. . ."
No, that was apparently endearing.
The reason is that there was a babysitting glitch. Understood.
But he's still missing the greatest entertainer ever, with the greatest girl ever.
I wasn't real worried about finding a replacement date. I made a phone call up north. "Listen, I have two Bruce tickets for the concert on Friday. My date ditched me. Make it happen."
Twenty minutes later, I got a text from my brother, Cliff. "I'm in."
Let me tell you, I couldn't have chosen a better replacement date. (Though I don't want Jim or John or Dana or Kathy or Jessica to feel like they're chopped liver either).
So today, as I thought about the concert, and how we're going to make it by the skin of our teeth because his flight gets in at 6 in Baltimore (the Orioles lost against the Yankees, don't ya know?), and we have to be in D.C. by 7:30. And if you can believe it, Cliff's navigational skills are worse than mine, and I sure hope I don't blow a tire or need any kind of mechanical assistance. . . though, he'd probably be pretty good at reading the car manual.
I'm just kidding. It's going to be great!
Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours,
Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers,
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations,
Lost souls callin' long distance salvation,
Hey Mr. DJ, won't ya hear my last prayer,
Hey ho rock 'n roll deliver me from nowhere!
What could possibly be more pressing? A root canal? Community Service? Helping the homeless? Moving?
Was it my singing "Hidin' on the backstreets, hidin' on the backstreets, hidin' on the backstreets" nineteen times in a row with the windows rolled down as we drove through the shadiest part of the D.C. ghetto?
"It's alright to go hidin' on the backstreets, it's alri-i-ight. . ."
No, that was apparently endearing.
The reason is that there was a babysitting glitch. Understood.
But he's still missing the greatest entertainer ever, with the greatest girl ever.
I wasn't real worried about finding a replacement date. I made a phone call up north. "Listen, I have two Bruce tickets for the concert on Friday. My date ditched me. Make it happen."
Twenty minutes later, I got a text from my brother, Cliff. "I'm in."
Let me tell you, I couldn't have chosen a better replacement date. (Though I don't want Jim or John or Dana or Kathy or Jessica to feel like they're chopped liver either).
So today, as I thought about the concert, and how we're going to make it by the skin of our teeth because his flight gets in at 6 in Baltimore (the Orioles lost against the Yankees, don't ya know?), and we have to be in D.C. by 7:30. And if you can believe it, Cliff's navigational skills are worse than mine, and I sure hope I don't blow a tire or need any kind of mechanical assistance. . . though, he'd probably be pretty good at reading the car manual.
I'm just kidding. It's going to be great!
Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours,
Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers,
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations,
Lost souls callin' long distance salvation,
Hey Mr. DJ, won't ya hear my last prayer,
Hey ho rock 'n roll deliver me from nowhere!
[Open All Night - Mr. Bruce Springsteen]
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Crash Diet Surprise
A few weeks back, I was stuffing my face with crabs at the annual cousins weekend in Delaware. We were all having a good time, drinking beer and wine, playing cornhole, and filling our plates with mounds of food. After eating and drinking, and drinking and playing cornhole, I went inside to get out of the heat.
My Uncle Lenny was sitting in a chair beside my brother. He had his 80-something old body propped in the chair, with his cane beside him. His thinning hair was slicked back, and his eyes twinkled through a topography of wrinkles. I smiled, kissed him, asked him how he was doing. We talked for a bit about things.
After I walked away, I saw that he and my brother were clearly talking about me. They had a quick conversation, and when Jim got up to grab another beer, I said, "What were you two saying about me." Jim kind of laughed and said, "Uncle Lenny said you were starting to show your age."
My reaction was indignance. "Really? He's accusing me of showing my age?" Jim and I both laughed, but it still bothered me.
So, over the past couple of weeks, I spent some time looking at myself in the mirror. Like writing, I've kind of ignored my appearance (and eating and drinking habits), except for the gray coverage. I pluck those most of the time.
I noticed more wrinkles, less-than-pure-white teeth, a few kinky grays around my face and ears, tighter jeans, tighter bras, and a chin that is prone to break-outs lately. (Break-outs are occurring, I've discovered, because when I sit at my desk and read a contract with a red pen between my teeth, I also cup my chin to hold my head up).
In any case, not a good set of thoughts spinning through my head regarding my appearance, and my habits.
So I decided to fix things, and then in a couple months I'll go see Uncle Lenny again and say, "Ha! Who's showing their age now?"
I colored my hair again. I endured the two-hour whitening strips (they hurt my teeth so bad!), I stopped cupping my chin with my hands, and I bought new face wash and habitually scrub before bed.
Most importantly, I pulled out my sneakers and put them on my feet again.
That was the first day. "Just put them on your feet, Carrie."
The second morning, I put them on my feet and walked around the kitchen, and onto the back deck. "Don't sit down, Carrie."
On the third morning, I put them on my feet, walked around, stretched and got on the elliptical. "Good job, Carrie!" I stood there and said, "Ah, eff it, let's go."
And so my love of exercise was re-ignited, and each morning I awake with that on my mind. Happy to be there.
Next up, the diet. I'd never been one to diet. I've never really had a problem with my weight. I guess it's because I'm not seeking perfection, just the ability to put on a pair of pants or a nice shirt and be comfortable.
Over the past few months, and since turning 40, the problem got bigger and bigger and bigger. Yes, the pants were snugger. Yes, the shirts showed the muffin top. It wasn't that I was okay with that at all, but I figured it would come off eventually with the exercising. Then, one morning, I pulled out one of my favorite shirts which I haven't worn in some time and noticed that slipping my arm into the sleeve was like being tortured with a straight-jacket and a turniquet.
"Are you kidding me?" I threw the shirt back on the hanger, and went to the grocery store. More vegetables, which I love. More fruit, which I don't love so much. More eggs - - - whites of a hard-boiled egg are only 17 calories! I avoided the liquor store for the Chardonnay trip of the week.
That was step one. Step two was re-training my mind. No alcohol. No big, juicy cheeseburgers or burritos, less pasta, more hot peppers, less bread, more water, less nibbling on cheese when I make the kids lunches, more aware of what goes into my mouth, and less calling myself 'disgusting' or 'fat' or 'gross'. And more church.
So, wouldn't you know it? It has started to pay-off. Just this morning, I put on a pair of dress pants for work, a nice shirt (long-sleeved) and my absolute favorite pair of sling-backs (silver, faux snake skin) that I wear at least once a week.
I walked out to the car, drove to work and parked a distance away so that I could walk further to get into the office. My shoe slipped off. I pulled the sling back up. My shoe slipped off again. I pulled the sling back up. And again. And again. And again. Throughout the morning, it slipped off whenever I walked.
So I borrowed one of those mini-screw drivers and drove another hole into the sling part where the buckle is, making it as small as I possibly could.
The damn shoes kept falling off again and again.
Then it hit me. I have lost weight!
In my feet.
Who the hell sets out on a diet to lose weight in their feet?
"Yes, I've gone down a half-size, can you believe it? Yes, it's in my feet but still, Uncle Lenny, it's a half-size. My feet don't look their age anymore! They could pull-off 35 without a problem!"
And so it goes. . .
My Uncle Lenny was sitting in a chair beside my brother. He had his 80-something old body propped in the chair, with his cane beside him. His thinning hair was slicked back, and his eyes twinkled through a topography of wrinkles. I smiled, kissed him, asked him how he was doing. We talked for a bit about things.
After I walked away, I saw that he and my brother were clearly talking about me. They had a quick conversation, and when Jim got up to grab another beer, I said, "What were you two saying about me." Jim kind of laughed and said, "Uncle Lenny said you were starting to show your age."
My reaction was indignance. "Really? He's accusing me of showing my age?" Jim and I both laughed, but it still bothered me.
So, over the past couple of weeks, I spent some time looking at myself in the mirror. Like writing, I've kind of ignored my appearance (and eating and drinking habits), except for the gray coverage. I pluck those most of the time.
I noticed more wrinkles, less-than-pure-white teeth, a few kinky grays around my face and ears, tighter jeans, tighter bras, and a chin that is prone to break-outs lately. (Break-outs are occurring, I've discovered, because when I sit at my desk and read a contract with a red pen between my teeth, I also cup my chin to hold my head up).
In any case, not a good set of thoughts spinning through my head regarding my appearance, and my habits.
So I decided to fix things, and then in a couple months I'll go see Uncle Lenny again and say, "Ha! Who's showing their age now?"
I colored my hair again. I endured the two-hour whitening strips (they hurt my teeth so bad!), I stopped cupping my chin with my hands, and I bought new face wash and habitually scrub before bed.
Most importantly, I pulled out my sneakers and put them on my feet again.
That was the first day. "Just put them on your feet, Carrie."
The second morning, I put them on my feet and walked around the kitchen, and onto the back deck. "Don't sit down, Carrie."
On the third morning, I put them on my feet, walked around, stretched and got on the elliptical. "Good job, Carrie!" I stood there and said, "Ah, eff it, let's go."
And so my love of exercise was re-ignited, and each morning I awake with that on my mind. Happy to be there.
Next up, the diet. I'd never been one to diet. I've never really had a problem with my weight. I guess it's because I'm not seeking perfection, just the ability to put on a pair of pants or a nice shirt and be comfortable.
Over the past few months, and since turning 40, the problem got bigger and bigger and bigger. Yes, the pants were snugger. Yes, the shirts showed the muffin top. It wasn't that I was okay with that at all, but I figured it would come off eventually with the exercising. Then, one morning, I pulled out one of my favorite shirts which I haven't worn in some time and noticed that slipping my arm into the sleeve was like being tortured with a straight-jacket and a turniquet.
"Are you kidding me?" I threw the shirt back on the hanger, and went to the grocery store. More vegetables, which I love. More fruit, which I don't love so much. More eggs - - - whites of a hard-boiled egg are only 17 calories! I avoided the liquor store for the Chardonnay trip of the week.
That was step one. Step two was re-training my mind. No alcohol. No big, juicy cheeseburgers or burritos, less pasta, more hot peppers, less bread, more water, less nibbling on cheese when I make the kids lunches, more aware of what goes into my mouth, and less calling myself 'disgusting' or 'fat' or 'gross'. And more church.
So, wouldn't you know it? It has started to pay-off. Just this morning, I put on a pair of dress pants for work, a nice shirt (long-sleeved) and my absolute favorite pair of sling-backs (silver, faux snake skin) that I wear at least once a week.
I walked out to the car, drove to work and parked a distance away so that I could walk further to get into the office. My shoe slipped off. I pulled the sling back up. My shoe slipped off again. I pulled the sling back up. And again. And again. And again. Throughout the morning, it slipped off whenever I walked.
So I borrowed one of those mini-screw drivers and drove another hole into the sling part where the buckle is, making it as small as I possibly could.
The damn shoes kept falling off again and again.
Then it hit me. I have lost weight!
In my feet.
Who the hell sets out on a diet to lose weight in their feet?
"Yes, I've gone down a half-size, can you believe it? Yes, it's in my feet but still, Uncle Lenny, it's a half-size. My feet don't look their age anymore! They could pull-off 35 without a problem!"
And so it goes. . .
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Carrying On
I don't know if I have any readers anymore, it's been so long since I wrote. In the past few months, I've learned to live from day to day, which doesn't really give way to writing deeply every day. I was too busy to mull over the thoughts that came forth, that sometimes woke me. I closed my eyes and drifted back into a dreamless sleep. And after awhile, it became easy to just move through the days without much thought for anything other than what to feed the kids, where to walk the dogs and how to get the mounds of work on my desk into a reasonable pile. I spent the last three months - - - the entire summer- - - too busy to notice anything else.
So now, why do I write? On this lonely Tuesday after Labor Day, why do I write?
It's not as much fun to go through a day if I refuse to think about the workings of the day, and refuse to write about them. . .
A good friend of mine lost his brother last week. To a bee. An allergy that took his brother's life.
I didn't know how to react. I cried most of the day at work - - - painfully aching for him and his loss. I was dressed and ready to go to the wake, but I couldn't. I couldn't do it because I knew that I wouldn't be able to walk both legs into that funeral home. I knew that I would stand outside the big wooden doors and cry.
So I didn't go. I waited for him to come into work. I bought him a coffee from Starbuck's (like I do at least once a week), and I went outside the office with him and we talked. He told me about getting the news and the hospital room. He told me about the funeral and the huge number of people that showed. He talked about his son taking it very hard. He told me about his parents' grief, and his own. He mentioned how tight he and his three brothers are, how the family is full of hard workers, and how his parents taught them all that.
It was a script I might have written.
And he cried. And I cried. And we hugged. And it was a Friday.
And so, I said, "What are you doing for lunch?"
He kinda shrugged, "Haven't been real hungry. Why? Where do you want to go?"
"The Casino?" I smiled.
His sad eyes opened wide. Tears formed, and he said, "Yeah, that would be real good."
So we went to the casino after a quick stop at the ATM. We both had $200 to blow. We each put a $20 into the slot machine. After three tries, we were up $300. We high-fived and giggled, genuinely enjoying the moments beyond the shadowed corners of grief.
As it turned out, after nearly three hours, we both lost our money. When we hugged good-bye, he said, "Thanks for being a good friend."
The thing is, it was easy because, though we are just co-workers and have only known each other about three months, he's the one I go to when I need a break because he's got a sense of work ethic, and kindness, and genuineness that I simply adore. And he has the eyes of my brother, whom I miss every day. The color may be off, and they are on a completely different face, but the lightness, the shining brilliance of them, is there.
Today, after we chatted for a few seconds, I sat in my office and thought about how sad his eyes were today. That same kindness and genuiness is there, but his eyes were so very sad. It was like looking into the eyes of my siblings and my parents during those first couple of years after our losses; and some days I still see it in my own eyes.
Yet, I carry on. He'll carry on. We'll all carry on.
There is nothing else that can be done.
So carry on, carry on, through all the shadows and darkness, through the movements forward and back, and deeply through the hours that fill the days. . .
So now, why do I write? On this lonely Tuesday after Labor Day, why do I write?
It's not as much fun to go through a day if I refuse to think about the workings of the day, and refuse to write about them. . .
A good friend of mine lost his brother last week. To a bee. An allergy that took his brother's life.
I didn't know how to react. I cried most of the day at work - - - painfully aching for him and his loss. I was dressed and ready to go to the wake, but I couldn't. I couldn't do it because I knew that I wouldn't be able to walk both legs into that funeral home. I knew that I would stand outside the big wooden doors and cry.
So I didn't go. I waited for him to come into work. I bought him a coffee from Starbuck's (like I do at least once a week), and I went outside the office with him and we talked. He told me about getting the news and the hospital room. He told me about the funeral and the huge number of people that showed. He talked about his son taking it very hard. He told me about his parents' grief, and his own. He mentioned how tight he and his three brothers are, how the family is full of hard workers, and how his parents taught them all that.
It was a script I might have written.
And he cried. And I cried. And we hugged. And it was a Friday.
And so, I said, "What are you doing for lunch?"
He kinda shrugged, "Haven't been real hungry. Why? Where do you want to go?"
"The Casino?" I smiled.
His sad eyes opened wide. Tears formed, and he said, "Yeah, that would be real good."
So we went to the casino after a quick stop at the ATM. We both had $200 to blow. We each put a $20 into the slot machine. After three tries, we were up $300. We high-fived and giggled, genuinely enjoying the moments beyond the shadowed corners of grief.
As it turned out, after nearly three hours, we both lost our money. When we hugged good-bye, he said, "Thanks for being a good friend."
The thing is, it was easy because, though we are just co-workers and have only known each other about three months, he's the one I go to when I need a break because he's got a sense of work ethic, and kindness, and genuineness that I simply adore. And he has the eyes of my brother, whom I miss every day. The color may be off, and they are on a completely different face, but the lightness, the shining brilliance of them, is there.
Today, after we chatted for a few seconds, I sat in my office and thought about how sad his eyes were today. That same kindness and genuiness is there, but his eyes were so very sad. It was like looking into the eyes of my siblings and my parents during those first couple of years after our losses; and some days I still see it in my own eyes.
Yet, I carry on. He'll carry on. We'll all carry on.
There is nothing else that can be done.
So carry on, carry on, through all the shadows and darkness, through the movements forward and back, and deeply through the hours that fill the days. . .
Thursday, July 5, 2012
We All Need the Darkness
Had a couple days where I lost how far I've gone, how far I've gone, how high I've climbed. . .
When there is love involved with any situation, there is bound to be trouble. And love exists in my life - - - family, friends, humanity and that great emotion of compassion (that, to me, is separate from the tangible (did I say tangible?) loves that are always present - - - family, friends.
But what I'm talking about is love. Love.
This ain't no Tom Cruise, leaping on Oprah's couch kinda love that I'm talking about. It's the kind that raises the ghosts of the past and moves the mountains of the future.
And yes, I am feeling it.
Intelligently. I suppose.
I haven't shared because sharing might ruin it, but if there is one thing I have been since starting this blog nearly five years ago, is honest. And I've gone past the "in love" stage, I think, where every moment, every thought is filled with thoughts of him. (I have to be honest though, that's a great, great feeling).
No, I've gotten past that by now. The fear part? That's the part of the movie that is stuck. The CD is skipping. The record is repeating. The heinous crime of loving is getting its punishment.
Not his fault. He hasn't changed a bit since we started. If anything, he's made me spit liquids from my nose on numerous occasions (laughing, laughing, always laughing), and made himself available to the world as I see it.
No, the ghosts are ghosts from the past love life I once had - - - that illusive, illusionary one that I've been apart from for nearly five years now.
(For some reason, it is difficult for me to write about this, and I should be beyond sharing my raw emotions by now, eh?)
I've been watching a friend fall in love. I've been watching her fight her own demons, fight his demons, fight their demons. Dare I say she is insane?
I remember those days. . .
And I keep thinking, over and over, I think she's crazy for falling in love with this guy. Over and over, I see the doom of the doomsday. . .
Over and over, and so what do I do?
I wonder if the sunrise that blesses me in the morning is an illusion due to the deep yearnings of my heart. And I wonder if people looking at me think I'm as crazy as I think my friend is. And I put forth all the darkness and volley it at him and wait for the insults, the arguments. . .
Still waiting.
This one is different.
Tom Cruise thought the same of Katie.
Okay, you have me there.
So, the darkness arose because I took the time from my busy schedule to stop loving. To stop, put a halt to it all, to read into correspondence from the one I used to love so many (5) years ago - - - and I projected. I projected the shittiness of that era, and I kneaded it into the sure-disaster of my friend's relationship, and then looked at my relationship.
The rose colored glasses were poisoned with specks of shittiness. . .
It was dark. I was dark. I lost track of how far I've gone, how far I've gone, how high I've climbed.
And you know what he said?
"You're aggravating."
You're aggravating. And I took it inside and thought, and thought, and thought.
I was aggravated with my own self.
That darkness made me think that I was not worthy of having it all. That darkness brought me into a moment where I kept thinking about how far I've gone, how far I've gone, how high I've climbed. . .
I almost gave up. I almost gave up on myself. Then I realized I'm worth it.
I'm tough.
I'm good.
I'm worth it.
He's worth it.
It is worth it.
And I am not the girl I was five years ago when I was coming out of a room where I had stripped the Carrieness to please the needs of someone else.
And the darkness was from a moment of never, ever wanting to lose myself again, because, if you need a reminder, there was a day when I realized how far I've gone, how far I've gone, how high I've climbed...
If he's Tom Cruise, or I'm Liz Taylor, it's no matter. I am out of the darkness.
I needed the darkness though.
We all need the darkness to see the light.
When there is love involved with any situation, there is bound to be trouble. And love exists in my life - - - family, friends, humanity and that great emotion of compassion (that, to me, is separate from the tangible (did I say tangible?) loves that are always present - - - family, friends.
But what I'm talking about is love. Love.
This ain't no Tom Cruise, leaping on Oprah's couch kinda love that I'm talking about. It's the kind that raises the ghosts of the past and moves the mountains of the future.
And yes, I am feeling it.
Intelligently. I suppose.
I haven't shared because sharing might ruin it, but if there is one thing I have been since starting this blog nearly five years ago, is honest. And I've gone past the "in love" stage, I think, where every moment, every thought is filled with thoughts of him. (I have to be honest though, that's a great, great feeling).
No, I've gotten past that by now. The fear part? That's the part of the movie that is stuck. The CD is skipping. The record is repeating. The heinous crime of loving is getting its punishment.
Not his fault. He hasn't changed a bit since we started. If anything, he's made me spit liquids from my nose on numerous occasions (laughing, laughing, always laughing), and made himself available to the world as I see it.
No, the ghosts are ghosts from the past love life I once had - - - that illusive, illusionary one that I've been apart from for nearly five years now.
(For some reason, it is difficult for me to write about this, and I should be beyond sharing my raw emotions by now, eh?)
I've been watching a friend fall in love. I've been watching her fight her own demons, fight his demons, fight their demons. Dare I say she is insane?
I remember those days. . .
And I keep thinking, over and over, I think she's crazy for falling in love with this guy. Over and over, I see the doom of the doomsday. . .
Over and over, and so what do I do?
I wonder if the sunrise that blesses me in the morning is an illusion due to the deep yearnings of my heart. And I wonder if people looking at me think I'm as crazy as I think my friend is. And I put forth all the darkness and volley it at him and wait for the insults, the arguments. . .
Still waiting.
This one is different.
Tom Cruise thought the same of Katie.
Okay, you have me there.
So, the darkness arose because I took the time from my busy schedule to stop loving. To stop, put a halt to it all, to read into correspondence from the one I used to love so many (5) years ago - - - and I projected. I projected the shittiness of that era, and I kneaded it into the sure-disaster of my friend's relationship, and then looked at my relationship.
The rose colored glasses were poisoned with specks of shittiness. . .
It was dark. I was dark. I lost track of how far I've gone, how far I've gone, how high I've climbed.
And you know what he said?
"You're aggravating."
You're aggravating. And I took it inside and thought, and thought, and thought.
I was aggravated with my own self.
That darkness made me think that I was not worthy of having it all. That darkness brought me into a moment where I kept thinking about how far I've gone, how far I've gone, how high I've climbed. . .
I almost gave up. I almost gave up on myself. Then I realized I'm worth it.
I'm tough.
I'm good.
I'm worth it.
He's worth it.
It is worth it.
And I am not the girl I was five years ago when I was coming out of a room where I had stripped the Carrieness to please the needs of someone else.
And the darkness was from a moment of never, ever wanting to lose myself again, because, if you need a reminder, there was a day when I realized how far I've gone, how far I've gone, how high I've climbed...
If he's Tom Cruise, or I'm Liz Taylor, it's no matter. I am out of the darkness.
I needed the darkness though.
We all need the darkness to see the light.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Aggravation
People annoy me sometimes.
Here's an example, I was driving down a busy three lane highway during the five o'clock rush hour. The lane I was in became an "Exit Only" lane, so I was forced to merge into the next (left) lane over. I checked my rearview mirror, found that I had plenty of room to get in, and turned on my signal. I glanced back into my rearview mirror and saw that the idiot in a jeep (with no top or doors) was speeding up so that I could not get into the lane. I looked up, the exit was upon me, and this idiot was speeding up, with a pile of cars behind him. I slammed my brakes so he could pass, then I had to hit the gas so that I could get into the lane behind him. He slows to a crawl, pulls into the lane beside me and commences screaming at me. His five year old son was sucking his thumb in the backseat. I just shook my head, and said, "Can't you be considerate?" It was almost a plea for some human decency. I don't know if he understood what I was saying or not, but his face changed. He waved his hand in the air, sped past me and was on his way.
Or here's one: I asked a simple yes or no question at work (very simple, no hidden agenda), and got a fourteen sentence response. It went something like this:
"Dear So & So,
Is my hair brown?
Thanks,
Carrie"
And the response I got - - - seriously - - - was something like this:
"Brunettes have more fun, and blondes are known to be busy. If you have gray roots, then you better cover it with your hair color because some people may not want to see the sun glisten on the sparkly parts of your roots. Would you like it if I went to the store to by you some gray coverage? I can do that for you, I just need to know if the correct brand you prefer is at the store that I drive by on my way home from work. But, I'll be out on vacation from the 22nd-25th so you'll have to wait until Monday.
Let me know if you need anything else. I'll put the information on the shared drive for all others who need the answer.
Regards,
So & So
P.S. I've cc'd your boss, my boss, his boss and all the adminstrative staff in case they have any input on the matter."
Aggravated by the whole thing, I hit "reply all" and said, "I'll give you a heads up on one of the answers I needed, you pick the one that most applies: YES or NO."
Those that were cc'd responded with humorous quips. The one I asked it of sent the following reply: "I'll call you in a few minutes to discuss."
It has been a week, and I still don't know what color my hair is. . .
Why, after all that time, was I letting things like this get under my skin?
I spent all of last week in a funk - - - aggravated, and simply disappointed in some of the circumstances of this life. Yet, nothing had changed in my little world. Work is work, kids are beautiful, my personal life is on the upswing . . .
So, why?
Still can't figure it out.
So, at the start of the weekend, I decided to change things up, and center myself on the present. So, I went to church this weekend, worked in the yard with the kids, played hard in the pool with the kids, cooked a meal for a king, saw a movie with the kids, cuddled and giggled with the kids. . .
My neck ache has lessened. My hair hurts less. I didn't grind my teeth last night. I flew through work today - whistling and productive.
And the ride home was a breeze. . . even with the 50 million, topless jeep drivers with thumb-sucking kids in the backseat. . .
Here's an example, I was driving down a busy three lane highway during the five o'clock rush hour. The lane I was in became an "Exit Only" lane, so I was forced to merge into the next (left) lane over. I checked my rearview mirror, found that I had plenty of room to get in, and turned on my signal. I glanced back into my rearview mirror and saw that the idiot in a jeep (with no top or doors) was speeding up so that I could not get into the lane. I looked up, the exit was upon me, and this idiot was speeding up, with a pile of cars behind him. I slammed my brakes so he could pass, then I had to hit the gas so that I could get into the lane behind him. He slows to a crawl, pulls into the lane beside me and commences screaming at me. His five year old son was sucking his thumb in the backseat. I just shook my head, and said, "Can't you be considerate?" It was almost a plea for some human decency. I don't know if he understood what I was saying or not, but his face changed. He waved his hand in the air, sped past me and was on his way.
Or here's one: I asked a simple yes or no question at work (very simple, no hidden agenda), and got a fourteen sentence response. It went something like this:
"Dear So & So,
Is my hair brown?
Thanks,
Carrie"
And the response I got - - - seriously - - - was something like this:
"Brunettes have more fun, and blondes are known to be busy. If you have gray roots, then you better cover it with your hair color because some people may not want to see the sun glisten on the sparkly parts of your roots. Would you like it if I went to the store to by you some gray coverage? I can do that for you, I just need to know if the correct brand you prefer is at the store that I drive by on my way home from work. But, I'll be out on vacation from the 22nd-25th so you'll have to wait until Monday.
Let me know if you need anything else. I'll put the information on the shared drive for all others who need the answer.
Regards,
So & So
P.S. I've cc'd your boss, my boss, his boss and all the adminstrative staff in case they have any input on the matter."
Aggravated by the whole thing, I hit "reply all" and said, "I'll give you a heads up on one of the answers I needed, you pick the one that most applies: YES or NO."
Those that were cc'd responded with humorous quips. The one I asked it of sent the following reply: "I'll call you in a few minutes to discuss."
It has been a week, and I still don't know what color my hair is. . .
Why, after all that time, was I letting things like this get under my skin?
I spent all of last week in a funk - - - aggravated, and simply disappointed in some of the circumstances of this life. Yet, nothing had changed in my little world. Work is work, kids are beautiful, my personal life is on the upswing . . .
So, why?
Still can't figure it out.
So, at the start of the weekend, I decided to change things up, and center myself on the present. So, I went to church this weekend, worked in the yard with the kids, played hard in the pool with the kids, cooked a meal for a king, saw a movie with the kids, cuddled and giggled with the kids. . .
My neck ache has lessened. My hair hurts less. I didn't grind my teeth last night. I flew through work today - whistling and productive.
And the ride home was a breeze. . . even with the 50 million, topless jeep drivers with thumb-sucking kids in the backseat. . .
Monday, June 18, 2012
Don't Pet the Sweaty Stuff. . .
Wait. I think it's don't sweat the petty stuff; or don't sweat the small stuff; or just take it easy; or breathe. . .
In the last six months or so, I've gotten really good at not petting the sweaty stuff, er, not sweating the petty stuff. Yet, when the big stuff hits, it seems that I fall back on my old ways. . .or, when the big stuff hits, it seems that the little stuff occurs more frequently. Is it because the big stuff causes me to not pay attention to the other things, and so the little stuff, feeling rather ignored, starts to act up? Or is it because the big stuff hitting agitates the portion of my brain that has been focused on not petting the sweaty stuff, er, sweating the petty stuff.
Not sure.
No one ever likes to hear a story about a seemingly healthy woman with a beautiful child talking with her mother one minute, and then completely gone from the world in the next minute until medics work on her heart and get her back into the game, only to rush her to an intensive care unit where she fights for her life while her parents and young son await and pray for a full recovery. I know I don't like to hear these stories, especially when the seemingly healthy woman with a beautiful child happens to be a friend of mine.
This is not petty stuff, kids. It's that crappy, shocking, disappointing event that spins the greater known beliefs into a vortex of doubt, and spits out the old fears and anxieties, until your head spins and when the pump to the pool goes again, or you scorch a three gallon pot of sauce beyond recovery, or you are accused of committing a crime against your ex, or you toss and turn without sleep, or you stub your freaking toe, you find yourself looking into the mirror and seeing the eyes of an old nemesis that you thought you had long ago bid farewell.
And the big stuff should be petted or sweated or whatever, while the little stuff should be easily swept away. Yet, for me at least, it doesn't seem to work that way. It seems that I give all the power for resolving the big stuff over to God, while I take the little stuff and make it my own personal needling stick - - - where it pokes my side over and over again, or taps me on the shoulder incessantly, until I scream "For the love of God, leave me alone!" And it giggles, and keeps poking. . . when I am awake, when I am sleeping, and when I am geared up to enjoy time with my children.
Prayers help with the big stuff. Is it safe to assume that prayer will help with the little stuff too?
I believe that it does.
So I will.
And I will discontinue petting the sweaty stuff, er, sweating the petty stuff.
In the last six months or so, I've gotten really good at not petting the sweaty stuff, er, not sweating the petty stuff. Yet, when the big stuff hits, it seems that I fall back on my old ways. . .or, when the big stuff hits, it seems that the little stuff occurs more frequently. Is it because the big stuff causes me to not pay attention to the other things, and so the little stuff, feeling rather ignored, starts to act up? Or is it because the big stuff hitting agitates the portion of my brain that has been focused on not petting the sweaty stuff, er, sweating the petty stuff.
Not sure.
No one ever likes to hear a story about a seemingly healthy woman with a beautiful child talking with her mother one minute, and then completely gone from the world in the next minute until medics work on her heart and get her back into the game, only to rush her to an intensive care unit where she fights for her life while her parents and young son await and pray for a full recovery. I know I don't like to hear these stories, especially when the seemingly healthy woman with a beautiful child happens to be a friend of mine.
This is not petty stuff, kids. It's that crappy, shocking, disappointing event that spins the greater known beliefs into a vortex of doubt, and spits out the old fears and anxieties, until your head spins and when the pump to the pool goes again, or you scorch a three gallon pot of sauce beyond recovery, or you are accused of committing a crime against your ex, or you toss and turn without sleep, or you stub your freaking toe, you find yourself looking into the mirror and seeing the eyes of an old nemesis that you thought you had long ago bid farewell.
And the big stuff should be petted or sweated or whatever, while the little stuff should be easily swept away. Yet, for me at least, it doesn't seem to work that way. It seems that I give all the power for resolving the big stuff over to God, while I take the little stuff and make it my own personal needling stick - - - where it pokes my side over and over again, or taps me on the shoulder incessantly, until I scream "For the love of God, leave me alone!" And it giggles, and keeps poking. . . when I am awake, when I am sleeping, and when I am geared up to enjoy time with my children.
Prayers help with the big stuff. Is it safe to assume that prayer will help with the little stuff too?
I believe that it does.
So I will.
And I will discontinue petting the sweaty stuff, er, sweating the petty stuff.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Big Blue Ball
So the new job is kicking my ass - - - physically, not mentally. And it's not necessarily my ass that it's kicking either. It's more like the 2nd - 7th vertebrae in my neck. I read hundreds of pages of documents daily; spend hours scribing emails; and then have the occasional conference call where I cradle the phone on my shoulder so that my hands are free. With all of this going on, I can hardly be expected to have good posture, right?
So, by the end of the week, my head and neck are so sore, and I am constantly attempting to massage the pain out of it. I have Paige walk on my back nightly to realign my vertebrae, and I do stretches throughout the day.
Nothing has worked.
So now I have a big blue ball. I sit on it at work. When I bounced it into the office, all the men laughed and all the women were envious because not only would it help me with my posture, but it is also working my core. It's funny to be bouncing on it as I sit listening to Pandora and write contracts, oblivious that the people walking by my office door think there is something wrong with me.
Yet, the big blue ball fails me sometimes, as well. Not because it isn't the perfect way to maintain my posture but because it is round and it rolls, and if I make a big move (say, to throw out a piece of garbage), I lose my balance and sometimes fall off. (They don't call me Grace without reason and irony). My office shares a wall with the receptionist and when I brought the ball in, she laughed and said, "If I hear a clunk against the wall and no other noises coming from your office, shall I assume you fell off the ball and knocked yourself out?"
Funny lady, eh?
But yeah, that's probably a good assumption.
I have bruises on my legs from falling off and hitting the side of the desk, but damn, my neck sure feels good!
So, by the end of the week, my head and neck are so sore, and I am constantly attempting to massage the pain out of it. I have Paige walk on my back nightly to realign my vertebrae, and I do stretches throughout the day.
Nothing has worked.
So now I have a big blue ball. I sit on it at work. When I bounced it into the office, all the men laughed and all the women were envious because not only would it help me with my posture, but it is also working my core. It's funny to be bouncing on it as I sit listening to Pandora and write contracts, oblivious that the people walking by my office door think there is something wrong with me.
Yet, the big blue ball fails me sometimes, as well. Not because it isn't the perfect way to maintain my posture but because it is round and it rolls, and if I make a big move (say, to throw out a piece of garbage), I lose my balance and sometimes fall off. (They don't call me Grace without reason and irony). My office shares a wall with the receptionist and when I brought the ball in, she laughed and said, "If I hear a clunk against the wall and no other noises coming from your office, shall I assume you fell off the ball and knocked yourself out?"
Funny lady, eh?
But yeah, that's probably a good assumption.
I have bruises on my legs from falling off and hitting the side of the desk, but damn, my neck sure feels good!
Friday, June 8, 2012
It's Been A While
It's still early morning. The birds are still tweeting and twittering, soaring and nibbling on bird food just outside my door. There are two red roses in a vase on my kitchen island. The kids took a walk with the babysitter and stopped in at the flower shop just across the street. They also baked a pumpkin pie with her. They played games with her. They went swimming while she was here. They are now used to having a sitter because their mom needs to make the money, honey.
The bills were paid yesterday as I sat at my desk at work, nibbling on a salad and trying to get it all done. I just took my last 800mg Ibuprofen. My eyes are getting worse now too.
The last thing I want to do, after a full day of work, and a full evening of kids is get back on the computer and write again. My day is spent reviewing contracts and revising words, words, words. . .
Yet, I am grinding my teeth at night again. Am I stressed? Not at all. Work is not stressful, home is not stressful, my personal life is awesome. So why am I grinding my teeth?
Because I'm not writing for pleasure. I am hardly reading for pleasure (I open the book in bed, and wake up three hours later with the light on and the book open on my chest).
But today, I shuffle off to Buffalo for the Breast Cancer Walk! The kids are running around the house this morning, gathering the essentials they'll need for the trip up - - - in the car, to share with the family and to get them through. We will only be spending one full day there, destined to leave early on Sunday morning so we can get back into the swing of things here in Maryland.
Though I've known about the trip for months, I grappled to get flight tickets last week, and facing a $1500 cost to fly us all up for three days, it was decided that I would drive. And perhaps that is all I'll need to get back on track with reading and writing. The essential portion of myself might be reactivated after seven hours in a car, reflecting on it. At least, that is my hope.
In any case, it's been awhile. And I miss it.
The bills were paid yesterday as I sat at my desk at work, nibbling on a salad and trying to get it all done. I just took my last 800mg Ibuprofen. My eyes are getting worse now too.
The last thing I want to do, after a full day of work, and a full evening of kids is get back on the computer and write again. My day is spent reviewing contracts and revising words, words, words. . .
Yet, I am grinding my teeth at night again. Am I stressed? Not at all. Work is not stressful, home is not stressful, my personal life is awesome. So why am I grinding my teeth?
Because I'm not writing for pleasure. I am hardly reading for pleasure (I open the book in bed, and wake up three hours later with the light on and the book open on my chest).
But today, I shuffle off to Buffalo for the Breast Cancer Walk! The kids are running around the house this morning, gathering the essentials they'll need for the trip up - - - in the car, to share with the family and to get them through. We will only be spending one full day there, destined to leave early on Sunday morning so we can get back into the swing of things here in Maryland.
Though I've known about the trip for months, I grappled to get flight tickets last week, and facing a $1500 cost to fly us all up for three days, it was decided that I would drive. And perhaps that is all I'll need to get back on track with reading and writing. The essential portion of myself might be reactivated after seven hours in a car, reflecting on it. At least, that is my hope.
In any case, it's been awhile. And I miss it.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Spring
The beauty of Spring sometimes overwhelms me. The varying shades of green. Have you noticed? It's not just one color - - - it's a myriad of gorgeousness.
And the birds. Each song is different. Unique and inspiring. Inspiring and ubiquitous (never used that word before in a sentence. May never again).
The rebirth of everything is what gets me about Spring.
And the birds and squirrels and bears and raccoons might have had a tough winter - - - they might have fought with their spouses over nuts and berries and such; they might have had too many nights of darkness and cold; they might have even forgotten to take a deep breath of the potent winter air.
But Spring.
It makes you look.
Spring makes you just breathe. Take it all in. Look up. The sky is beautiful. Look down. The grass is new and so green. Look around. The red, the blue, the brown, the white, the gray birds are all around. Open the windows. The warm breeze on your skin. The hot sun on arms so white.
Spring.
It's nice.
It's new.
And the darkness of past winters seems more distant in the Spring. The darkness of winters past, though still a memory, is, well, just a memory - - - sometimes, many times, painful - - - but a memory.
I like Spring.
Look up. Look down. Look all around.
There are so many varying shades of green.
And the birds. Each song is different. Unique and inspiring. Inspiring and ubiquitous (never used that word before in a sentence. May never again).
The rebirth of everything is what gets me about Spring.
And the birds and squirrels and bears and raccoons might have had a tough winter - - - they might have fought with their spouses over nuts and berries and such; they might have had too many nights of darkness and cold; they might have even forgotten to take a deep breath of the potent winter air.
But Spring.
It makes you look.
Spring makes you just breathe. Take it all in. Look up. The sky is beautiful. Look down. The grass is new and so green. Look around. The red, the blue, the brown, the white, the gray birds are all around. Open the windows. The warm breeze on your skin. The hot sun on arms so white.
Spring.
It's nice.
It's new.
And the darkness of past winters seems more distant in the Spring. The darkness of winters past, though still a memory, is, well, just a memory - - - sometimes, many times, painful - - - but a memory.
I like Spring.
Look up. Look down. Look all around.
There are so many varying shades of green.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Promise to Me, Promise to You
I spent the early morning hours reviewing a contract for work. It wasn't because I was so excited to do it, that I did it. It was because I knew that if I spent from 5:30AM - 7:30AM doing it, I would have extra time in the evening to spend with the kids. I had imposed my own deadline on when the contract needed to be done, and the only way to meet that deadline was to sacrifice my early morning ritual of sipping coffee, listening to music, working out on the elliptical (once in a while, it does happen) and perhaps writing a bit. I made a promise to myself and I kept it.
After finishing the contract review, I filled out the Wildacres Writing Workshop application and wrote a check for a week in the mountains in July. All by myself. Writing in the mountains. A week away from the kids, my life, work and reality, with terrible cell coverage and excellent people. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't sacrifice the things I like to do for myself any more.
I've been dating someone. It's been a whirlwind of laughter and fun. At one point, I tried to bail. Tried to walk away from it - - - fear, fear, fear - - - and after two days of complete introspection and fighting the demons from my past, I looked at myself in the mirror and made a promise that I would ride this out and see where it goes because I understood at that moment that the potential for pain was only a potential, but that the fear I was feeling was real. A great love might cause a great fall - - - but avoiding a great love because of fear is a continuous fall, if that makes sense.
I kept my promise, and I remind myself to keep it every day - - - especially when the demons from my past creep, creep, creep forward.
Dare I say it?
Life is good right now. I awake in the mornings and I am inspired to bring a glint of sunshine onto the dark waters that someone else may be swimming in. I am inspired to work solidly in order to get things done right, and within the timeframe I set. I am inspired to listen to more music, to write more sweetly, to talk more intimately and to be a light of some sort in this twisted world.
I've promised myself that I would do that: Be inspired. Be a light. Be grateful for the good (or at the very least, not horrible) days. Be helpful. Be kind. Be generous.
These promises keep me busy.
These promises keep me sane.
These promises keep me happy.
Happy like I haven't been in about 5 years.
Saturday is the anniversary of my divorce.
I promise that I won't think about it and feel the hurt again.
It's a promise I know I can keep. The hurt isn't there any more. There's still a ping of regret due to a divorce being part of my life, but the break was good, better for me and the kids; and I am actually grateful that he had the balls to walk away. Truly grateful. (Never thought I'd say that! - - - Which makes me even more grateful).
I will write more on this blog.
I promise I will.
But if you're looking for a sad post, well, I ain't gonna write it.
After finishing the contract review, I filled out the Wildacres Writing Workshop application and wrote a check for a week in the mountains in July. All by myself. Writing in the mountains. A week away from the kids, my life, work and reality, with terrible cell coverage and excellent people. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't sacrifice the things I like to do for myself any more.
I've been dating someone. It's been a whirlwind of laughter and fun. At one point, I tried to bail. Tried to walk away from it - - - fear, fear, fear - - - and after two days of complete introspection and fighting the demons from my past, I looked at myself in the mirror and made a promise that I would ride this out and see where it goes because I understood at that moment that the potential for pain was only a potential, but that the fear I was feeling was real. A great love might cause a great fall - - - but avoiding a great love because of fear is a continuous fall, if that makes sense.
I kept my promise, and I remind myself to keep it every day - - - especially when the demons from my past creep, creep, creep forward.
Dare I say it?
Life is good right now. I awake in the mornings and I am inspired to bring a glint of sunshine onto the dark waters that someone else may be swimming in. I am inspired to work solidly in order to get things done right, and within the timeframe I set. I am inspired to listen to more music, to write more sweetly, to talk more intimately and to be a light of some sort in this twisted world.
I've promised myself that I would do that: Be inspired. Be a light. Be grateful for the good (or at the very least, not horrible) days. Be helpful. Be kind. Be generous.
These promises keep me busy.
These promises keep me sane.
These promises keep me happy.
Happy like I haven't been in about 5 years.
Saturday is the anniversary of my divorce.
I promise that I won't think about it and feel the hurt again.
It's a promise I know I can keep. The hurt isn't there any more. There's still a ping of regret due to a divorce being part of my life, but the break was good, better for me and the kids; and I am actually grateful that he had the balls to walk away. Truly grateful. (Never thought I'd say that! - - - Which makes me even more grateful).
I will write more on this blog.
I promise I will.
But if you're looking for a sad post, well, I ain't gonna write it.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
In The Big Muddy
After a full day of work, an hour or so prepping and cooking dinner, an hour or so of prepping the kids to do their homework, I decided to clean.
I pulled out the power washer and power washed my deck. My back hurts.
After putting it away, I checked on the kids who were bathing in separate bathrooms. But they weren't. They decided to bathe together with about eight bars of hotel soap in the water with them. Giggling as the "sculpted" with the soap - - - making pretty little figurines of balled up soap. Every bath toy was on the floor, six towels were soaked, and all three rugs were in a corner.
"Get out!" I yelled.
"Sorry Mom, we'll clean it up."
Bah. I left them up there to clean it up.
I pulled out the vacuum and vacuumed the entire downstairs --- capturing the nooks and crannies for pieces of goldfish crackers, pretzels, dog food. The brush on the vacuum got caught up on some pink lemonade spills that occurred prior to bathtime.
After vacuuming, I went upstairs to see how the bathroom was coming along. Towels were in the laundry room, rugs were in the dryer, toys were picked up, sink counter was wiped down, and the soap sculptures had been thrown in the garbage. Better.
With the dinner dishes complete, and the laundry folded, I visited the mop closet. There she was - - - waiting to be used. Should I? Shouldn't I? Should I? Shouldn't I?
I mop, it rains, I am exasperated. . . that's the way it usually goes.
Yet, she smiled and begged to be used.
So, I mopped while the kids ate goldfish and pretzels and drank pink lemonade in the living room.
The house looked good. Great, even.
I went to bed, awoke to two barking dogs at 5:30 because a stray dog was loose in our front yard. Poor dogs were going crazy. They must have been sympathizing with the stray since he was caught outside.
In the rain.
Dogs barked, ran through the muddy back yard, barked, I whispered a few "Shut ups", brought them inside so that the neighbors wouldn't take up a collection to have me (or them) shot in the forehead, and watched as they trampled their muddy feet across the floors.
My back still aches.
They sleep soundly.
It's still raining.
Lovely.
I pulled out the power washer and power washed my deck. My back hurts.
After putting it away, I checked on the kids who were bathing in separate bathrooms. But they weren't. They decided to bathe together with about eight bars of hotel soap in the water with them. Giggling as the "sculpted" with the soap - - - making pretty little figurines of balled up soap. Every bath toy was on the floor, six towels were soaked, and all three rugs were in a corner.
"Get out!" I yelled.
"Sorry Mom, we'll clean it up."
Bah. I left them up there to clean it up.
I pulled out the vacuum and vacuumed the entire downstairs --- capturing the nooks and crannies for pieces of goldfish crackers, pretzels, dog food. The brush on the vacuum got caught up on some pink lemonade spills that occurred prior to bathtime.
After vacuuming, I went upstairs to see how the bathroom was coming along. Towels were in the laundry room, rugs were in the dryer, toys were picked up, sink counter was wiped down, and the soap sculptures had been thrown in the garbage. Better.
With the dinner dishes complete, and the laundry folded, I visited the mop closet. There she was - - - waiting to be used. Should I? Shouldn't I? Should I? Shouldn't I?
I mop, it rains, I am exasperated. . . that's the way it usually goes.
Yet, she smiled and begged to be used.
So, I mopped while the kids ate goldfish and pretzels and drank pink lemonade in the living room.
The house looked good. Great, even.
I went to bed, awoke to two barking dogs at 5:30 because a stray dog was loose in our front yard. Poor dogs were going crazy. They must have been sympathizing with the stray since he was caught outside.
In the rain.
Dogs barked, ran through the muddy back yard, barked, I whispered a few "Shut ups", brought them inside so that the neighbors wouldn't take up a collection to have me (or them) shot in the forehead, and watched as they trampled their muddy feet across the floors.
My back still aches.
They sleep soundly.
It's still raining.
Lovely.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Twenty Years of Heaven Here on Earth
I remember the day she was born like it happened last week. I returned home for the weekend to meet my brand new, and very first, niece. Her mom and dad were beaming rays of sunshine, and as her mom placed her in my arms we both had tears of such great joy. I held her, leaned down to smell her hair and I think I might have moaned. The feeling of joy and tenderness was overwhelming. This precious little girl was the great symbolization of heaven. In our life, we were given this beautiful gift.
It has been twenty years. Happy, happy Birthday Goddaughter.
I have watched Andrea grow from being a strong, kind baby girl who enjoyed her nail polish and make-up at the tender age of, oh, two years old into this vibrant, kind and strong young woman who still enjoys her nail polish and make-up.
She has suffered through the losses with the rest of us. She has laughed and been overjoyed with the strong presence of love and hope and faith in her life. She has bounced in happiness, and brought happiness to others in so many ways - - - but mostly just by being in the same room.
Sunshine follows her.
And to say that she is physically beautiful with a face that stops traffic, that stops the clouds from forming, that makes the angels in heaven celebrate would be an understatement. Her gorgeousness combined with her great spirit combined with her inability to see just how beautiful she is, makes her precious.
My cup runneth over with such a deep love for this girl, and I wish and pray and plead that every day for her is an opportunity for her to feel and give the love that she is.
Happy birthday Andrea. "May the rising sun caress and bless your soul for all your life..." (thanks Bruce).
It has been twenty years. Happy, happy Birthday Goddaughter.
I have watched Andrea grow from being a strong, kind baby girl who enjoyed her nail polish and make-up at the tender age of, oh, two years old into this vibrant, kind and strong young woman who still enjoys her nail polish and make-up.
She has suffered through the losses with the rest of us. She has laughed and been overjoyed with the strong presence of love and hope and faith in her life. She has bounced in happiness, and brought happiness to others in so many ways - - - but mostly just by being in the same room.
Sunshine follows her.
And to say that she is physically beautiful with a face that stops traffic, that stops the clouds from forming, that makes the angels in heaven celebrate would be an understatement. Her gorgeousness combined with her great spirit combined with her inability to see just how beautiful she is, makes her precious.
My cup runneth over with such a deep love for this girl, and I wish and pray and plead that every day for her is an opportunity for her to feel and give the love that she is.
Happy birthday Andrea. "May the rising sun caress and bless your soul for all your life..." (thanks Bruce).
Friday, April 20, 2012
Counting on a Miracle, Indeed
It has been 18 days since I last posted on this blog. Though I would like to say it was because I was so extremely busy (which I was) that I didn't write, it was mostly because there was a tiny, small portion of myself that contained the murky waters of fear and doubt. Knowing myself as I do, I avoided even the slightest possibility that I might stir the murky and feel the fear.
Because, in all the other pools of myself, the water has been crystal clear. I was recently promoted at my company, and it has been a long-time coming because I have wanted to change the path of my career and this promotion does just that - - - and the change is tiny. I am still able to hang with my colleagues (friends) at the office, I just get to do it from a different office, and with a different type of work. It's exciting, and my new role as director of contracts shall begin on Monday. Good stuff.
I've also gone on a few dates, and shared a million laughs with someone who stirs the recesses of my heart that haven't been stirred in awhile. I don't know how it happened, I don't know why it happened, I wasn't seeking it (overtly) and I wasn't expecting that this person would be able to cast away the fears as easily as he has done. Yet, for the past month or so, I have felt the butterflies in my belly, and I have spent minutes/hours/full days contemplating what it all means. Carrie might actually be in love. Huh. (It's either a great love or a great fall in my future, and I've come to realize that pain has more substance than fear so I've decided to jump off the ledge and go for it).
I was also able to see Springsteen in concert twice. The first time was with my cousin Jessica, who had never seen him. Needless to say, she will be seeing him again and again. She's hooked. And any time I see him, I am on a high that takes me skippily through many days. So after the first show, I skipped and made it into the second show after a trip up north, and into the arms of a beautiful and tragic family - - - and across some seats to put a finger on the leather vest of my best friend, Bruce. (I still kiss the tip of that finger!)
All clear waters. Except for that one murky pool.
Shortly after getting the promotion, shortly after meeting someone, shortly after getting a fat refund check, shortly before seeing my best friend (and touching him!), I received a phone call from my doctor. In no uncertain terms he said that my annual exam had shown cancer cells that may have not been removed from the hysterectomy from last year. They wanted me to come in for another biopsy of the cells, and to discuss options - - - surgery, laser, radiation, etc.
This little pool of darkness strapped my ability to write any words on this blog because when I write, I go deep.
The day I got the call, I called my friends and family; put myself on a prayer list and directed those who were praying for me to pray that the doctor's were mistaken and/or that the cancer cells go away. . . I didn't want prayers that I would get the best doctors, the best treatment, the best of anything - - - only that the cancer was gone. In essence, I was praying for a miracle. And I prayed with the faith that I would be heard.
Then, I put thoughts of it away until the day of my appointment, which was yesterday. I awoke grinding my teeth, heart palpitating in fear and sadness, moroseness and doom. I cried for my babies, I cried for myself and I was figuratively hit by a monster of emotions. I then packed my bags and headed into the storm. . .
At the doctors, I was greeted with the worst case scenario, and an explanation on how we would proceed once they determined how and where the cancer had spread. The nurse put her hand on my shoulder as tears fell from my face. The doctor's sympathetic eyes were too much to face, and because of the situation, they brought a seasoned oncologist into the room to help me with the brunt of the blow.
Then the examination began. As you can imagine, there is physical discomfort, and the blush factor of being examined so intimately. But examine, they did. And I listened, tears streaming, nurse's hand on my shoulder, and waited for the "Ok, there it is; or, do you see it?" I braced myself for the knockout.
Instead I heard, "Looks good. This is good. I don't see anything. Check again. Check again. Good. Check again." I opened my eyes as the doctor stood to look me in the eyes. His smile was bright, merry and twinkling.
"There's nothing there."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." His smile was even brighter.
The nurse's eyes filled with happy tears.
I got dressed. Opened the door to walk outside. Freedom! And the doctor pulled me into an embrace. "I am happy for you. This is a good day for you. This is a good day for us!"
No traces of cancer. None. Not a speck. The doctors relied on their education and excellence to believe that it was true. I relied on their smiles, and the reflection of relief I saw in their eyes.
Simply put, I prayed for a miracle. I got my miracle. Argue all you want that there was a mix-up somewhere along the way, and that perhaps the cancer cells never even existed. But I know better.
I counted on that miracle. I got my miracle.
As you can imagine, the rest of the day was spent feeling the complete opposite of the spectrum of emotions; and for the first time in my life, I think I felt every single emotion that there is in one day.
It's lovely. It has substance. It is a rich soil in which to grow good things. It was a miracle day, and I have never been more grateful in my life, for my life.
Because, in all the other pools of myself, the water has been crystal clear. I was recently promoted at my company, and it has been a long-time coming because I have wanted to change the path of my career and this promotion does just that - - - and the change is tiny. I am still able to hang with my colleagues (friends) at the office, I just get to do it from a different office, and with a different type of work. It's exciting, and my new role as director of contracts shall begin on Monday. Good stuff.
I've also gone on a few dates, and shared a million laughs with someone who stirs the recesses of my heart that haven't been stirred in awhile. I don't know how it happened, I don't know why it happened, I wasn't seeking it (overtly) and I wasn't expecting that this person would be able to cast away the fears as easily as he has done. Yet, for the past month or so, I have felt the butterflies in my belly, and I have spent minutes/hours/full days contemplating what it all means. Carrie might actually be in love. Huh. (It's either a great love or a great fall in my future, and I've come to realize that pain has more substance than fear so I've decided to jump off the ledge and go for it).
I was also able to see Springsteen in concert twice. The first time was with my cousin Jessica, who had never seen him. Needless to say, she will be seeing him again and again. She's hooked. And any time I see him, I am on a high that takes me skippily through many days. So after the first show, I skipped and made it into the second show after a trip up north, and into the arms of a beautiful and tragic family - - - and across some seats to put a finger on the leather vest of my best friend, Bruce. (I still kiss the tip of that finger!)
All clear waters. Except for that one murky pool.
Shortly after getting the promotion, shortly after meeting someone, shortly after getting a fat refund check, shortly before seeing my best friend (and touching him!), I received a phone call from my doctor. In no uncertain terms he said that my annual exam had shown cancer cells that may have not been removed from the hysterectomy from last year. They wanted me to come in for another biopsy of the cells, and to discuss options - - - surgery, laser, radiation, etc.
This little pool of darkness strapped my ability to write any words on this blog because when I write, I go deep.
The day I got the call, I called my friends and family; put myself on a prayer list and directed those who were praying for me to pray that the doctor's were mistaken and/or that the cancer cells go away. . . I didn't want prayers that I would get the best doctors, the best treatment, the best of anything - - - only that the cancer was gone. In essence, I was praying for a miracle. And I prayed with the faith that I would be heard.
Then, I put thoughts of it away until the day of my appointment, which was yesterday. I awoke grinding my teeth, heart palpitating in fear and sadness, moroseness and doom. I cried for my babies, I cried for myself and I was figuratively hit by a monster of emotions. I then packed my bags and headed into the storm. . .
At the doctors, I was greeted with the worst case scenario, and an explanation on how we would proceed once they determined how and where the cancer had spread. The nurse put her hand on my shoulder as tears fell from my face. The doctor's sympathetic eyes were too much to face, and because of the situation, they brought a seasoned oncologist into the room to help me with the brunt of the blow.
Then the examination began. As you can imagine, there is physical discomfort, and the blush factor of being examined so intimately. But examine, they did. And I listened, tears streaming, nurse's hand on my shoulder, and waited for the "Ok, there it is; or, do you see it?" I braced myself for the knockout.
Instead I heard, "Looks good. This is good. I don't see anything. Check again. Check again. Good. Check again." I opened my eyes as the doctor stood to look me in the eyes. His smile was bright, merry and twinkling.
"There's nothing there."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." His smile was even brighter.
The nurse's eyes filled with happy tears.
I got dressed. Opened the door to walk outside. Freedom! And the doctor pulled me into an embrace. "I am happy for you. This is a good day for you. This is a good day for us!"
No traces of cancer. None. Not a speck. The doctors relied on their education and excellence to believe that it was true. I relied on their smiles, and the reflection of relief I saw in their eyes.
Simply put, I prayed for a miracle. I got my miracle. Argue all you want that there was a mix-up somewhere along the way, and that perhaps the cancer cells never even existed. But I know better.
I counted on that miracle. I got my miracle.
As you can imagine, the rest of the day was spent feeling the complete opposite of the spectrum of emotions; and for the first time in my life, I think I felt every single emotion that there is in one day.
It's lovely. It has substance. It is a rich soil in which to grow good things. It was a miracle day, and I have never been more grateful in my life, for my life.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Home
It has been a see-saw week. When I say see-saw, I mean one that reaches the highest clouds in the sky where you sit feeling the warmth of a beautiful day on your smiling mouth; and then in a second, your back hurts from the hard landing on the rocky grounds of earth.
Earth and sky. Sky and earth.
I have a friend who is losing his mother to cancer. I have another friend who is watching her mother fade away with an obscure disease that nobody has ever heard of. And another, and another and another. . .
I have cried so much for other people this week that I am wondering if I should get a paycheck for it. I have had my own share of bad news, and my own unsurmountable, unknown level of joy as well.
But then, I hear a story of redemption. That story where the girl is broken, and lost, and confused and scared, and one day, after years of soul searching, she comes out of it; and she finds that she has been loved all along; she finds that her dreams are tangible; she finds that the pain she has endured for years, brought her to this great moment of truth.
She has found that love really does conquer all. And so she reaches out, tentatively at first, for that first hand to hold that has been open and wanting the entire time she has been lost in her world of grief and confusion, fear and desire.
Her rocky ground, her higher ground, her rocky ground, her higher ground. . .
After some time, she learns that if she stretches her legs, and places her feet in the most perfect position, she can land on the rocky ground while still maintaining her view of the heavenly sky. And in that moment, she realizes that she shall never land as hard as she did the first time.
And she has found her truth.
And from that moment on, it's not a fight anymore, it's not a challenge, it's an acceptance of life's beauty, life's despair, life's grandly unbelievable and joyous truth!
God graces us with experiences - - - compassion, indignation, desire, magic - - - and He waits. And waits. And waits.
Then one day, we get it. And His arms embrace us. And we are there.
Home.
[Kim Kurek, sweetheart of all sweethearts, you inspired this. And I am so very happy for you.]
Earth and sky. Sky and earth.
I have a friend who is losing his mother to cancer. I have another friend who is watching her mother fade away with an obscure disease that nobody has ever heard of. And another, and another and another. . .
I have cried so much for other people this week that I am wondering if I should get a paycheck for it. I have had my own share of bad news, and my own unsurmountable, unknown level of joy as well.
But then, I hear a story of redemption. That story where the girl is broken, and lost, and confused and scared, and one day, after years of soul searching, she comes out of it; and she finds that she has been loved all along; she finds that her dreams are tangible; she finds that the pain she has endured for years, brought her to this great moment of truth.
She has found that love really does conquer all. And so she reaches out, tentatively at first, for that first hand to hold that has been open and wanting the entire time she has been lost in her world of grief and confusion, fear and desire.
Her rocky ground, her higher ground, her rocky ground, her higher ground. . .
After some time, she learns that if she stretches her legs, and places her feet in the most perfect position, she can land on the rocky ground while still maintaining her view of the heavenly sky. And in that moment, she realizes that she shall never land as hard as she did the first time.
And she has found her truth.
And from that moment on, it's not a fight anymore, it's not a challenge, it's an acceptance of life's beauty, life's despair, life's grandly unbelievable and joyous truth!
God graces us with experiences - - - compassion, indignation, desire, magic - - - and He waits. And waits. And waits.
Then one day, we get it. And His arms embrace us. And we are there.
Home.
[Kim Kurek, sweetheart of all sweethearts, you inspired this. And I am so very happy for you.]
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Wonder Years
If you've ever had the good fortune of getting hooked on the TV show, The Wonder Years, you've been introduced to good writing, and some thought-provoking episodes.
Paige is hooked on the show though it is more than a decade older than she is. That's longevity.
Tonight's episode is about how a family, completely naive of ever having had a death occur within it, deals with it. It's on right now as I write this, and Paige is cuddled beneath a blanket, enthralled.
The wonder years. . .
Never had them until I turned 35 years old or so. I wondered about boys. I wondered about romantic love. I wondered if God existed. I wondered if I'd be able to get through the death of a loved one. I wondered what would happen if I ever got a divorce. I wondered if I would ever quit a job. I wondered if my hair would turn gray. I wondered what I would say if I was ever diagnosed with a disease.
There is a very big part of me that is upset for ever wondering about any of these things! If I hadn't thought about them, pondered my reactions to them, worried so about them - - - well, maybe none of them would have happened!
Boys are boys. Some are full of integrity and humor, laughter and love. Some of them suck.
God exists. No doubts anymore. No wondering. No worries.
Have had a fair share of "getting through" the death of loved ones. . . still walking the walk, striding through the journey, learned that "getting through" is impossible though moving forward within the void, is.
Divorced. Eh, it is what it is. Still working hard to raise my babies to know family though.
Did quit a job. Part of me liked it, part of me loved it.
Loreal Preference does wonders for the grays.
Been diagnosed. Still here.
The wonder years.
They begin, they grow, they continue.
This life is a kingdom of days. Nothing more. Nothing less.
God exists.
No worries.
Paige is hooked on the show though it is more than a decade older than she is. That's longevity.
Tonight's episode is about how a family, completely naive of ever having had a death occur within it, deals with it. It's on right now as I write this, and Paige is cuddled beneath a blanket, enthralled.
The wonder years. . .
Never had them until I turned 35 years old or so. I wondered about boys. I wondered about romantic love. I wondered if God existed. I wondered if I'd be able to get through the death of a loved one. I wondered what would happen if I ever got a divorce. I wondered if I would ever quit a job. I wondered if my hair would turn gray. I wondered what I would say if I was ever diagnosed with a disease.
There is a very big part of me that is upset for ever wondering about any of these things! If I hadn't thought about them, pondered my reactions to them, worried so about them - - - well, maybe none of them would have happened!
Boys are boys. Some are full of integrity and humor, laughter and love. Some of them suck.
God exists. No doubts anymore. No wondering. No worries.
Have had a fair share of "getting through" the death of loved ones. . . still walking the walk, striding through the journey, learned that "getting through" is impossible though moving forward within the void, is.
Divorced. Eh, it is what it is. Still working hard to raise my babies to know family though.
Did quit a job. Part of me liked it, part of me loved it.
Loreal Preference does wonders for the grays.
Been diagnosed. Still here.
The wonder years.
They begin, they grow, they continue.
This life is a kingdom of days. Nothing more. Nothing less.
God exists.
No worries.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Wounded
I have six candles lit in my living room. I am waiting for the dimness of dusk to gather me up, and settle me in. The further I delve into the silence of this still house that I’ve made my home – my own – I am aware that I am still a part of that long-time healing --- that long-time healing that steals the awareness of all that is good sometimes. Sometimes, it steals away the brevity of warmth that once surrounded this home. It was brief but whole.
I spent yesterday evening and this morning and afternoon with women who are incredibly talented, incredibly beautiful and tender, and soulful, and aware. I spent the evening and morning considering the broken places that people find themselves.
I am fortunate to have a good group of friends, who, when a women’s retreat was in the books, invited me. We met for dinner at the church hall, gathered in the pews of the church and shared laughter, songs and a story of courage that could have been made part of anyone’s life.
I was brought to tears a couple times – - - sometimes because I was feeling so very lost within myself, sometimes so driven with compassion, sometimes so hopeful and happy and full of life, and sometimes. . . I just didn’t know why.
This morning we talked about redemptive relationships - - - how God provides the opportunity to forgive, to be compassionate, to rejoice. We talked about authenticity.
I spoke a couple of times. The first was to tell the majority of women that were gathered around me that I envied them. I envied that they were in marriages, raising their kids with a husband, coming home to a person who, regardless of how well you got along, knew you. As soon as the words left my mouth, I kind of laughed and said, “But I also know that marriage sucks sometimes.”
At another time I mentioned that I’ve kind of given up dating, mentioning that I might have a problem with “small talk” and that I tend to delve into the deep. That got a laugh too --- especially when my friend said, “You need to give the guy a chance to talk about the weather. . .”
As we all shared our stories - - - marriage, family relationships, kid angst, and especially our own struggles - - - I found that my heart, though hurt for the brokenness in the hearts of these wonderful women, became buoyant. I was not alone. And we were gathered together – in the name of God we were gathered together – and there is such great comfort in that.
As the sky dims, as the candles flicker, and as the music on my i-pod plays in the background (I just downloaded “Rocket Man” by Elton John which is one of very few songs that I always listen to for some reason), I want the darkness to come. I want the darkness to surround me so completely that the only things I see are the flickering candles.
Then I want to cry.
I want to cry and cry and cry and let all the tension from work, all the tension from being a single mom with mounds of laundry to fold and put away, all the tension from homesickness (yes, I’ve been here 13 years but I still miss home), and all the tension that comes from being companion-less, out. I want to let it out for a little while.
I want big bubbles of tears to roll down my cheeks, and I want to cry to the sky and beg for freedom from the pain in my heart. I want to feel the arms of all those I’ve loved and lost around me. I want the brokenness that I rediscovered over the past couple of days to hit me hard in the face, and cripple me for a few minutes.
Because if I continue to move without moving forward - - - spiritually, emotionally, mentally - - - I’m not going to get anywhere.
So tonight, I pray for darkness.
I spent yesterday evening and this morning and afternoon with women who are incredibly talented, incredibly beautiful and tender, and soulful, and aware. I spent the evening and morning considering the broken places that people find themselves.
I am fortunate to have a good group of friends, who, when a women’s retreat was in the books, invited me. We met for dinner at the church hall, gathered in the pews of the church and shared laughter, songs and a story of courage that could have been made part of anyone’s life.
I was brought to tears a couple times – - - sometimes because I was feeling so very lost within myself, sometimes so driven with compassion, sometimes so hopeful and happy and full of life, and sometimes. . . I just didn’t know why.
This morning we talked about redemptive relationships - - - how God provides the opportunity to forgive, to be compassionate, to rejoice. We talked about authenticity.
I spoke a couple of times. The first was to tell the majority of women that were gathered around me that I envied them. I envied that they were in marriages, raising their kids with a husband, coming home to a person who, regardless of how well you got along, knew you. As soon as the words left my mouth, I kind of laughed and said, “But I also know that marriage sucks sometimes.”
At another time I mentioned that I’ve kind of given up dating, mentioning that I might have a problem with “small talk” and that I tend to delve into the deep. That got a laugh too --- especially when my friend said, “You need to give the guy a chance to talk about the weather. . .”
As we all shared our stories - - - marriage, family relationships, kid angst, and especially our own struggles - - - I found that my heart, though hurt for the brokenness in the hearts of these wonderful women, became buoyant. I was not alone. And we were gathered together – in the name of God we were gathered together – and there is such great comfort in that.
As the sky dims, as the candles flicker, and as the music on my i-pod plays in the background (I just downloaded “Rocket Man” by Elton John which is one of very few songs that I always listen to for some reason), I want the darkness to come. I want the darkness to surround me so completely that the only things I see are the flickering candles.
Then I want to cry.
I want to cry and cry and cry and let all the tension from work, all the tension from being a single mom with mounds of laundry to fold and put away, all the tension from homesickness (yes, I’ve been here 13 years but I still miss home), and all the tension that comes from being companion-less, out. I want to let it out for a little while.
I want big bubbles of tears to roll down my cheeks, and I want to cry to the sky and beg for freedom from the pain in my heart. I want to feel the arms of all those I’ve loved and lost around me. I want the brokenness that I rediscovered over the past couple of days to hit me hard in the face, and cripple me for a few minutes.
Because if I continue to move without moving forward - - - spiritually, emotionally, mentally - - - I’m not going to get anywhere.
So tonight, I pray for darkness.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Changes
The first blooms of an early spring are sprouting. There are so many mating animals in my backyard that I sometimes cringe witht he thought of all the naughty happenings within a few feet of my purview. But alas, it is natural, I suppose.
I've been thinking about writing a lot lately. I walk past the manuscript, with all the edits that need to be made, and I smile. It's a bunch of work. The sun is beginning to be more apparent in the sky, and sitting at the picnic table on my back deck with a red pen and a head full of creativity is so very appealing.
I cannot for the life of me begin to understand why I punish myself by not writing and finishing it all. I texted my brother the other night and basically revealed that when I wrote the first three drafts, I didn't have the knowledge or life experience that I have now, and so I see the hard work I had put into as a pile of garbage. Yet, when I read it over, I see that it is not garbage.
Maybe it's the mating animals, maybe it's the big sun in the sky, or maybe it's just that ache inside to just keep moving, and editing, and writing, and learning.
I may never publish because I am always changing and so, I feel like I cannot stay stationary enough to finish the manuscripts I have going. This might be one topic the "Write Your Novel" books do not address.
Yet, as always, I ask: Does it matter? Does it matter if I ever finish it as long as I am continually recognizing the evolution of my heart?
I think it does.
I've been thinking about writing a lot lately. I walk past the manuscript, with all the edits that need to be made, and I smile. It's a bunch of work. The sun is beginning to be more apparent in the sky, and sitting at the picnic table on my back deck with a red pen and a head full of creativity is so very appealing.
I cannot for the life of me begin to understand why I punish myself by not writing and finishing it all. I texted my brother the other night and basically revealed that when I wrote the first three drafts, I didn't have the knowledge or life experience that I have now, and so I see the hard work I had put into as a pile of garbage. Yet, when I read it over, I see that it is not garbage.
Maybe it's the mating animals, maybe it's the big sun in the sky, or maybe it's just that ache inside to just keep moving, and editing, and writing, and learning.
I may never publish because I am always changing and so, I feel like I cannot stay stationary enough to finish the manuscripts I have going. This might be one topic the "Write Your Novel" books do not address.
Yet, as always, I ask: Does it matter? Does it matter if I ever finish it as long as I am continually recognizing the evolution of my heart?
I think it does.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
"Stop the Fight!"
I know that all the Rocky fans know where that line comes from; and I also know that all my siblings know exactly how my father said it so perfectly. "Stop the fight. . ."
Did you know that Yo, Adrian says it in Rocky IV too? Just heard it tonight because the kids and I, once again, are on a "let's watch Rocky" kick.
Watching Rocky IV, where Yo, Adrian and Rocky are probably the worst actors to ever star in a #1 movie - - - ever - - - brought forth a pretty funny memory.
"Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor was a very popular song at the time - - - undoubtedly because of Rocky III - - - and this was well before CD's, i-tunes, or the age where my brother Jeff and I had money to go out and buy the single. In fact, all we had was the radio and a cassette player.
I made the first call to 103.3 in Buffalo.
"Hey, could you play Eye of the Tiger by Survivor?"
"Sure kid, will be up in the next hour."
We waited about 30 minutes, and Jeff called.
"Hey, can you play Eye of the Tiger by Survivor?"
"Sure kid, be up in the next hour."
Another half-hour goes by and I call back,
"Hey, are you gonna play Eye of the Tiger soon?"
"Yes, should be up soon, Doll."
Another half hour goes by. No Eye of the Tiger.
So Jeff calls. Then I call. Then Jeff calls. Then I call.
"Listen you little fuckers, I told you that I'd play it. I'm not a fuckin' wedding DJ, I have to follow a schedule..."
Jeff might have said, "Blah, blah, blah, just play it. And don't talk at the beginning of it, we're trying to record it."
The wedding DJ hung up. Jeff and I laughed our asses off. We may have even called again.
So, here's to Rocky, and here's to Survivor - - - the one-hit wonder who tried to make it big with a majority of the songs in Rocky IV that sunk to the bottom, because when the first notes of the Rocky theme come in, everyone forgets.
(And just so you know, the notes of the Rocky theme are only about 3 seconds long, and they are hidden within synthesizers and bad 80's hair).
Other than the height difference between Ivan Drago and Rocky; and of course, the hidden meaning that underlies the film (Apollo competing with himself and his age, yearning for Glory Days), it's kind of a disappointment. . . but it's Rocky!
Glad they didn't stop the fight. Paulie has the best line: "If I could be anyone, Rock, I would want to be you. Now go bust this guy's teeth out." After Paulie sees Drago he says, "Remember what I said back there about wanting to be you? Forget it."
"I must break you." This is only one of like three lines that Ivan Drago - - - the steroid-using, misunderstood, cold-hearted Russian - - - has in the film.
Stop the fight!
Did you know that Yo, Adrian says it in Rocky IV too? Just heard it tonight because the kids and I, once again, are on a "let's watch Rocky" kick.
Watching Rocky IV, where Yo, Adrian and Rocky are probably the worst actors to ever star in a #1 movie - - - ever - - - brought forth a pretty funny memory.
"Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor was a very popular song at the time - - - undoubtedly because of Rocky III - - - and this was well before CD's, i-tunes, or the age where my brother Jeff and I had money to go out and buy the single. In fact, all we had was the radio and a cassette player.
I made the first call to 103.3 in Buffalo.
"Hey, could you play Eye of the Tiger by Survivor?"
"Sure kid, will be up in the next hour."
We waited about 30 minutes, and Jeff called.
"Hey, can you play Eye of the Tiger by Survivor?"
"Sure kid, be up in the next hour."
Another half-hour goes by and I call back,
"Hey, are you gonna play Eye of the Tiger soon?"
"Yes, should be up soon, Doll."
Another half hour goes by. No Eye of the Tiger.
So Jeff calls. Then I call. Then Jeff calls. Then I call.
"Listen you little fuckers, I told you that I'd play it. I'm not a fuckin' wedding DJ, I have to follow a schedule..."
Jeff might have said, "Blah, blah, blah, just play it. And don't talk at the beginning of it, we're trying to record it."
The wedding DJ hung up. Jeff and I laughed our asses off. We may have even called again.
So, here's to Rocky, and here's to Survivor - - - the one-hit wonder who tried to make it big with a majority of the songs in Rocky IV that sunk to the bottom, because when the first notes of the Rocky theme come in, everyone forgets.
(And just so you know, the notes of the Rocky theme are only about 3 seconds long, and they are hidden within synthesizers and bad 80's hair).
Other than the height difference between Ivan Drago and Rocky; and of course, the hidden meaning that underlies the film (Apollo competing with himself and his age, yearning for Glory Days), it's kind of a disappointment. . . but it's Rocky!
Glad they didn't stop the fight. Paulie has the best line: "If I could be anyone, Rock, I would want to be you. Now go bust this guy's teeth out." After Paulie sees Drago he says, "Remember what I said back there about wanting to be you? Forget it."
"I must break you." This is only one of like three lines that Ivan Drago - - - the steroid-using, misunderstood, cold-hearted Russian - - - has in the film.
Stop the fight!
Monday, March 5, 2012
Tomorrow is a Great Day!
Do you know what tomorrow is? It's one of the greatest days of. . . well, ever! You know why?
Let's think. I'll give you clues.
1) It's March 6th, 2012.
2) I was born on March 8th, 1972.
3) For those of you who cannot do the math (or care to do the math), I will be 40.
4) 3 years ago yesterday, at the age of 38, my brother Jeff passed away and it sucked.
5) Thus, he never made it to 40 (though at his 30 he wore assless chaps and was a very big hit at his birthday party)
6) A very big time to celebrate!
7) My party is on the 10th.
8) Y'all are invited!
9) My brother John and his family will be here on the 9th
10) My brother Jim will be here on the 9th
11) I have to work in Richmond tomorrow, staying overnight, returning on Wednesday, the 7th (a great day)!
12) I do not have to work on Thursday, the 8th, or Friday, the 9th.
So why is tomorrow an awesome day? More hints are needed. . .
13) I love my sister
14) A lot
15) A whole lot
Still don't get it? Of course not! You just don't know.
Okay, tomorrow is the 6th and it is a great day because. . . . . .
My sister comes in on the 7th via the airplane and she and I will spend the two days I have off from work together before anyone gets here, and we'll laugh and talk, and laugh and talk, and talk and laugh, and hang out with the kids, and share stories and laughter and we'll bond and cook, and eat and laugh, and shop and get massages and laugh and well, tomorrow is a great day because . . . . .
it's one day closer to seeing my sister!!!!!
Let's think. I'll give you clues.
1) It's March 6th, 2012.
2) I was born on March 8th, 1972.
3) For those of you who cannot do the math (or care to do the math), I will be 40.
4) 3 years ago yesterday, at the age of 38, my brother Jeff passed away and it sucked.
5) Thus, he never made it to 40 (though at his 30 he wore assless chaps and was a very big hit at his birthday party)
6) A very big time to celebrate!
7) My party is on the 10th.
8) Y'all are invited!
9) My brother John and his family will be here on the 9th
10) My brother Jim will be here on the 9th
11) I have to work in Richmond tomorrow, staying overnight, returning on Wednesday, the 7th (a great day)!
12) I do not have to work on Thursday, the 8th, or Friday, the 9th.
So why is tomorrow an awesome day? More hints are needed. . .
13) I love my sister
14) A lot
15) A whole lot
Still don't get it? Of course not! You just don't know.
Okay, tomorrow is the 6th and it is a great day because. . . . . .
My sister comes in on the 7th via the airplane and she and I will spend the two days I have off from work together before anyone gets here, and we'll laugh and talk, and laugh and talk, and talk and laugh, and hang out with the kids, and share stories and laughter and we'll bond and cook, and eat and laugh, and shop and get massages and laugh and well, tomorrow is a great day because . . . . .
it's one day closer to seeing my sister!!!!!
Sunday, March 4, 2012
All That Heaven Will Allow
March 4th is a pretty shitty day in the historical data of the Fazzolari family. Up until 3 years ago, it was just March 4th - - - no strings attached. Now? A pretty shitty day. I can recall in detail the phone call that my mother made to me on March 4th, 2009, and I can recall falling to my knees, attempting to hold the break in my heart together by crying and denying; and failing, suffering and acknowledging the fact that I never could have imagined such emotional pain. I've described Jeff's death as something that changed the volume of my soul, because when he died, a piece of it went with him up to heaven.
Yesterday was a busy day. The kids and I awoke early and found a web program that would allow them to create themselves as a Pokemon character. I have no idea what Pokemon is and why the cards are an obsession, but as Tony stood next to me with one hand on my shoulder as I typed in his "power" for agility and resistance, I didn't care. We picked his powers, we found a picture of his face from earlier in the year, and we created a card. He was overjoyed, and when he hugged me and thanked me with all his heart, I knew that heaven had allowed the moment.
Following our productive morning, we went to karate, where Paige performed a fourteen step routine, fought off a kid that was about a foot taller, and watched as she earned a higher belt. The smile on her face, the pride in my heart, and the offer of congratulations to her from her little brother were just events of another allowance.
To celebrate, and because it was lunch time, we went to Friendly's. As we sat there, we drew funny faces on a pad of paper - - - with crossed eyes, big nostrils, enormous ears and wayward hair - - -, I heard the notes of a Springsteen song playing softly on the speakers above. Like a dog, I cocked my head so that I could name the tune.
"Rain and storm and dark skies, well now they don't mean a thing if you got a girl that loves you, and who wants to wear your ring. So c'mon mister trouble, we'll make it through you somehow. We'll fill this house with all the love, all that heaven will allow."
The song surprised me so much, because it is not one that is ordinarily played in a public place. I stopped what I was doing with the kids, and listened. Tears formed in my eyes, and Tony, noticing said, "Are you gonna cry, Mommy?" I smiled and said, "Yeah, probably." I told him that it was three years since Uncle Jeff died, and then I mentioned the song and sang a few of the lines.
"So you think Uncle Jeff put this song on for you?" Paige asked, eager for me to say yes.
I answered honestly that I didn't know.
I don't know if Jeff has that power. I don't know if some kid who was cooking in the back at Friendly's put together a mellow mix with all of his favorite artists in order to avoid the piped in Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond songs that often roll through the restaurant; I didn't know if us deciding to go to Friendly's at the last minute was part of some greater tapestry; and I didn't know if Springsteen wrote that song for that precise moment. I didn't know anything.
What I do know is that for the remainder of the day, I recognized the awesome moments - - - when I went to coach our final basketball game, and all the kids on my team ran toward me with high fives, and big smiles; when I handed out their trophies and recognized each of their unique talents that made our team a success; when the parents of these children thanked me, and one in particular said, "My son is going to really miss you. He talks about basketball every day, and about you all the time. You were amazing with him, and I thank you"; when I found Paige and Tony, head-to-toe covered in mud with a bucket of worms that they had dug up; when I tasted the macaroni salad that Paige had been begging me to make for the last two weeks and nearly swooned because it tasted so good; when I frosted the cake for Enzo's birthday (the little bastard turned two yesterday) and after singing to him, watched as he gobbled it in one bite; when, after the kids had bathed and showered and we sat together on the chair, I could smell the shampoo on their wet hair, and as I breathed it in, I found comfort.
By recognizing these moments, I found that though a piece of my soul was hurled up there with Jeff, there was also a remainder of it down here. And because of that, I could feel all that heaven will allow.
Today is sad. Today is the anniversary of a pretty shitty day.
Yet, I will recognize the offerings of love I've been afforded, and I will celebrate that I am still able to see them. I will celebrate that Jeff was and still is a great joy in my life.
I miss him every day, yet I know that one day, when heaven allows it, my soul will re-align and become whole again.
Yesterday was a busy day. The kids and I awoke early and found a web program that would allow them to create themselves as a Pokemon character. I have no idea what Pokemon is and why the cards are an obsession, but as Tony stood next to me with one hand on my shoulder as I typed in his "power" for agility and resistance, I didn't care. We picked his powers, we found a picture of his face from earlier in the year, and we created a card. He was overjoyed, and when he hugged me and thanked me with all his heart, I knew that heaven had allowed the moment.
Following our productive morning, we went to karate, where Paige performed a fourteen step routine, fought off a kid that was about a foot taller, and watched as she earned a higher belt. The smile on her face, the pride in my heart, and the offer of congratulations to her from her little brother were just events of another allowance.
To celebrate, and because it was lunch time, we went to Friendly's. As we sat there, we drew funny faces on a pad of paper - - - with crossed eyes, big nostrils, enormous ears and wayward hair - - -, I heard the notes of a Springsteen song playing softly on the speakers above. Like a dog, I cocked my head so that I could name the tune.
"Rain and storm and dark skies, well now they don't mean a thing if you got a girl that loves you, and who wants to wear your ring. So c'mon mister trouble, we'll make it through you somehow. We'll fill this house with all the love, all that heaven will allow."
The song surprised me so much, because it is not one that is ordinarily played in a public place. I stopped what I was doing with the kids, and listened. Tears formed in my eyes, and Tony, noticing said, "Are you gonna cry, Mommy?" I smiled and said, "Yeah, probably." I told him that it was three years since Uncle Jeff died, and then I mentioned the song and sang a few of the lines.
"So you think Uncle Jeff put this song on for you?" Paige asked, eager for me to say yes.
I answered honestly that I didn't know.
I don't know if Jeff has that power. I don't know if some kid who was cooking in the back at Friendly's put together a mellow mix with all of his favorite artists in order to avoid the piped in Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond songs that often roll through the restaurant; I didn't know if us deciding to go to Friendly's at the last minute was part of some greater tapestry; and I didn't know if Springsteen wrote that song for that precise moment. I didn't know anything.
What I do know is that for the remainder of the day, I recognized the awesome moments - - - when I went to coach our final basketball game, and all the kids on my team ran toward me with high fives, and big smiles; when I handed out their trophies and recognized each of their unique talents that made our team a success; when the parents of these children thanked me, and one in particular said, "My son is going to really miss you. He talks about basketball every day, and about you all the time. You were amazing with him, and I thank you"; when I found Paige and Tony, head-to-toe covered in mud with a bucket of worms that they had dug up; when I tasted the macaroni salad that Paige had been begging me to make for the last two weeks and nearly swooned because it tasted so good; when I frosted the cake for Enzo's birthday (the little bastard turned two yesterday) and after singing to him, watched as he gobbled it in one bite; when, after the kids had bathed and showered and we sat together on the chair, I could smell the shampoo on their wet hair, and as I breathed it in, I found comfort.
By recognizing these moments, I found that though a piece of my soul was hurled up there with Jeff, there was also a remainder of it down here. And because of that, I could feel all that heaven will allow.
Today is sad. Today is the anniversary of a pretty shitty day.
Yet, I will recognize the offerings of love I've been afforded, and I will celebrate that I am still able to see them. I will celebrate that Jeff was and still is a great joy in my life.
I miss him every day, yet I know that one day, when heaven allows it, my soul will re-align and become whole again.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Hooked and Resistant
Perhaps the missing link is sleep. I resisted it like a catfish being tugged along the waters by a novice fisherman. When it finally caught up with me, it was as though I was the catfish flopping around the bottom of the boat, gasping for air as the brutal fisherman, with scars on his fingertips yanked the hook from my mouth.
"Pretty, for a catfish. A little small, let's throw her back in to see if she's stupid enough to catch the line again."
And so I got thrown back into the waters where possibilities are endless, and like the idiot fish that I am, I bit at the baited hook, and was tugged around again and again, until the fishermen grew bored with the game, and the fish was too tired to bother trying.
In the pre-dawn morning, where the birds become restless in the quiet skies, I was fortunate enough to hear a woodpecker pecking, and the bird that sounds like a monkey swinging from the trees. I was fortunate enough to see two raccoons scurrying up the hollow tree to make it home before the light of day, while a male and female cardinal sat on a nearby branch, and watched the sun rise.
Quiet. Peaceful.
Instead of calming my emotions, it left me wanting. I wanted to be the fisherman on the boat, gazing along the waters, baiting the hook that would give me a few moments of intense pleasure when the line was tugged. I wanted to be the bird that sat pleasantly next to her mate and watched the sun rise, quiet until, like a rooster waiting for the first crescent of the sun, could begin to tweedle a little twiddle. I wanted, again, what I've wanted all along this road I've been traveling.
Quiet. Peace.
Somewhere in my sleepless mind, and in my nervous heart; amidst the morning candescense of newness, I realized that I had, again, been afforded another opportunity to fulfill that want. I realized that yet another morning spent observing the creatures of nature, and feeling the power of a brand new day, made me a part of that very scene.
I wondered if I was watching and observing alone; or if some other soul, destined to be with my own, was also longing to be the fisherman and not the fish.
And though I am not quite there yet this morning, I see the opportunity is available. Shall I attempt to reach for this baited hook, in the daylight hours, and rather than resist where the line might take me, bite down hard and ride yet, another wave?
I haven't much of a choice now, do I? Wish me luck on the ride.
- - - - -
After I completed this, I realized that lyrics from The Rising by my best friend Bruce were streaming through my consciousness. Strange, but fitting:
I see you Mary in the garden
In the garden of a thousand sighs
There's holy pictures of our children
Dancin' in a sky filled with light
May I feel your arms around me
May I feel your blood mix with mine
A dream of life comes to me
Like a catfish dancin' on the end of the line
Sky of blackness and sorrow (a dream of life)
Sky of love, sky of tears (a dream of life)
Sky of glory and sadness (a dream of life)
Sky of mercy, sky of fear (a dream of life)
Sky of memory and shadow (a dream of life)
Your burnin' wind fills my arms tonight
Sky of longing and emptiness (a dream of life)
Sky of fullness, sky of blessed life (a dream of life)
"Pretty, for a catfish. A little small, let's throw her back in to see if she's stupid enough to catch the line again."
And so I got thrown back into the waters where possibilities are endless, and like the idiot fish that I am, I bit at the baited hook, and was tugged around again and again, until the fishermen grew bored with the game, and the fish was too tired to bother trying.
In the pre-dawn morning, where the birds become restless in the quiet skies, I was fortunate enough to hear a woodpecker pecking, and the bird that sounds like a monkey swinging from the trees. I was fortunate enough to see two raccoons scurrying up the hollow tree to make it home before the light of day, while a male and female cardinal sat on a nearby branch, and watched the sun rise.
Quiet. Peaceful.
Instead of calming my emotions, it left me wanting. I wanted to be the fisherman on the boat, gazing along the waters, baiting the hook that would give me a few moments of intense pleasure when the line was tugged. I wanted to be the bird that sat pleasantly next to her mate and watched the sun rise, quiet until, like a rooster waiting for the first crescent of the sun, could begin to tweedle a little twiddle. I wanted, again, what I've wanted all along this road I've been traveling.
Quiet. Peace.
Somewhere in my sleepless mind, and in my nervous heart; amidst the morning candescense of newness, I realized that I had, again, been afforded another opportunity to fulfill that want. I realized that yet another morning spent observing the creatures of nature, and feeling the power of a brand new day, made me a part of that very scene.
I wondered if I was watching and observing alone; or if some other soul, destined to be with my own, was also longing to be the fisherman and not the fish.
And though I am not quite there yet this morning, I see the opportunity is available. Shall I attempt to reach for this baited hook, in the daylight hours, and rather than resist where the line might take me, bite down hard and ride yet, another wave?
I haven't much of a choice now, do I? Wish me luck on the ride.
- - - - -
After I completed this, I realized that lyrics from The Rising by my best friend Bruce were streaming through my consciousness. Strange, but fitting:
I see you Mary in the garden
In the garden of a thousand sighs
There's holy pictures of our children
Dancin' in a sky filled with light
May I feel your arms around me
May I feel your blood mix with mine
A dream of life comes to me
Like a catfish dancin' on the end of the line
Sky of blackness and sorrow (a dream of life)
Sky of love, sky of tears (a dream of life)
Sky of glory and sadness (a dream of life)
Sky of mercy, sky of fear (a dream of life)
Sky of memory and shadow (a dream of life)
Your burnin' wind fills my arms tonight
Sky of longing and emptiness (a dream of life)
Sky of fullness, sky of blessed life (a dream of life)
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Missing Link - - - Sleep? Nope.
I'd love to know if people that do what is necessary to get by, and nothing more, get stressed out. I keep thinking about the kind of day I had at work - - - balls to the wall, non-stop, work. No lunch. No coffee break. No water-cooler talk. Nothing beyond getting things done. Putting fires out, possibly starting new ones, and wondering if I can ever catch up and do the the things that are part of my actual job description.
I get it though, I truly do. I am one of those people that works their ass off, and is rewarded with more work. Or perhaps, I seek out more work on my own because I see where the extra effort is needed.
In any case, it is Monday and I am already exhausted!
Yet, I love the challenge. I love my co-workers. I love that I have a steady paycheck. I love that my kids see a working mom.
It is 8pm. I am so tired. I am more tired than the kids, but I can't go to bed because they're not ready yet! They need their mama to read to them, to tuck them in, to love them.
Dear Lord, I pray for the most beautiful sky tomorrow morning. I pray for the gaggle of geese, honking in formation, seasoning the pinkest skies tomorrow morning. I pray that my first sip of coffee tomorrow morning is the best, damn sip of coffee I have ever had. I pray that the kids brush their teeth, eat their breakfast, brush their hair and get dressed an hour before the bus so that we can spend a good amount of time shooting hoops in the driveway before the bus comes to get them. I pray that Paige continues to write her story "Two Suns Unite" with the vigor and enthusiasm of a relay racer. I pray that Tony always, always, always stays as sweet and kind as he is right now; that whoever marries him will cry with happiness at having found such a catch. And I pray for health for myself and for all those whom I love. I pray for wealth. And the winning lottery numbers. And. . . and. . . the missing link.
Ah, the missing link. I pray for that the most.
But right now, I pray for sleep and peaceful dreams.
For you, for me, for all my co-workers and friends. . .
I get it though, I truly do. I am one of those people that works their ass off, and is rewarded with more work. Or perhaps, I seek out more work on my own because I see where the extra effort is needed.
In any case, it is Monday and I am already exhausted!
Yet, I love the challenge. I love my co-workers. I love that I have a steady paycheck. I love that my kids see a working mom.
It is 8pm. I am so tired. I am more tired than the kids, but I can't go to bed because they're not ready yet! They need their mama to read to them, to tuck them in, to love them.
Dear Lord, I pray for the most beautiful sky tomorrow morning. I pray for the gaggle of geese, honking in formation, seasoning the pinkest skies tomorrow morning. I pray that my first sip of coffee tomorrow morning is the best, damn sip of coffee I have ever had. I pray that the kids brush their teeth, eat their breakfast, brush their hair and get dressed an hour before the bus so that we can spend a good amount of time shooting hoops in the driveway before the bus comes to get them. I pray that Paige continues to write her story "Two Suns Unite" with the vigor and enthusiasm of a relay racer. I pray that Tony always, always, always stays as sweet and kind as he is right now; that whoever marries him will cry with happiness at having found such a catch. And I pray for health for myself and for all those whom I love. I pray for wealth. And the winning lottery numbers. And. . . and. . . the missing link.
Ah, the missing link. I pray for that the most.
But right now, I pray for sleep and peaceful dreams.
For you, for me, for all my co-workers and friends. . .
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Another Week - - - Poof!
Another week has passed. In this week, I did not stop to consider anything. Between the heavy burdens of work and the busy schedule with the kids, time just passed. Time that is gone; that I cannot have back; that I contained no memories for longevity beyond knowing that in the third week of February, 2012, I was busy - - - too busy to enjoy the fact that I am alive, and healthy and blessed with two beautiful children.
Isn't this the way? Isn't this how it is supposed to be done when you're on the cusp of 40 years old? You work to put money in the bank. Money that you're too busy to spend.
Is this the way I want to live my life? Barely able to keep my eyes open past 9pm? Barely able to keep them closed beyond 5am?
Here it is: Sunday night. Another weekend of catching up with work; another weekend of running errands; another weekend of nothing much else.
Except for the basketball game that I coached - - - where the team scored 16 points, and the skies aligned and brightened after each child made a basket; the way it felt to get a high-five, and a "great job, Coach" after the game; the way Paige and Tony ran, sweating and out of breath, and became sad when I had to put in a substitute for them so that every child could feel the glow. . .
Yeah, except for that.
And except for last night - - - sharing a bottle of wine with a friend and watching a chick flick, interspersed with girl talk and amusing stories.
Oh, and except for church today - - - where the little blonde girl, when I said, "Peace be with you", again shook my hand heartily and said, "Pleased to meet you." (I try to sit near her when I can). And how, every week, I sit next to the same woman, and today I said, "I feel like I need to know your name since we spend every week together," and she nodded, told me her name, and said, "It's nice to have a companion here," and just like that, we became friends. And how the woman behind me had a voice that could spin gold. Yeah, that was nice.
I guess weekends are for this kind of stuff, and the busy week is just that - - - a busy week.
Yet, tonight, I dread Monday.
Yet, tonight, I am one day closer to seeing Paige and Tony who have been with their dad this weekend. Basketball is nice for this reason; and so is church on Sundays - - - because I get to see them for a few hours, even when they are away for the weekend. . . So, that's good.
I'm trying real hard to count the blessings tonight. I am going to pray real hard that more are forthcoming - - - in the way of greater friendships, a loving companion, and more time to listen to voices that can spin gold.
Which reminds me, Bruce's new CD comes out in a week!
Hope this week goes by quickly.
Isn't this the way? Isn't this how it is supposed to be done when you're on the cusp of 40 years old? You work to put money in the bank. Money that you're too busy to spend.
Is this the way I want to live my life? Barely able to keep my eyes open past 9pm? Barely able to keep them closed beyond 5am?
Here it is: Sunday night. Another weekend of catching up with work; another weekend of running errands; another weekend of nothing much else.
Except for the basketball game that I coached - - - where the team scored 16 points, and the skies aligned and brightened after each child made a basket; the way it felt to get a high-five, and a "great job, Coach" after the game; the way Paige and Tony ran, sweating and out of breath, and became sad when I had to put in a substitute for them so that every child could feel the glow. . .
Yeah, except for that.
And except for last night - - - sharing a bottle of wine with a friend and watching a chick flick, interspersed with girl talk and amusing stories.
Oh, and except for church today - - - where the little blonde girl, when I said, "Peace be with you", again shook my hand heartily and said, "Pleased to meet you." (I try to sit near her when I can). And how, every week, I sit next to the same woman, and today I said, "I feel like I need to know your name since we spend every week together," and she nodded, told me her name, and said, "It's nice to have a companion here," and just like that, we became friends. And how the woman behind me had a voice that could spin gold. Yeah, that was nice.
I guess weekends are for this kind of stuff, and the busy week is just that - - - a busy week.
Yet, tonight, I dread Monday.
Yet, tonight, I am one day closer to seeing Paige and Tony who have been with their dad this weekend. Basketball is nice for this reason; and so is church on Sundays - - - because I get to see them for a few hours, even when they are away for the weekend. . . So, that's good.
I'm trying real hard to count the blessings tonight. I am going to pray real hard that more are forthcoming - - - in the way of greater friendships, a loving companion, and more time to listen to voices that can spin gold.
Which reminds me, Bruce's new CD comes out in a week!
Hope this week goes by quickly.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Books. Oh, Glorious Books!
Brilliance.
Authors are brilliant. Brilliant minds. Brilliant abilities. Brilliant discoveries and attention to details that is breathtaking.
That's what a good author can do.
I've read thousands of books - thousands! When I finish one that takes my breath away - that makes me laugh and cry; that makes me consider the thought: "Humanity and the human condition should actually be defined as inhumanity," and I get in the context that it is written, and can apply to the demise of some of the world in which we live, I am taken away.
When I read great writing, I am equally frightened, and inspired to live my dream and write for the whole world to see.
I just finished a book by Pat Conroy South of Broad; and I just finished another "sneak preview" chapter of a book that my brother, Cliff is writing.
Equally inspiring authors.
I am blown away with words. Words that stand alone have no meaning unless the reader of the word can relate. For instance, love. The only reason that it is such a powerful word is because people have felt its powerful, surging insistence on recognition. A table is a table. But love. Oh, it's love.
I am enamored by people that can tell a story - - - that can walk into a room and have the attention of every person in that room. I am enamored by people that write. I am enamored by people that read. I am enamored by my neighbor who texts me and says, "I have a book that you need to read."
Enamored is a pretty nice word. Never knew what it meant until I could feel it.
In the context of my life - - - a life that has been utterly heartbreaking and incredibly joyful - - - I am intrigued by two sentences in the closing paragraph of the book I just read by Pat Conroy:
We know better than anyone the immense, unanswerable powers of fate, and how one day can shift the course of ten thousand lives. Fate can catapult them into lives they were never meant to lead until they stumbled into that one immortal day.
So many immortal days for me: the day I met my ex-husband; the day I found out I was pregnant; the day I decided to go to law school; the days I gave birth to Paige and Tony; the day my brother died; the day my father died; the day I decided that love was more powerful than anything in the world, and began to live in accordance with that knowledge.
I love reading because I love re-learning what I already know to be true.
Paige just asked me what "Enamored" means. I turned to her and said, "You are the most beautiful girl that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing and I love you."
"Yeah, but what does it mean?"
"That's what it means." I answered.
"Oh, I get it."
Yep, she sure does.
Authors are brilliant. Brilliant minds. Brilliant abilities. Brilliant discoveries and attention to details that is breathtaking.
That's what a good author can do.
I've read thousands of books - thousands! When I finish one that takes my breath away - that makes me laugh and cry; that makes me consider the thought: "Humanity and the human condition should actually be defined as inhumanity," and I get in the context that it is written, and can apply to the demise of some of the world in which we live, I am taken away.
When I read great writing, I am equally frightened, and inspired to live my dream and write for the whole world to see.
I just finished a book by Pat Conroy South of Broad; and I just finished another "sneak preview" chapter of a book that my brother, Cliff is writing.
Equally inspiring authors.
I am blown away with words. Words that stand alone have no meaning unless the reader of the word can relate. For instance, love. The only reason that it is such a powerful word is because people have felt its powerful, surging insistence on recognition. A table is a table. But love. Oh, it's love.
I am enamored by people that can tell a story - - - that can walk into a room and have the attention of every person in that room. I am enamored by people that write. I am enamored by people that read. I am enamored by my neighbor who texts me and says, "I have a book that you need to read."
Enamored is a pretty nice word. Never knew what it meant until I could feel it.
In the context of my life - - - a life that has been utterly heartbreaking and incredibly joyful - - - I am intrigued by two sentences in the closing paragraph of the book I just read by Pat Conroy:
We know better than anyone the immense, unanswerable powers of fate, and how one day can shift the course of ten thousand lives. Fate can catapult them into lives they were never meant to lead until they stumbled into that one immortal day.
So many immortal days for me: the day I met my ex-husband; the day I found out I was pregnant; the day I decided to go to law school; the days I gave birth to Paige and Tony; the day my brother died; the day my father died; the day I decided that love was more powerful than anything in the world, and began to live in accordance with that knowledge.
I love reading because I love re-learning what I already know to be true.
Paige just asked me what "Enamored" means. I turned to her and said, "You are the most beautiful girl that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing and I love you."
"Yeah, but what does it mean?"
"That's what it means." I answered.
"Oh, I get it."
Yep, she sure does.
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