We killed my daughter's goldfish. It wasn't intentional, so maybe the better term would be goldfish manslaughter, but we did it. Perhaps the fish police should roll up to our door in their cop car fishbowls and cuff us and drag us off to fish jail. We would deserve it.
Emma, my oldest daughter, wears immense rose colored glasses. She came into the world wearing them. She trusts everything and everybody. She believes the world is truly good, and she believes anything you tell her. If I told her the moon was made of cheese, she would inquire if she could perhaps eat the moon with crackers. So, perpetuating for her the Christmas myths is easy for me to do. There is simply no reason to question Santa Claus, now is there? And of course the reindeer ate the reindeer food she sprinkled on the front porch steps on Christmas Eve (yes, the reindeer food prepared at school that included oats and a healthy dose of glitter, because evidently glitter is what gives a flying reindeer his get up and go).
Emma also placed on her Christmas list difficult things for Santa to provide. For example, she requested her sister Amelia as a Christmas gift. I asked if I was to send Amelia to the North Pole to have her packaged for Christmas Eve delivery, and Emma thought that might work. I did not choose to send Amelia off to the elves, so Santa had to pick from the other things on the list, including a fish bowl. Santa even included a hand written ticket in her stocking that entitled her to a free goldfish.
After Christmas morning, we prepared the fish bowl. We put the neon colored gravel in the bottom of the bowl, and then the plastic plant, and even a little statue of a snail holding a sign that said "No Fishing". Then we added the water, and the then the chemicals to the water, and off we went to Wal-Mart to redeem the magical free fish ticket.
Emma stood in front of the fish tanks and marveled at the goldfish gliding freely back and forth. She observed their shapes and colors and markings. She said she wanted a big one. She found one that met all her specifications.
She ecstatically announced his name would be Swimmy.
Gleefully Emma watched as Swimmy was scooped up and put in his water filled plastic bag, and she gingerly carried him through the store, cooing to him all the way about how she was going to take care of him, and feed him, and love him. Now, as a mother, I really was touched by her affection for a fish, and I was quite happy with myself that Santa had brought her such a fine and responsible present as a goldfish bowl. How joyful we felt as we left Wal-Mart, Swimmy comfortably settled on Emma's lap in the back seat of the car.
When we got home, Chris prepared Swimmy for his new home. He poured some water from the fishbowl into Swimmy's bag. Then, Swimmy, still in his bag, was plopped into the fish bowl. And there he waited the allotted time before he was released into his new home.
"Wow", Chris said, "He's a bit large for the bowl."
"I wanted a big one," Emma proclaimed proudly.
Having Swimmy safely in his home, I went upstairs to complete some chores. Several hours later, Emma found me and announced, "Swimmy loves his new home. Right now, he's laying down on his rocks, and he is smiling at me, Mommy!"
Oh dear, I thought. Fish resting on the rocks can come to no good end. Emma led me down stairs, and gestured at the fish bowl, and indeed Swimmy was laying there on his side. Not quite resting, though; he was gasping for life. He gave a little flutter of a golden fin every so often and his little fish mouth open and closed sporadically, but clearly it was the end of Swimmy.
Now, how to best handle this. Emma was still beaming. Her fish was sleeping, not dying. But I went the truth route, and squared my shoulders, and said to her gently, "Emma, honey, Swimmy is very sick."
Emma looked like I had punched her. She stood very still for several seconds, and then I saw her face shrivel up and then she burst out into inconsolable tears. I told her maybe Swimmy was just an old fish, and it was just his time. I told her Swimmy just wanted to go to Jesus' fishbowl in the sky. I tried every angle, but she continued to bawl like she had been shot, so finally I gave in. Add it to my list of crimes. I lied to my daughter.
"Yes, Emma, maybe you're right. I think Swimmy is sleeping. So let's just let him rest, and we'll go upstairs and paint your fingernails."
She liked this option, and accepted my lie as easily as if I was sliding candy in her pocket. And a little fingernail polish, purple with sparkles, never hurt, either.
The next morning, hoping perhaps that Swimmy had made a miraculous recovery in the night, I crept downstairs and shook the fish bowl. Poor Swimmy, God rest his fish soul, had bit the dust. I was at first a bit grossed out that there was a fish carcass floating among the leaves of artificial sea weed in his bowl in my kitchen, but then I knew I had to quickly dispose of the body before Emma woke up. About that time, Chris came down the steps, as if sensing my alarm.
"Flush it," I said, in a panicky tone that might have been a little over the top. "Flush it before Emma finds out."
It wasn't long after Chris and I had disposed the evidence of the death that Emma slipped downstairs, wearing her nightgown from Christmas, the red one covered in jolly snowmen, to check in on the state of Swimmy. When she spied his vacant bowl, she whirled around to us and said, in a small voice, "Where is he?"
Now, here is the crux of the story: to tell or not to tell the little white lie. Well, the web of white lies I had already begun to spin to save Emma from heartbreak hung above me. But there the poor thing stood, waiting to accept whatever I or her father had to say, so open and innocent.
What would you do?
Well, we lied. We lied like we were naturals. We lied smoothly and without a stumble over any detail of the outrageous story. But, see, I think it was justifiable, given the delicate situation.
"Emma", Chris said, very concerned, "I knew that Swimmy was sick, so I got up in the night and rushed him to the fish doctor at Wal-mart. The doctor seemed to think that Swimmy was way too big for his bowl. He's going to fix Swimmy up, and he will be fine."
"How long will he be there?" Emma questioned. "Is he getting medicine? I miss Swimmy." Mind you, it had taken us only mere hours to kill the blessed fish, but Emma acted as if they were life long companions. At that, the lie just got bigger.
"Well, he'll be there at least a week", Chris said. "And he'll probably have to go live with another person who has a bigger tank. We'll have to see what the doctor says."
Emma considered this, and asked other questions, like, can we just get a bigger tank for Swimmy once he recovered? No, that is impossible as Santa personally delivered to our house this one special, though small, fish bowl. Despite the questions, she never once thought that what we were saying wasn't the truth. Not once. This will either be Emma's greatest attribute or her worse downfall, this utter trust she has in truth and goodness. I know the world needs more Emmas, to restore it and inspire it, but I also know the emotional toll it might take on her. I pray God puts a big bubble around her and just lets her light shine through all the brokenness of human spirit. I hope He holds her up like a sun to the jaded people of the world, but does not allow her to become jaded herself.
Just so you know, Swimmy is still at the Wal-mart fish hospital. And, if you ever need to visit the sick fish at the fish hospital, it is located just behind all the milk. That's where Emma supposed it should be, and I agreed with her without batting an eye.
Shine on, my Emma.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
When You Were Young
My family and I are moving. Not far, maybe 15 miles at most from our current location. Over the past several years, we have tried this moving business before, but have been met with obstacles that have proven too difficult to overcome, so we have stayed. I don't dislike my very functional house with a shelf or closet for anything. Actually I am mourning a bit the quiet comfort of my house; it is a warm and well lived in space. It speaks of humbleness and doesn't put on airs. Gosh, I hate a house that puts on airs. But it is time. It is time to move on to a new stage of our lives, to start a new life in a new space and build a real home around that.
So, my husband and I have been digging out from underneath the accumulation of seven years of stuff. I call it crap; Chris has an entirely different name for it that I cannot mention here, but regardless of its name, we have accumulated it. Much like an unwanted layer of thick mud, the stuff we have is difficult to pull our limbs through. There is so much of it, and I consider myself someone who gets rid of junk often enough. But the stuff, it is everywhere. I had to leave the house today to go to the mall to buy more stuff to add the preexisting stuff, all to make myself a little more relaxed. And looking on that statement now, I realize that was just plain ludicrous.
But through all the stuff, I found a few little treasures long forgotten, buried for years in dusty boxes. My husband handed me a book bag with my sorority letters on it, Sigma Sigma Sigma, and said, Can you get rid of this? I thought for certain I could, given that I hadn't thought much about sorority life in a decade. So, first I pulled out a small carved box filled with little Mexican trinkets, including a hair clasp and a necklace. A rush of memories came back to me of my friend Alissa from college, who went to Mexico every summer, and brought back to me little things like the wooden box, and she wore a sombrero and poncho every Halloween, and we used to set out under a huge oak tree on the lawn in front of our dorm and reflect on the enormity of life. I talk to Alissa some now, not as much as I would like, so it seems our friendship has been tucked away in a little carved Mexican box. But at least it is safe there.
Then, I found my old college ID holder, also bearing my sorority letters. holding my first college ID. It was a driver's license size laminated card, with my name typed, typed as in typewriter typed, on it, and a mug shot of me, with my enormous post 1980's hair almost filling the entire picture. I remember the day I had that ID made; my mom was with me at freshman orientation, and I walked down the middle of campus on the tour with all the other scared freshmen, thinking I held the world in my hand. I was like that in high school and then early college, that thought that you were surely invincible to any shortcomings or disappointments. Now, looking back, I knew that feeling was just an arrogant remnant of youth, but it sure felt nice to think nothing could stop you.
My favorite and most heartbreaking find was the stub of the ticket to my first Dave Matthews Band concert. Now, I remember this almost by every detail. It was the Sunday before finals week, 1996, and I was obsessive about studying, especially for finals, but I blew off preparing for my Monday final to go the concert. It was early December, and it was snowing when we left the sorority house. I was wearing brown corduroy bib overalls. Imagine that! Doesn't that sound horrible? But I'm sure I felt stylish in an alternative and funky way. We had seats on the floor, and we were so close to the stage I thought I might just be able to touch Dave while he danced around in his rather odd way, strumming his guitar. I remember singing like I was the only person at the concert. I remember us driving back to Huntington, exhausted, while the snow continued to fall. I remember I got an A on my final that Monday, despite sleep deprivation and no studying, which debunked my myth that you had to study at least 10 hours the night before any exam. I have seen Dave several times since that particular concert, but that one was the best by far.
And there I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by all the needless stuff we had pulled out of drawers and cabinets, closets, and the attic. It all meant nothing, but this little yellowed ticket stub made me stop the movement of my life and remember. What power there is in memories.
So, I took my tri-sigma book bag, and without throwing out any of its contents, I put in my cedar chest. Someday, I'm sure my children will find that bag, like a time capsule and try to wrap their minds around my youth and the fact that I used to do things like go to concerts, enjoy music, and put together simply awful outfits in the name of individuality. I hope they can see me, when I was young. I still see myself that way.
So, my husband and I have been digging out from underneath the accumulation of seven years of stuff. I call it crap; Chris has an entirely different name for it that I cannot mention here, but regardless of its name, we have accumulated it. Much like an unwanted layer of thick mud, the stuff we have is difficult to pull our limbs through. There is so much of it, and I consider myself someone who gets rid of junk often enough. But the stuff, it is everywhere. I had to leave the house today to go to the mall to buy more stuff to add the preexisting stuff, all to make myself a little more relaxed. And looking on that statement now, I realize that was just plain ludicrous.
But through all the stuff, I found a few little treasures long forgotten, buried for years in dusty boxes. My husband handed me a book bag with my sorority letters on it, Sigma Sigma Sigma, and said, Can you get rid of this? I thought for certain I could, given that I hadn't thought much about sorority life in a decade. So, first I pulled out a small carved box filled with little Mexican trinkets, including a hair clasp and a necklace. A rush of memories came back to me of my friend Alissa from college, who went to Mexico every summer, and brought back to me little things like the wooden box, and she wore a sombrero and poncho every Halloween, and we used to set out under a huge oak tree on the lawn in front of our dorm and reflect on the enormity of life. I talk to Alissa some now, not as much as I would like, so it seems our friendship has been tucked away in a little carved Mexican box. But at least it is safe there.
Then, I found my old college ID holder, also bearing my sorority letters. holding my first college ID. It was a driver's license size laminated card, with my name typed, typed as in typewriter typed, on it, and a mug shot of me, with my enormous post 1980's hair almost filling the entire picture. I remember the day I had that ID made; my mom was with me at freshman orientation, and I walked down the middle of campus on the tour with all the other scared freshmen, thinking I held the world in my hand. I was like that in high school and then early college, that thought that you were surely invincible to any shortcomings or disappointments. Now, looking back, I knew that feeling was just an arrogant remnant of youth, but it sure felt nice to think nothing could stop you.
My favorite and most heartbreaking find was the stub of the ticket to my first Dave Matthews Band concert. Now, I remember this almost by every detail. It was the Sunday before finals week, 1996, and I was obsessive about studying, especially for finals, but I blew off preparing for my Monday final to go the concert. It was early December, and it was snowing when we left the sorority house. I was wearing brown corduroy bib overalls. Imagine that! Doesn't that sound horrible? But I'm sure I felt stylish in an alternative and funky way. We had seats on the floor, and we were so close to the stage I thought I might just be able to touch Dave while he danced around in his rather odd way, strumming his guitar. I remember singing like I was the only person at the concert. I remember us driving back to Huntington, exhausted, while the snow continued to fall. I remember I got an A on my final that Monday, despite sleep deprivation and no studying, which debunked my myth that you had to study at least 10 hours the night before any exam. I have seen Dave several times since that particular concert, but that one was the best by far.
And there I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by all the needless stuff we had pulled out of drawers and cabinets, closets, and the attic. It all meant nothing, but this little yellowed ticket stub made me stop the movement of my life and remember. What power there is in memories.
So, I took my tri-sigma book bag, and without throwing out any of its contents, I put in my cedar chest. Someday, I'm sure my children will find that bag, like a time capsule and try to wrap their minds around my youth and the fact that I used to do things like go to concerts, enjoy music, and put together simply awful outfits in the name of individuality. I hope they can see me, when I was young. I still see myself that way.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Rules Made to Bend
"Adults are just obsolete children and to hell with them."
--Dr. Seuss
My daughter Amelia sees the world through a prism. She takes what is ordinary and puts it through her reality and it becomes something else entirely. Something that to me seems totally absurd. And when I look at her questioningly, she returns my gaze as if to say to me, "you must be the one with a problem".
Let me give you an example. Since it is Christmas, I have taken great pride in decorating the house. I like every Santa to have its place, every garland and ribbon to be just so. And of course, the nativity scene, which adorns, as it does every year, the top of the blanket chest in the living room, must always be arranged the way I imagined all the figures were the night of Jesus' birth: the baby, of course, is in the middle of the rest of the ceramic figurines, the angel stands directly over the baby, and Mary and Joseph on either side, and the wise men, well, they're positioned according to their height around the holy family to make the whole scene balanced. The stable animals (there are 3 of them) are carefully placed as if they are demurely looking over their shoulders, pleased to death at the birth of the Lord. I have put a lot of thought into the nativity, as you can see. This year, Amelia has taken a special fascination in the nativity scene. Much to my dismay, she sneaks into the living room and has a go at a multitude of arrangements for the baby Jesus. My personal favorite is the time her Barbies got involved in the whole scene. I don't know if all 4 year old girls are like this, but Amelia quickly disrobes all Barbies as soon as they are removed from their packages. I find naked Barbies everywhere. Thank goodness Barbie's expression never changes, or Amelia's Barbies would always have a look of shame and bewilderment at their lack of clothing. Anyway, when I walked into the living room one day, there was a parade of naked Barbies across the piano bench and one especially spry naked Barbie straddling the church Christmas card holder located on the piano. All the members of the Nativity, including the baby Jesus and the camel were all lined up on the blanket chest, watching the bawdy display. It was enough to make me blush if I weren't too surprised at Amelia's choice for the entertainment of the Wise Men.
And just today, I asked Amelia to put the Nativity scene back in its correct order, The Way Mommy Likes It. I left her to her work, and when I went back to check on her progress, the figures were are technically in the right spot, except that she had left no room in between any of them. The baby Jesus was horribly cramped in the center, and the Wise Men and Joseph were jockeying for their positions, much like they were at a heavy metal concert. I don't know how Mary fared; she was lost in the sea of ceramic headbangers.
My point is this: adults have rules of how they think things should be, and we attempt to stuff everything in those rules. We try to put everything in neat homogeneous boxes. We stuff religion in boxes, relationships in boxes, educational tracks in boxes, ideas about success, and accumulation of wealth and goods in boxes. Everything, everything can go into a box that is fitted and constrained with rules. But children don't yet, thank goodness, define their lives totally based on the existence of rules. The can take them and bend them and make them into such extraordinary and unexpected things. Amelia has her own ideas of the nativity, and even though they don't fit into my nativity box, it doesn't make it wrong.
Amelia is asleep by me now. It snowed about a foot this weekend, and our little plot of the world is covered in snow and ice and it is so cold. She chose to put on her bathing suit with a butterfly applique and a flimsy summer skirt to sleep in. I am glad for the mountain of covers over her. I wouldn't for a million years ask her to take that bathing suit off.
--Dr. Seuss
My daughter Amelia sees the world through a prism. She takes what is ordinary and puts it through her reality and it becomes something else entirely. Something that to me seems totally absurd. And when I look at her questioningly, she returns my gaze as if to say to me, "you must be the one with a problem".
Let me give you an example. Since it is Christmas, I have taken great pride in decorating the house. I like every Santa to have its place, every garland and ribbon to be just so. And of course, the nativity scene, which adorns, as it does every year, the top of the blanket chest in the living room, must always be arranged the way I imagined all the figures were the night of Jesus' birth: the baby, of course, is in the middle of the rest of the ceramic figurines, the angel stands directly over the baby, and Mary and Joseph on either side, and the wise men, well, they're positioned according to their height around the holy family to make the whole scene balanced. The stable animals (there are 3 of them) are carefully placed as if they are demurely looking over their shoulders, pleased to death at the birth of the Lord. I have put a lot of thought into the nativity, as you can see. This year, Amelia has taken a special fascination in the nativity scene. Much to my dismay, she sneaks into the living room and has a go at a multitude of arrangements for the baby Jesus. My personal favorite is the time her Barbies got involved in the whole scene. I don't know if all 4 year old girls are like this, but Amelia quickly disrobes all Barbies as soon as they are removed from their packages. I find naked Barbies everywhere. Thank goodness Barbie's expression never changes, or Amelia's Barbies would always have a look of shame and bewilderment at their lack of clothing. Anyway, when I walked into the living room one day, there was a parade of naked Barbies across the piano bench and one especially spry naked Barbie straddling the church Christmas card holder located on the piano. All the members of the Nativity, including the baby Jesus and the camel were all lined up on the blanket chest, watching the bawdy display. It was enough to make me blush if I weren't too surprised at Amelia's choice for the entertainment of the Wise Men.
And just today, I asked Amelia to put the Nativity scene back in its correct order, The Way Mommy Likes It. I left her to her work, and when I went back to check on her progress, the figures were are technically in the right spot, except that she had left no room in between any of them. The baby Jesus was horribly cramped in the center, and the Wise Men and Joseph were jockeying for their positions, much like they were at a heavy metal concert. I don't know how Mary fared; she was lost in the sea of ceramic headbangers.
My point is this: adults have rules of how they think things should be, and we attempt to stuff everything in those rules. We try to put everything in neat homogeneous boxes. We stuff religion in boxes, relationships in boxes, educational tracks in boxes, ideas about success, and accumulation of wealth and goods in boxes. Everything, everything can go into a box that is fitted and constrained with rules. But children don't yet, thank goodness, define their lives totally based on the existence of rules. The can take them and bend them and make them into such extraordinary and unexpected things. Amelia has her own ideas of the nativity, and even though they don't fit into my nativity box, it doesn't make it wrong.
Amelia is asleep by me now. It snowed about a foot this weekend, and our little plot of the world is covered in snow and ice and it is so cold. She chose to put on her bathing suit with a butterfly applique and a flimsy summer skirt to sleep in. I am glad for the mountain of covers over her. I wouldn't for a million years ask her to take that bathing suit off.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The Feelings of the Moon
Quiet moon
Full moon
Moon the eye
Of night
Silver iris
Flecked with
Lunar shadow
Moon that I see
And you see
Cloaked moon
Hidden moon
Moon a stepping
Stone across
The ocean
Sand dollar thin
Moon skipping
Across the sky
Moon that
You see and
I see
Connecting moon
Drawn out
In an oval
At the poles
Magnetic moon
Pulling us
Together
Wide night
Separating us
Still
Full moon
Moon the eye
Of night
Silver iris
Flecked with
Lunar shadow
Moon that I see
And you see
Cloaked moon
Hidden moon
Moon a stepping
Stone across
The ocean
Sand dollar thin
Moon skipping
Across the sky
Moon that
You see and
I see
Connecting moon
Drawn out
In an oval
At the poles
Magnetic moon
Pulling us
Together
Wide night
Separating us
Still
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Dichotomy
The world can always be divided. Night and day. Sky and land. Sick and well. We live among opposites. It is also said that we exist on a continuum running between these opposites. We are sliding a little closer to sadder, or fatter, or richer, and then we perhaps slide back the other direction. As if we are swinging on a pendulum.
I have a different view. I think the world is divided more into immovable poles on each end of an axis; our earth moves in accordance to the pole on which we are positioned. We turn with the sun and tides in one position and then with them in reverse according to the tilt of our world. Our lives are so much dictated by the position we have, on one pole or the opposite, that our perception of the world cannot help but to follow that path.
I visited two places this morning. I first took my son Ethan to the doctor. He is one, and is just beginning to wrap his little mind around words and their meanings, of gestures of affection and protest, of movement. He looks at me with his clear, ageless blue eyes and I am mesmerized by his utter embodiment of youth and child.
Ethan and I then went to the nearby hospital and visited by grandmother. I work in a healthcare setting, so sick people shouldn't affect me, but today it did. For some reason, the stark transition from youth to individuals sailing into the dusk of their lives caught me off guard. When I entered my grandmother's room, my brother and mother were there, standing around her bed in an all-to-small space. As I have said before, my grandmother was a beautiful woman, and she still is. She has dark wavy hair that doesn't even have a hint of gray. Her eyes are still a milky brown. But she is tired. Her cells have reached up and out, until they have no place else to go except down again. She is entering the place of forgetting instead of remembering, and her movements have become small. My mother held Ethan and made happy chatter, because my mom is good at that, at putting people at ease, but I could not help but to notice the polar opposites in the room.
Opposites exist together, mingling like smoke and light. You can be experiencing an inexpressible sadness, and you walk outside your door and hear laughter somewhere. Or it could be raining, with the sun still blazing in the sky. Your perception of the world is truly dictated by the tilt of your axis, but you are just one small world revolving in a chaotic system of other people and their worlds. Somehow it all equals out. It balances.
The sun is gone now, leaving behind its black sky, but somewhere the sun is rising. Someone, right now, has experienced some great loss, and somewhere someone just now got their big break. Sometimes I feel the weight of the world, and I raise my eyes to look across the room, and someone looks like the picture of peace. We all get our chance at one opposite or the other. We will always be tilting back and forth, in our perceived chaos. I trust God has it under control.
Has the world stopped?
I thought I felt its axis shift.
I am hanging onto
A rail, seasick, back of
My hand over my mouth.
I am sure the world has changed.
I see everything through cracks
In a mirror splitting the scenery
In pieces. It doesn’t fit together.
Did it ever? Did I force it
Into a misconstrued puzzle
Where the sun is below and
The ground is in the sky?
And I called it normal.
I said, look at all my
Normalcy. Marvelous how
I strike perfect angles against
The blurred backdrop of
Dissidence. See how I make
Clear lines, drawing them with
My finger (but don’t notice the
Nail, chewed to the quick and
Bleeding). Perhaps the world
Has fallen on its side, a bulbous
Giant unable to right itself, and
I am stuck underneath it, the breath
Leaving me. I reach for the ground,
But it is in the sky and the sun burns
My fingers. My hands are bathed in flame
And I pull them back, helpless.
I start drawing lines again.
I have a different view. I think the world is divided more into immovable poles on each end of an axis; our earth moves in accordance to the pole on which we are positioned. We turn with the sun and tides in one position and then with them in reverse according to the tilt of our world. Our lives are so much dictated by the position we have, on one pole or the opposite, that our perception of the world cannot help but to follow that path.
I visited two places this morning. I first took my son Ethan to the doctor. He is one, and is just beginning to wrap his little mind around words and their meanings, of gestures of affection and protest, of movement. He looks at me with his clear, ageless blue eyes and I am mesmerized by his utter embodiment of youth and child.
Ethan and I then went to the nearby hospital and visited by grandmother. I work in a healthcare setting, so sick people shouldn't affect me, but today it did. For some reason, the stark transition from youth to individuals sailing into the dusk of their lives caught me off guard. When I entered my grandmother's room, my brother and mother were there, standing around her bed in an all-to-small space. As I have said before, my grandmother was a beautiful woman, and she still is. She has dark wavy hair that doesn't even have a hint of gray. Her eyes are still a milky brown. But she is tired. Her cells have reached up and out, until they have no place else to go except down again. She is entering the place of forgetting instead of remembering, and her movements have become small. My mother held Ethan and made happy chatter, because my mom is good at that, at putting people at ease, but I could not help but to notice the polar opposites in the room.
Opposites exist together, mingling like smoke and light. You can be experiencing an inexpressible sadness, and you walk outside your door and hear laughter somewhere. Or it could be raining, with the sun still blazing in the sky. Your perception of the world is truly dictated by the tilt of your axis, but you are just one small world revolving in a chaotic system of other people and their worlds. Somehow it all equals out. It balances.
The sun is gone now, leaving behind its black sky, but somewhere the sun is rising. Someone, right now, has experienced some great loss, and somewhere someone just now got their big break. Sometimes I feel the weight of the world, and I raise my eyes to look across the room, and someone looks like the picture of peace. We all get our chance at one opposite or the other. We will always be tilting back and forth, in our perceived chaos. I trust God has it under control.
Has the world stopped?
I thought I felt its axis shift.
I am hanging onto
A rail, seasick, back of
My hand over my mouth.
I am sure the world has changed.
I see everything through cracks
In a mirror splitting the scenery
In pieces. It doesn’t fit together.
Did it ever? Did I force it
Into a misconstrued puzzle
Where the sun is below and
The ground is in the sky?
And I called it normal.
I said, look at all my
Normalcy. Marvelous how
I strike perfect angles against
The blurred backdrop of
Dissidence. See how I make
Clear lines, drawing them with
My finger (but don’t notice the
Nail, chewed to the quick and
Bleeding). Perhaps the world
Has fallen on its side, a bulbous
Giant unable to right itself, and
I am stuck underneath it, the breath
Leaving me. I reach for the ground,
But it is in the sky and the sun burns
My fingers. My hands are bathed in flame
And I pull them back, helpless.
I start drawing lines again.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Cloud Cover
In the fall, in West Virginia, there are always clouds. They lay in a thick blanket usually, covering the horizon in layers of gray. When I get my son out of his crib in the morning, I always look out his window to assess the clouds. Sometimes they are pulling apart in the middle with the blush of dawn making the sky look like cotton candy. Or perhaps they are lumpy, like handfuls of crumpled tissue. But often they are black and forboding, with no definition to tell the difference between cloud and sky. It is just the dark warning of the coming rain.
Cloud cover is oppressive I think. It presses down on you and causes the molecules in your body to realign into something harder and impermeable, becoming resistant to the rain. It is no wonder that we often compare storms to life's trials. They press you into something different, too. Makes your skin thick and even calloused sometimes. Makes your mind bend in a direction you never thought it would go. Makes you wrap your arms around your head and close your eyes tight so you can't see things around you at all. Clouds and trials seem to limit your space, as if you are bound up in a tiny box.
I think change is good. I am not a particular fan, and I don't seek change out usually, but sometimes you change, and maybe aren't aware of it until the change is complete. When I was younger, perhaps in my 20s, I was a totally different person than I am now. I was more diffuse, parts of me scattered everywhere. Then life came in all its various forms of clouds, pressing me into something much more solid and orderly. I understand myself much better now, and I know why I feel the way I feel.
So, clouds and rain, whether in life or on the literal horizon, do press you down, and even though painful at the time, they change you, often into something that is much more unbreakable. Stronger.
Just so your know, this morning when I got Ethan out of his crib, there were actually no clouds in the sky. Good sign. I am wide open today. But if the rain comes, I will be ready.
Aurora
When you think of me,
When your mind
Takes a path, stepping
Backward, foot behind foot,
Watching for flashes of
Me, in the periphery
Of memory,
I wonder if you notice
I am diffuse;
Particles sliding
Past one another,
Movement fluid
Like the pumping
Of oiled pistons,
An unrelenting
Shifting of elements.
If you try and
Hold me,
Like something
Concrete,
I fall through
Your fingers,
Grains of sand,
Bits of something
Once larger and
Dense, without
Space and shadow.
When you find me,
Finally,
A sky blazing with
Dissipating light,
Fragments on fire
With comet tails
Full of pieces of me
Left
From another time,
Please excuse me
If I don’t stay.
I am fading
Again.
Cloud cover is oppressive I think. It presses down on you and causes the molecules in your body to realign into something harder and impermeable, becoming resistant to the rain. It is no wonder that we often compare storms to life's trials. They press you into something different, too. Makes your skin thick and even calloused sometimes. Makes your mind bend in a direction you never thought it would go. Makes you wrap your arms around your head and close your eyes tight so you can't see things around you at all. Clouds and trials seem to limit your space, as if you are bound up in a tiny box.
I think change is good. I am not a particular fan, and I don't seek change out usually, but sometimes you change, and maybe aren't aware of it until the change is complete. When I was younger, perhaps in my 20s, I was a totally different person than I am now. I was more diffuse, parts of me scattered everywhere. Then life came in all its various forms of clouds, pressing me into something much more solid and orderly. I understand myself much better now, and I know why I feel the way I feel.
So, clouds and rain, whether in life or on the literal horizon, do press you down, and even though painful at the time, they change you, often into something that is much more unbreakable. Stronger.
Just so your know, this morning when I got Ethan out of his crib, there were actually no clouds in the sky. Good sign. I am wide open today. But if the rain comes, I will be ready.
Aurora
When you think of me,
When your mind
Takes a path, stepping
Backward, foot behind foot,
Watching for flashes of
Me, in the periphery
Of memory,
I wonder if you notice
I am diffuse;
Particles sliding
Past one another,
Movement fluid
Like the pumping
Of oiled pistons,
An unrelenting
Shifting of elements.
If you try and
Hold me,
Like something
Concrete,
I fall through
Your fingers,
Grains of sand,
Bits of something
Once larger and
Dense, without
Space and shadow.
When you find me,
Finally,
A sky blazing with
Dissipating light,
Fragments on fire
With comet tails
Full of pieces of me
Left
From another time,
Please excuse me
If I don’t stay.
I am fading
Again.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Ghost Walls
I am a speech therapist working in a nursing home. I don't apologize for it. I chose it. I like the old folks full of their stories. And they have so many. I still see World War II veterans on a regular basis. I see women women who still try to quilt and sew despite arthritic hands. I see all sorts of older people, white haired and rolling in wheelchairs, reaching out for me. They want to share their stories.
There is one thing that always astounds me about my job's environment. It is the pictures. Families bring in pictures of their loved ones. The old black and white or sepia toned ones, of our patients in their youths. Families want to create a sense of home, a sense of memory and comfort, despite the hospital bed and the white tiled floors.
It's the pictures that get me. I am mesmorized by them. First, you look at your patient, this little slip of a woman perhaps, usually in an ill-fitting sweat suit. Her hair is white and thin, combed back away from the hollow face. And her hands. The hands with thick tendons protruding under wafer thin skin. Then you look above her, on her wall, and see her picture when she was, perhaps 20 or so. Her hair then was thick and black, and wavy on top, and pulled back on the sides. Her mouth is painted with dark lipstick, and there is just a hint of a smile in the corners. But the eyes, sometimes piercing, are almost the same as the woman, aged 60 years after the photo, sitting in front of you. You can tell the picture and the person are the same because of the eyes.
Some patients have walls devoted to old photos. As I fed a gentleman once, spooning food into his mouth, I looked around at all his pictures. There were pictures of him, some with his wife, and a couple of his daughter as an infant. There were two pictures of what I presumed were his parents. They were in solemn black clothes, man seated and woman, her suit cenched tight at the waist, with a hand resting loosely at his shoulder. They didn't smile, but seemed to look, perplexed and angered, at the camera. I also worked with a proud woman once, whose portraits lined her walls. They represented her at all ages, but with the same stately look - beautiful dark eyes and an air of wealth about her. When I worked with her, she couldn't remember what she had for breakfast, but she could always sit with me and admire her own pictures.
My favorite pictures are the candid shots. They are in multi-opening frames usually, and all the life of the pictures put in the frames jump out at you. There are pictures of women, all looking around at each other, dark mouths open and laughing, standing with arms loosely wrapped around each other in front of white snowball bushes. Or there are pictures of men, cross-legged on a sofa with a geometric afgan thrown over the back, with cigarettes wedged in between forefingers and middle fingers. There are also some of mothers with babies on their laps. The mothers in these pictures are never looking at the camera; they are always looking over at their babies, seemingly amazed that they were able to create such a being out of themselves.
Life to me is a little like a ghost wall of pictures. There are moments that you want to freeze because they are so utterly perfect. There aren't many moments like this, but over a lifetime, you might collect enough to fit into a collage frame. But by the time you do, your pictures are old and in black and white. A feast of images of times past. But aren't we lucky that we are able to have these moments, old though they might be, that we can always admire in our minds. Like an album plastered all over the inside of our brains.
My grandmother is 83. There is a picture that my mother has of her on the steps of Inez High School. She is seated, her graduation dress spread around her, a dark, full skirt, and light colored scoop-necked top. Her hands are clasped lightly in her lap, and her held is tilted just slightly to the left. She had the most beautiful full head of black hair. My mom says there was no one more lovely than my grandmother. And that her will and resolve were strong and unbreakable. I am thankful that I have access to these images, of generations fading, to know from which I came, and to see their previous lives unfolded and real.
These ghost walls often call out to me, as if to say, Remember me. I came before you and I will come after you and I will always be. Because, really, we all spring from the images on the wall.
There is one thing that always astounds me about my job's environment. It is the pictures. Families bring in pictures of their loved ones. The old black and white or sepia toned ones, of our patients in their youths. Families want to create a sense of home, a sense of memory and comfort, despite the hospital bed and the white tiled floors.
It's the pictures that get me. I am mesmorized by them. First, you look at your patient, this little slip of a woman perhaps, usually in an ill-fitting sweat suit. Her hair is white and thin, combed back away from the hollow face. And her hands. The hands with thick tendons protruding under wafer thin skin. Then you look above her, on her wall, and see her picture when she was, perhaps 20 or so. Her hair then was thick and black, and wavy on top, and pulled back on the sides. Her mouth is painted with dark lipstick, and there is just a hint of a smile in the corners. But the eyes, sometimes piercing, are almost the same as the woman, aged 60 years after the photo, sitting in front of you. You can tell the picture and the person are the same because of the eyes.
Some patients have walls devoted to old photos. As I fed a gentleman once, spooning food into his mouth, I looked around at all his pictures. There were pictures of him, some with his wife, and a couple of his daughter as an infant. There were two pictures of what I presumed were his parents. They were in solemn black clothes, man seated and woman, her suit cenched tight at the waist, with a hand resting loosely at his shoulder. They didn't smile, but seemed to look, perplexed and angered, at the camera. I also worked with a proud woman once, whose portraits lined her walls. They represented her at all ages, but with the same stately look - beautiful dark eyes and an air of wealth about her. When I worked with her, she couldn't remember what she had for breakfast, but she could always sit with me and admire her own pictures.
My favorite pictures are the candid shots. They are in multi-opening frames usually, and all the life of the pictures put in the frames jump out at you. There are pictures of women, all looking around at each other, dark mouths open and laughing, standing with arms loosely wrapped around each other in front of white snowball bushes. Or there are pictures of men, cross-legged on a sofa with a geometric afgan thrown over the back, with cigarettes wedged in between forefingers and middle fingers. There are also some of mothers with babies on their laps. The mothers in these pictures are never looking at the camera; they are always looking over at their babies, seemingly amazed that they were able to create such a being out of themselves.
Life to me is a little like a ghost wall of pictures. There are moments that you want to freeze because they are so utterly perfect. There aren't many moments like this, but over a lifetime, you might collect enough to fit into a collage frame. But by the time you do, your pictures are old and in black and white. A feast of images of times past. But aren't we lucky that we are able to have these moments, old though they might be, that we can always admire in our minds. Like an album plastered all over the inside of our brains.
My grandmother is 83. There is a picture that my mother has of her on the steps of Inez High School. She is seated, her graduation dress spread around her, a dark, full skirt, and light colored scoop-necked top. Her hands are clasped lightly in her lap, and her held is tilted just slightly to the left. She had the most beautiful full head of black hair. My mom says there was no one more lovely than my grandmother. And that her will and resolve were strong and unbreakable. I am thankful that I have access to these images, of generations fading, to know from which I came, and to see their previous lives unfolded and real.
These ghost walls often call out to me, as if to say, Remember me. I came before you and I will come after you and I will always be. Because, really, we all spring from the images on the wall.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A Bit of Good Advise
I once told a friend of mine, who wondered how to deal with the reality of life, you need to pray when it gets hard, pray when you have a million reasons to give thanks, pray in between, and live your life. It was excellent advise, I think.
Too bad there are days when I can't even follow my own advise. Today was one of those days for me. I am so good at dishing out good tidings to other people, patting, encouraging, hoping. I enjoy doing that. I want people to feel o.k. I want them to feel better again.
It's just that sometimes I can't do that for me. Sometimes, I just have to find a quiet place, because I feel so exposed. I wear my emotions all over myself, so it is obvious when I am overwhelmed or sad or upset. I don't want people to see that I am on occassion not strong. Actually, my skin is rather thin. Sometimes not protective at all.
It is also hard to show off your flaws. I feel like I wear mine like girl scout badges sometimes, displayed on a big green sash for all to see. My Cry-Too-Easily Badge. My Regret Badge. My I'm-Not-A-Perfect-Mom badge. There are many others, I assure you.
So, today, I wore my badges. I wore them to work, and then to my daughters' dance class, and even wore them at the dinner table. When my mom finally called me, the tears started rolling, because it had been coming on all day, and sometimes just at the sound of her voice, I am a little child again.
After a good deal of me lamenting all my flaws and baggage, my mom said, "Jennifer, I think you're perfect. You are one of the most perfect people I know." Now, I know she is my mother, but I don't think she said it because she thought she had to. Despite my badges and my horrible display of misplaced emotion, I was still perfect to her. People who love you, who care about you and have no reason to judge you, have a knack for that. Seeing your perfection when clearly you are an utter representation of imperfection.
I felt better after that talk. I took a walk and felt very close to God. I am thankful that He has strategically placed people in my life right where they should be.
Here's a bit of a poem to reflect some feelings of the day.
Favor
Descending
Like an ax
Splits me
In two
Down the
Middle
I fall
An apple
In two
Halves
I am
Exposed
The bruise
Unnoticeable
On the red
Skin is deep
To the core
Could you
Kindly cut out
The ugly spots
Of me
If not
Why did you
Bother with
The knife anyway
Too bad there are days when I can't even follow my own advise. Today was one of those days for me. I am so good at dishing out good tidings to other people, patting, encouraging, hoping. I enjoy doing that. I want people to feel o.k. I want them to feel better again.
It's just that sometimes I can't do that for me. Sometimes, I just have to find a quiet place, because I feel so exposed. I wear my emotions all over myself, so it is obvious when I am overwhelmed or sad or upset. I don't want people to see that I am on occassion not strong. Actually, my skin is rather thin. Sometimes not protective at all.
It is also hard to show off your flaws. I feel like I wear mine like girl scout badges sometimes, displayed on a big green sash for all to see. My Cry-Too-Easily Badge. My Regret Badge. My I'm-Not-A-Perfect-Mom badge. There are many others, I assure you.
So, today, I wore my badges. I wore them to work, and then to my daughters' dance class, and even wore them at the dinner table. When my mom finally called me, the tears started rolling, because it had been coming on all day, and sometimes just at the sound of her voice, I am a little child again.
After a good deal of me lamenting all my flaws and baggage, my mom said, "Jennifer, I think you're perfect. You are one of the most perfect people I know." Now, I know she is my mother, but I don't think she said it because she thought she had to. Despite my badges and my horrible display of misplaced emotion, I was still perfect to her. People who love you, who care about you and have no reason to judge you, have a knack for that. Seeing your perfection when clearly you are an utter representation of imperfection.
I felt better after that talk. I took a walk and felt very close to God. I am thankful that He has strategically placed people in my life right where they should be.
Here's a bit of a poem to reflect some feelings of the day.
Favor
Descending
Like an ax
Splits me
In two
Down the
Middle
I fall
An apple
In two
Halves
I am
Exposed
The bruise
Unnoticeable
On the red
Skin is deep
To the core
Could you
Kindly cut out
The ugly spots
Of me
If not
Why did you
Bother with
The knife anyway
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Punctuated By Disappointment
I am a planner. Not in the traditional sense of the word, where I make lists, check them three times over, ensuring every detail is in place. No, my planning happens in my head, where I develop an ultimate vision for the upcoming event or action. I can concoct a vision that is so perfectly constructed, that it probably could never occur in real life. But I expect it to. And I expect it to happen despite me not attending to details and ignoring the mishaps of life. If the dream in my head does not become the reality I expect, I am flooded with a devastating disappointment.
My mother claims I have always been like this. My husband deals everyday with my lofty and ambitious visions that are almost impossible to make happen. When I think of my dream house, I imagine a white farmhouse, sun creating a halo around it, with a huge oak tree in the front yard, a stream meandering in the distance, and not a neighbor in sight. The sun is always, always shining in my dream. Or, if you ask me what my dream occupation is, I would conjure up for you a picture of a college office overrun with woodwork and books, and I am behind a dishevelled desk, busy composing my next masterpiece. The sun is also always shining on me in this vision, with tiny particles of dust dancing in the the rays.
So, you can see where my life has taken a different turn. I do not yet live in the sprawling countryside. I live in a modest neighborhood where I could almost reach out and touch the house next to me. I am not a genius Pulitzer prize winning novelist slash college professor. I am a speech pathologist, and I work with the elderly. I don't write much, except for here. It has not at all turned out the way I had originally thought.
My husband and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary this year. I had intended for us to renew our wedding vows on the beach at Maui. I could see it all -- me in a white sundress and all my children in little Hawaiian shirts, and my husband in bare feet. Disappointment number one: that was way too pricey of a trip for a family of five. So, I settled for a weekend in Asheville in a charming Bed and Breakfast. My husband helped me pick out the room, and I made the reservations. I was quickly developing a vision of candlelit dinners and romantic tours of the Biltmore. Without children, mind you. My parents and in-laws had agreed to watch the children for our getaway.
Another disappointment. No one would watch our dogs. The place where we usually kennel them was in the process of changing facilities, and my dogs (not any dogs, they are special needs bassett hounds) had no place to go. So I reluctantly rescheduled the trip to the fall. The leaves in North Carolina would be beautiful then, wouldn't they? And just imagine the fire in our room at the B&B....
So, morning of the big trip, I rolled out of bed to wake my daughter Emma up for school. I could feel her fever as soon as I put my hand on her. The disappointment began to descend, but I pushed it back. She just needs a little medicine for that cough, I thought. So my husband took her to the doctor. When he called me from the doctor's office, and I heard Emma crying in the background, in the dramatic way that only she has, I knew it was over.
It's the flu, Jennifer, Chris said.
That heavy curtain of disappointment fell over me. No intimate dinners. No Biltmore winery. No shopping in little artsy stores. Mommy, Emma said over the phone, I just want you.
What was I to do but postpone the trip again. Chris brought Emma home, face splotched from crying, and I smoothed the hair away from her face, and put her in my bed. I gave her a Popsicle and turned on her favorite cartoons. She fell asleep for a while. During that time, I called the B&B, and rescheduled our weekend for December. I called work and told them I would probably be working this weekend, as usual. I undid all the preparations I had made.
When Emma woke up from her nap, she was cool as she could be. She proclaimed a miraculous recovery. She played the rest of the day. And it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, like a crayon, and she sat on the ground and watched Chris rake red autumn leaves. She laid her head back and looked up into the impossible blue and traced wispy clouds with her finger.
It was clear to me by one in the afternoon that Chris and I could have probably gone on our trip. I tried to be disappointed the rest of the day.I tried to have a bad attitude, and generally pout because the day had not turned out as I had intended. And for all this pouting and grumpiness, what I managed to miss was Emma's amazement and wonder at being at home on school day, sun all over her face, playing with her dad. And I missed out on Ethan's first attempt at using a rake. I heard it was adorable. I don't know; I was sulking somewhere, not paying attention.
Although I have clothed myself in disappointment many times, and I am sure I will many times in the future, I am trying to look through the disappointment for a silver lining. I used to think life was just punctuated by disappointment; it was the disappointment that made you stop, like a period at the end of a sentence. I am trying to just take a pause instead of stopping completely; it is in the stopping that you miss tiny opportunities that God gives you: the curiosity of a child, the breathtaking colors of the fall sky, the love of your family.
Disappointment perhaps is God's redirection.
My mother claims I have always been like this. My husband deals everyday with my lofty and ambitious visions that are almost impossible to make happen. When I think of my dream house, I imagine a white farmhouse, sun creating a halo around it, with a huge oak tree in the front yard, a stream meandering in the distance, and not a neighbor in sight. The sun is always, always shining in my dream. Or, if you ask me what my dream occupation is, I would conjure up for you a picture of a college office overrun with woodwork and books, and I am behind a dishevelled desk, busy composing my next masterpiece. The sun is also always shining on me in this vision, with tiny particles of dust dancing in the the rays.
So, you can see where my life has taken a different turn. I do not yet live in the sprawling countryside. I live in a modest neighborhood where I could almost reach out and touch the house next to me. I am not a genius Pulitzer prize winning novelist slash college professor. I am a speech pathologist, and I work with the elderly. I don't write much, except for here. It has not at all turned out the way I had originally thought.
My husband and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary this year. I had intended for us to renew our wedding vows on the beach at Maui. I could see it all -- me in a white sundress and all my children in little Hawaiian shirts, and my husband in bare feet. Disappointment number one: that was way too pricey of a trip for a family of five. So, I settled for a weekend in Asheville in a charming Bed and Breakfast. My husband helped me pick out the room, and I made the reservations. I was quickly developing a vision of candlelit dinners and romantic tours of the Biltmore. Without children, mind you. My parents and in-laws had agreed to watch the children for our getaway.
Another disappointment. No one would watch our dogs. The place where we usually kennel them was in the process of changing facilities, and my dogs (not any dogs, they are special needs bassett hounds) had no place to go. So I reluctantly rescheduled the trip to the fall. The leaves in North Carolina would be beautiful then, wouldn't they? And just imagine the fire in our room at the B&B....
So, morning of the big trip, I rolled out of bed to wake my daughter Emma up for school. I could feel her fever as soon as I put my hand on her. The disappointment began to descend, but I pushed it back. She just needs a little medicine for that cough, I thought. So my husband took her to the doctor. When he called me from the doctor's office, and I heard Emma crying in the background, in the dramatic way that only she has, I knew it was over.
It's the flu, Jennifer, Chris said.
That heavy curtain of disappointment fell over me. No intimate dinners. No Biltmore winery. No shopping in little artsy stores. Mommy, Emma said over the phone, I just want you.
What was I to do but postpone the trip again. Chris brought Emma home, face splotched from crying, and I smoothed the hair away from her face, and put her in my bed. I gave her a Popsicle and turned on her favorite cartoons. She fell asleep for a while. During that time, I called the B&B, and rescheduled our weekend for December. I called work and told them I would probably be working this weekend, as usual. I undid all the preparations I had made.
When Emma woke up from her nap, she was cool as she could be. She proclaimed a miraculous recovery. She played the rest of the day. And it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, like a crayon, and she sat on the ground and watched Chris rake red autumn leaves. She laid her head back and looked up into the impossible blue and traced wispy clouds with her finger.
It was clear to me by one in the afternoon that Chris and I could have probably gone on our trip. I tried to be disappointed the rest of the day.I tried to have a bad attitude, and generally pout because the day had not turned out as I had intended. And for all this pouting and grumpiness, what I managed to miss was Emma's amazement and wonder at being at home on school day, sun all over her face, playing with her dad. And I missed out on Ethan's first attempt at using a rake. I heard it was adorable. I don't know; I was sulking somewhere, not paying attention.
Although I have clothed myself in disappointment many times, and I am sure I will many times in the future, I am trying to look through the disappointment for a silver lining. I used to think life was just punctuated by disappointment; it was the disappointment that made you stop, like a period at the end of a sentence. I am trying to just take a pause instead of stopping completely; it is in the stopping that you miss tiny opportunities that God gives you: the curiosity of a child, the breathtaking colors of the fall sky, the love of your family.
Disappointment perhaps is God's redirection.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Peace
Peace
Rushes to the edges
Of the outline of
Life but
Does not stay
In the middle
I am there
Looking at it
Admiring it
Like a child’s
Drawn sunrise
The rays are fat
And yellow
Crooked but
Beautiful
I reach out to
Pull it back
So I can know it
In the middle
Where I am
Where my life
Is
But the butter
Mirage of
Crayon lines
Remains on
The edge
Rushes to the edges
Of the outline of
Life but
Does not stay
In the middle
I am there
Looking at it
Admiring it
Like a child’s
Drawn sunrise
The rays are fat
And yellow
Crooked but
Beautiful
I reach out to
Pull it back
So I can know it
In the middle
Where I am
Where my life
Is
But the butter
Mirage of
Crayon lines
Remains on
The edge
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Art of Disinfecting
When two of my children came down with the flu, I did what any good mother would do. I began the process of killing off the pesky virus. While Ethan looked up at me with his red, weepy eyes, his cheeks still flushed with fever, I began stripping all the sheets off the beds. Using the "Sanitize" setting on the washer, reserved especially for a crisis like this, I steamed the life out of the invisible germs. I also boiled any medication dispensing devices, little cups and droppers ans spoons, and I sanitized the parts to the nebulizier. Finally, as Amelia attempted to sleep off her illness, I retrieved from under the kitchen sink every cleaner I had with germ killing power: sprays with bleach, antibacterial wipes, and most importantly Lysol. I would spray and wipe, spray and wipe, any hard surface I could find. Nothing was immune to my Lysol; door knobs, countertops, light switches, and sinks were drenched in the virus murdering mist. And when I had gotten all these surfaces, I started again. Spray and wipe, spray and wipe. I was determined no one else in my household would get sick.
But, much to my dismay, my husband began to cough, and lay in bed with fatigue, dragging himself to his feet long enough to go to the doctor. Then I began to feel the ache in my back and moving up my neck, and although I didn't feel horrible, I did not feel good enough to take care of three sick people. But I did my best. I divvied up and distributed medicine. And then I would spray and wipe. Spray and wipe. By the time my husband and children were on the mend, I was feeling a little worse, and then I lost my voice. It seemed my attempt at disinfecting had not been good enough.
Life is often like a dirty countertop. It's always a little messy. Even if you look at it from way back, and it looks fairly pristine, when you get right up on it, there's always something unsightly: a grease smear, a splatter of soda, some crumbs from morning toast. Or even some invisible germs. We can try our best to spray and wipe away all the imperfections, only to find new ones cropping up. Life is not meant to be perfect. Or to be wiped perfectly clean. We are made strong through frailty, and made more wise through imperfection. To think that we can create a void to these things is to create in ourselves even greater weakness and disappointment.
Now, that is easier said. As I still set forlornly staring at my half empty can of Lysol, I wish it had taken all the germs away. I wish my throat didn't feel like it was swollen to double its size in the morning when I wake up. I wish my son and daughter didn't have to miss several days of their lives and activities during their bout with the flu. But I will be fine, as my whole family will be. And our immunity will be even stronger.
But, much to my dismay, my husband began to cough, and lay in bed with fatigue, dragging himself to his feet long enough to go to the doctor. Then I began to feel the ache in my back and moving up my neck, and although I didn't feel horrible, I did not feel good enough to take care of three sick people. But I did my best. I divvied up and distributed medicine. And then I would spray and wipe. Spray and wipe. By the time my husband and children were on the mend, I was feeling a little worse, and then I lost my voice. It seemed my attempt at disinfecting had not been good enough.
Life is often like a dirty countertop. It's always a little messy. Even if you look at it from way back, and it looks fairly pristine, when you get right up on it, there's always something unsightly: a grease smear, a splatter of soda, some crumbs from morning toast. Or even some invisible germs. We can try our best to spray and wipe away all the imperfections, only to find new ones cropping up. Life is not meant to be perfect. Or to be wiped perfectly clean. We are made strong through frailty, and made more wise through imperfection. To think that we can create a void to these things is to create in ourselves even greater weakness and disappointment.
Now, that is easier said. As I still set forlornly staring at my half empty can of Lysol, I wish it had taken all the germs away. I wish my throat didn't feel like it was swollen to double its size in the morning when I wake up. I wish my son and daughter didn't have to miss several days of their lives and activities during their bout with the flu. But I will be fine, as my whole family will be. And our immunity will be even stronger.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Opening Up the World
I walk. I walk because I begrudgingly know it's good for me. I walk because I know that my heart will beat hard against my chest and my lungs will expand to fill my cells with oxygen. I know that even on the smallest level, it is important.
But, my selfish motive is that I get to be alone. I walk most often at night and always by myself. My son has been put to bed, and I leave my daughters watching TV, tucked in their beds, and I make my break. I like to walk outside, cloaked in the darkness, and I like to watch the night sky. I have seen the sky in all sorts of ways. I have seen it impeccably black and splayed with stars. I have seen it with no stars at all, because they are hidden behind the clouds that I know are there but that I cannot see. I have seen a mixture of both these skies; the stars disappear and reappear behind disconnected bodies of clouds crawling by imperceptibly.
I have also noticed all sorts of moons. I have seen full moons, sometimes far away and sometimes orange and filling the sky. I have seen the moon sliced in half, and sometimes just a sliver of the moon, with sharp hooked edges. I have seen the absence of the moon, which makes the night even more deliciously black and concealing. So, I walk underneath all these skies and all these moons and I wrap myself up in its solitude.
One evening, when I was basking in all of this, a fleeting voice in my head told me, "You have to open up the world." My mind does this to me sometimes, throws darts through my thoughts and brings me to attention. My feet moved under me, but my mind had stopped, considering the idea of opening up the world. I imagined the equator the dividing line, hinged at the back of the earth, and my hand descending from somewhere in the universe and, like a toy box, flipping up the northern hemisphere to reveal all the earth's layers, arranged in increasingly malleable and molten strips.
What I knew I was telling myself, though, was I need to open myself up life around me. I so often surround myself in a comfortable cushion of darkness, alone, and I turn away from people and experiences in favor of the safety I find within my walls, away from the possibility of disappointment or hurt. I have often wondered why God would want to put us in situations that cause pain, or to let us suffer loss that seems unbearable. To watch us throw up our hands in disbelief to our situations. It is in times like these that I retreat into the darkness, with a moonless sky above me.
What I realized that evening, when a voice whispered in my ear open up the world , I need to not fear the possibility of suffering or pain. I need to place myself in daylight, to put on display my frailty, for all to see. God did not intend for us to have it easy all the time, but to face the world, with all its wonderful people and places, and its cruelty as well, and to learn from each experience, be it good or bad. I think God wanted us to grow through our life, and to hide away from it only stunts that growth, like a seedling planted in the dark.
I still walk at night. I still enjoy the changing scenery of the night sky, and the different faces of the moon, with its sometimes round, and sometimes piercing shape. But I am trying everyday to open up the world a little more, to leave the protection I find in myself and venture into the light of day.
But, my selfish motive is that I get to be alone. I walk most often at night and always by myself. My son has been put to bed, and I leave my daughters watching TV, tucked in their beds, and I make my break. I like to walk outside, cloaked in the darkness, and I like to watch the night sky. I have seen the sky in all sorts of ways. I have seen it impeccably black and splayed with stars. I have seen it with no stars at all, because they are hidden behind the clouds that I know are there but that I cannot see. I have seen a mixture of both these skies; the stars disappear and reappear behind disconnected bodies of clouds crawling by imperceptibly.
I have also noticed all sorts of moons. I have seen full moons, sometimes far away and sometimes orange and filling the sky. I have seen the moon sliced in half, and sometimes just a sliver of the moon, with sharp hooked edges. I have seen the absence of the moon, which makes the night even more deliciously black and concealing. So, I walk underneath all these skies and all these moons and I wrap myself up in its solitude.
One evening, when I was basking in all of this, a fleeting voice in my head told me, "You have to open up the world." My mind does this to me sometimes, throws darts through my thoughts and brings me to attention. My feet moved under me, but my mind had stopped, considering the idea of opening up the world. I imagined the equator the dividing line, hinged at the back of the earth, and my hand descending from somewhere in the universe and, like a toy box, flipping up the northern hemisphere to reveal all the earth's layers, arranged in increasingly malleable and molten strips.
What I knew I was telling myself, though, was I need to open myself up life around me. I so often surround myself in a comfortable cushion of darkness, alone, and I turn away from people and experiences in favor of the safety I find within my walls, away from the possibility of disappointment or hurt. I have often wondered why God would want to put us in situations that cause pain, or to let us suffer loss that seems unbearable. To watch us throw up our hands in disbelief to our situations. It is in times like these that I retreat into the darkness, with a moonless sky above me.
What I realized that evening, when a voice whispered in my ear open up the world , I need to not fear the possibility of suffering or pain. I need to place myself in daylight, to put on display my frailty, for all to see. God did not intend for us to have it easy all the time, but to face the world, with all its wonderful people and places, and its cruelty as well, and to learn from each experience, be it good or bad. I think God wanted us to grow through our life, and to hide away from it only stunts that growth, like a seedling planted in the dark.
I still walk at night. I still enjoy the changing scenery of the night sky, and the different faces of the moon, with its sometimes round, and sometimes piercing shape. But I am trying everyday to open up the world a little more, to leave the protection I find in myself and venture into the light of day.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Rogue Planet
It is about 10 at night. Sitting in my bed, cross-legged (which makes an excellent table for my laptop), I am surrounded by the trappings of my very ordinary life: my daughter's homework papers, miscellaneous crayons (most broken and all blunted at the end by much use), my husband's dress shirt thrown across the end of the bed. All objects I see everyday. All objects that comfort me in their very connection to the lives of my family. All objects that make concrete for me the direction my life has taken.
At that epiphany, I draw in my breath, which I am sure is inaudible, because I am a bit ashamed of the feeling that sweeps over me. The direction my life has taken. It is at times like this that I feel foreign to myself, as if I float above the woman sitting on the bed, and I whisper, Who is that person? Is that me? Really?
Your 30s. I have found for me it is has been a period of analysis, inner change, and realization. At times I have reached my hands deep into dark places and have drawn up to the surface aspects about myself that had never seen the light before. At other times, I have wept for the things about myself that I felt growing smaller and smaller, like imploding stars. And I think now, it is these imploding stars, these hot, volatile cores of concentrated need, that have lead me here, to sitting down and writing this.
To be perfectly clear, I have a beautiful family: 2 beautiful daughters, a handsome son, and devoted husband. I have a nice home and a good job. I have an honorable profession that allows me to help other people. I have a love of God, and I thank Him everyday for His gifts. I have more than most, and probably do not deserve all that I have.
But, I have developed as of late, in my 30s, a need for something more. I feel something in me (and it is sometimes a physical feeling), that has been caged for too long. An avenue for creative release. And so, this blog came about at my husband's prompting. Thank goodness for me, he understands this longing I have. This longing to recapture parts of myself that I had put away in order to make room for first finishing school, then getting married and starting work, and finally starting a family.
Now, I rarely turn on the TV, but sometimes I will watch the History Channel. I prefer a good mummy show, but on one occasion, a program about the universe was on. In this particular episode, they were detailing atypical galactic masses. One of these was called a planemo. A planemo is a planet that doesn't have a star around which to revolve. These planets drift through space, of their own accord. How lonely, I thought, but such a perfect analogy to our lives as humans. At times we move through life aimlessly, without a guiding force or in dissolution, just as a planemo would. But other times, we come in contact with splendor. We graze by stars that throw their radiating light deep into space. We navigate through cold belts of asteroids. We are enveloped in rainbow clouds of strange gasses, and are drawn dangerously close to black holes. We are at times in the presence of awesome circumstances and at others we are on a dark path as if in a void. But always we are moving, moving from one celestial wonder or danger to another, always searching.
So, with this blog I hope to explore my journey. I hope that you will help me explore it and learn something about your journey, too. Because we all have one, and we might at some point pass each other in the night sky.
At that epiphany, I draw in my breath, which I am sure is inaudible, because I am a bit ashamed of the feeling that sweeps over me. The direction my life has taken. It is at times like this that I feel foreign to myself, as if I float above the woman sitting on the bed, and I whisper, Who is that person? Is that me? Really?
Your 30s. I have found for me it is has been a period of analysis, inner change, and realization. At times I have reached my hands deep into dark places and have drawn up to the surface aspects about myself that had never seen the light before. At other times, I have wept for the things about myself that I felt growing smaller and smaller, like imploding stars. And I think now, it is these imploding stars, these hot, volatile cores of concentrated need, that have lead me here, to sitting down and writing this.
To be perfectly clear, I have a beautiful family: 2 beautiful daughters, a handsome son, and devoted husband. I have a nice home and a good job. I have an honorable profession that allows me to help other people. I have a love of God, and I thank Him everyday for His gifts. I have more than most, and probably do not deserve all that I have.
But, I have developed as of late, in my 30s, a need for something more. I feel something in me (and it is sometimes a physical feeling), that has been caged for too long. An avenue for creative release. And so, this blog came about at my husband's prompting. Thank goodness for me, he understands this longing I have. This longing to recapture parts of myself that I had put away in order to make room for first finishing school, then getting married and starting work, and finally starting a family.
Now, I rarely turn on the TV, but sometimes I will watch the History Channel. I prefer a good mummy show, but on one occasion, a program about the universe was on. In this particular episode, they were detailing atypical galactic masses. One of these was called a planemo. A planemo is a planet that doesn't have a star around which to revolve. These planets drift through space, of their own accord. How lonely, I thought, but such a perfect analogy to our lives as humans. At times we move through life aimlessly, without a guiding force or in dissolution, just as a planemo would. But other times, we come in contact with splendor. We graze by stars that throw their radiating light deep into space. We navigate through cold belts of asteroids. We are enveloped in rainbow clouds of strange gasses, and are drawn dangerously close to black holes. We are at times in the presence of awesome circumstances and at others we are on a dark path as if in a void. But always we are moving, moving from one celestial wonder or danger to another, always searching.
So, with this blog I hope to explore my journey. I hope that you will help me explore it and learn something about your journey, too. Because we all have one, and we might at some point pass each other in the night sky.
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