Yesterday, I got a glimpse of my future and it looks a lot like the present day of the much older lady, in perm rods two stations down from me, at the local college of beauty.
The last month has been a constant daily out of body experience; desperately trying to reinvent my self in readiness for a family reunion. The internal conversation, in my head, has been dominated by the two strongest voices ego and denial. I can't remember when either appeared in that cerebral conference room but I'm guessing that ego has been in residence much longer.
I don't follow theological dogma; couldn't recite the ten commandments but I do have a basic understanding of the golden rule and try to pay every kindness forward. My ego would be in agreement with that last statement. Living with intent…to put another"s needs ahead of mine has been the fuel which directs my feet as soon as they hit the floor.
My outer self has been neglected recently and that's no one's fault. Life just gets busy. Competition for a glimpse in the bathroom or hallway mirrors is now between the under 25 crowd in my house. I don't know, for certain, if the cats or dogs participate in this ritual. They might, given I'm always cleaning every reflective surface in their wing of the house. Furthermore, I don't need to check myself in a mirror as much these days, the clothes are hung in coordinated pairings and shoes are mostly neutral so they go with everything.
My wardrobe is functional; I don't seem to mind. My focus is on the task at hand rather than my appearance completing said task. I am who you see and that was working very well until...
I realized I needed a vacation; on my own terms, by myself and I chose to go home. So I called my brother and invited myself to stay a week. Then I thought, well, I'll be within a couple hundred miles of my in laws, so why not extend a couple of days and include a visit with them.
That's all I could dream about a month ago. All the details soon fell into play and now I'm just days from going.
I'm excited to go, my imaginary suitcase is packed and I just realized that my relatives remember what I used to look like. The last vision they had was at my father's funeral and the tearful goodbye at the airport. I was all in black, eyes red and teary, no makeup and exhausted having to take the red eye back. My husband and children did not accompany me. Didn't want them to. It was a very private affair. I had just seen Dad two weeks earlier in his hospital bed and knew then that he was not long for this world.
Well, fast forward, as I stated earlier life gets busy. I have so many things to tell everyone. A week's stay hardly seems time enough to share a decade's worth of living.
Re introductions, swapping stories and hurried memory making will all pass in the blink of an eye. There will be photographs taken at inopportune moments and now my ego is waning and denial has me in a panic. I really don't look like this…DO I?
I had my bff on speed dial and sent her a message that I was en route to have my hair done. "Did she think a new style would be flattering"? I followed that question with a personal observation: I am so vain. Her reply: " You are normal". Since when? lol " Well, there are aspects of you that are normal and I'm always surprised to see them".
My "denial" voice interrupts to inform me that my veneer has been penetrated. That the truth of the matter is I long for a change; something to get excited about, something to get me out of the comfortable rut I have been living in. Well a family reunion might just be the incentive I need.
Okay, I'm normal. Hoping that her definition was not "free of mental deficiency" and rather, "conformity to a standard" or "usual", I began to relax. Nothing to be in a panic over.
It's just nerves. Silly really. I'm unchanged where it counts but just in case, my new hair do and an occasional glance in the mirror will help me celebrate the new normal me.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Gray Scale
I am just sitting here wondering about my life at this juncture and the details which define it. When did my life slide from the endless combinations on the color wheel to a palette of monochromatic tones?
It wasn't' planned that way. I've been reading my mother's diaries and her descriptions of me, spanning 31 years of our journey, were never neutral. She didn't leave out any details and I'm embarrassed to read what she really thought. Who was I then? Who am I now?
It's all there in black and white and occasionally red and white (on the occasion of Christmas, when using a red ink pen was her tradition). I've just started this review and completed three and one-half years, not in chronological order, but rather gathering volumes from the peanut packed box my brother sent me two years ago. There's really no order, I suppose my father packed them away sometime between 1988 and 2003 after she died and he remarried.
Anyone who knows me now would wonder why I haven't organized the books in some logical timeline reference. Don't know really, maybe I have decided to allow the universe to determine what I read and when. There must be some point to it, I don't believe in chance. So on I go, sweeping away the styrofoam peanuts and old newspaper liners to rediscover me in layers.
I'm grateful for my second chance. It is really because now I understand what events formed our relationship. I understand the circumstances which formed her opinions of me. Should I have had this insight when she was living, I'd be a far different woman now. Certainly, I would have learned empathy at an earlier age.
All the colorful, descriptive, accurate accountings of half of my life are now in my possession. I am discovering my truth through the eyes of the one person I didn't get to know. Such a loss.
The pages flow in a poignant pattern of facts and emotional upheaval. She was really not well prepared for the maternal role which was not entirely her decision. She was barren due to a major surgery which weakened her back muscles from hip to shoulder. My dad, having come from a large family of 6, wanted to carry on the family name. My cousins, notwithstanding, apparently were not doing a good job of preserving the name, so as the youngest of 4 to marry, he took on the challenge.
My brother and I were adopted, three years nine months apart and from different states. Mom was raised by a single parent without the benefit of siblings. She must have been overwhelmed when I came along.
So the years came and went, page by page. Scattered recipes, poems, and obscure unidentifiable newspaper clippings are among the diary entries. The address section changes annually and I don't remember the names, but it wasn't my diary.
Some of her memories are the same as mine, exactly the same down to the description of what I wore on what occasion and lists of gifts received for every birthday, holiday, commencement, etc. Funny, how those details are carbon copies. But then again, they were happy times.
The entries, I don't want to read, but are drawn to, are those which reveal the darker side of who she was and how hard she tried to cope. I am finding that she was ill for many, many years before the cancers appeared. She struggled to be that perfect faculty wife for my dad. They were always attending conferences, at least he was and she had frequent opportunities to travel with him. Back then, a wife on the arm did much for a man's chances of success in the corporate world.
I am constantly surprised with each turn of the page as to how she remembered to include such details as my lessons, temperature, and duration of fevers when I was sick, cost of my braces and payment schedule, names and addresses of all my friends and lovers, gifts that I gave her and telephone calls she eavesdropped. It's all there; part journalistic and part confessional.
The written words are very colorful, but then she had a fine arts background so details consumed her. They were prominent in her wardrobe and her interior decorating, her Christmas cookies and her 700 plus elephant collection. As room mother, her abilities to throw together classroom parties were without rival and she was a very popular volunteer in all things I was involved in.
My life was perfect. My life was a prism which reflected who she wanted me to be. She did pretty well and then she died. She died weeks before my wedding. We planned it, together, from her hospice bed.
And that was the last chapter, I took over my life without her safety net. And just like her, my foray into motherhood was a leap of faith. And now…
All the details are blurry because I did not keep a diary. I don't have many memories, didn't think to chronicle my life from that day to this. But, it's not all about me, actually, it never was.
The grayness of my life comes at a time when the contribution is parallel to the energy of the soul.
I have the energy for sustenance and opportunities which the younger me would have needed help to navigate. All is well, a little less colorful to be certain, but well just the same.
It wasn't' planned that way. I've been reading my mother's diaries and her descriptions of me, spanning 31 years of our journey, were never neutral. She didn't leave out any details and I'm embarrassed to read what she really thought. Who was I then? Who am I now?
It's all there in black and white and occasionally red and white (on the occasion of Christmas, when using a red ink pen was her tradition). I've just started this review and completed three and one-half years, not in chronological order, but rather gathering volumes from the peanut packed box my brother sent me two years ago. There's really no order, I suppose my father packed them away sometime between 1988 and 2003 after she died and he remarried.
Anyone who knows me now would wonder why I haven't organized the books in some logical timeline reference. Don't know really, maybe I have decided to allow the universe to determine what I read and when. There must be some point to it, I don't believe in chance. So on I go, sweeping away the styrofoam peanuts and old newspaper liners to rediscover me in layers.
I'm grateful for my second chance. It is really because now I understand what events formed our relationship. I understand the circumstances which formed her opinions of me. Should I have had this insight when she was living, I'd be a far different woman now. Certainly, I would have learned empathy at an earlier age.
All the colorful, descriptive, accurate accountings of half of my life are now in my possession. I am discovering my truth through the eyes of the one person I didn't get to know. Such a loss.
The pages flow in a poignant pattern of facts and emotional upheaval. She was really not well prepared for the maternal role which was not entirely her decision. She was barren due to a major surgery which weakened her back muscles from hip to shoulder. My dad, having come from a large family of 6, wanted to carry on the family name. My cousins, notwithstanding, apparently were not doing a good job of preserving the name, so as the youngest of 4 to marry, he took on the challenge.
My brother and I were adopted, three years nine months apart and from different states. Mom was raised by a single parent without the benefit of siblings. She must have been overwhelmed when I came along.
So the years came and went, page by page. Scattered recipes, poems, and obscure unidentifiable newspaper clippings are among the diary entries. The address section changes annually and I don't remember the names, but it wasn't my diary.
Some of her memories are the same as mine, exactly the same down to the description of what I wore on what occasion and lists of gifts received for every birthday, holiday, commencement, etc. Funny, how those details are carbon copies. But then again, they were happy times.
The entries, I don't want to read, but are drawn to, are those which reveal the darker side of who she was and how hard she tried to cope. I am finding that she was ill for many, many years before the cancers appeared. She struggled to be that perfect faculty wife for my dad. They were always attending conferences, at least he was and she had frequent opportunities to travel with him. Back then, a wife on the arm did much for a man's chances of success in the corporate world.
I am constantly surprised with each turn of the page as to how she remembered to include such details as my lessons, temperature, and duration of fevers when I was sick, cost of my braces and payment schedule, names and addresses of all my friends and lovers, gifts that I gave her and telephone calls she eavesdropped. It's all there; part journalistic and part confessional.
The written words are very colorful, but then she had a fine arts background so details consumed her. They were prominent in her wardrobe and her interior decorating, her Christmas cookies and her 700 plus elephant collection. As room mother, her abilities to throw together classroom parties were without rival and she was a very popular volunteer in all things I was involved in.
My life was perfect. My life was a prism which reflected who she wanted me to be. She did pretty well and then she died. She died weeks before my wedding. We planned it, together, from her hospice bed.
And that was the last chapter, I took over my life without her safety net. And just like her, my foray into motherhood was a leap of faith. And now…
All the details are blurry because I did not keep a diary. I don't have many memories, didn't think to chronicle my life from that day to this. But, it's not all about me, actually, it never was.
The grayness of my life comes at a time when the contribution is parallel to the energy of the soul.
I have the energy for sustenance and opportunities which the younger me would have needed help to navigate. All is well, a little less colorful to be certain, but well just the same.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Conflicted
If you haven't tuned your radio dial to NPR recently, you're missing out. I mean the topics covered rival all printed material bundled together worldwide. It's an amazing journalistic accomplishment which keeps me apprised, enthralled and in step with local and world events.
I don't subscribe to the printed or online editions of newspapers, magazines, blogs or what have you. I don't own an iPod, iPad, tablet, Bluetooth, Apple watch or curved HD television. And yet, I survive. My kitchen appliances are mostly second hand and the recipes which have been passed down don't need changing because the new and improved appliance is incapable of just whisking or stirring or sifting.
And now…I have learned that my last physical day on earth will not be my release. Techno-blunder. The memory of my earthly existence will not only remain with the living but my ashes will not absolve the universe from an eternal digitized unauthorized biography. I do not own, outright, the legal right to terminate my cumulative digital images and thought processes. Unless I opt for my electronic signature on some document (an apparent option within my chosen social media account)-WHICH I DO NOT OWN, YOUR images and written accountings of MY life will be FOREVER preserved in the cloud. The retrieval of any and all digital likenesses will be left to the thoughtful executor of my vast estate.
Yes, I am conflicted and really pissed off. Do I need technology to chronicle my contributions? Oh hell no.
I am trying not to leave a legacy. You can't find me on any of the more popular social media pages.
Go to google search and try. I'm not easily located unless you know my family tree and then you'd just have to be satisfied to read that my name appeared in the obituaries of three close family members. I suppose my high school yearbook is downloaded, but that was me before me and I really don't care.
There are, of course, attempts to detail my existence through public records, but again, that search is akin to a paper doll likeness; no real depth. Nothing tantalizing, not even sufficient content for a grade school report on "your favorite person". My latest photograph is on my driver's license.
I never scrapbooked, didn't keep my own school pictures and my children's school pictures are in their possession. I am not the caretaker of the family history.
Well back to my tirade.
My life is chugging along, somewhat predictably and there is little fight left in my soul. I don't want excitement. I'd rather a quiet revelation, nothing to cause ripples against the shore. Just let it be, John Lennon.
I heard a quote today on that favorite radio station, during their broadcast of the TED Radio Hour. "The digital world cannibalizes time". We are existing in string theory; real-time AND that experience which defines coexistence at your convenience. Delayed tapings, texts which interrupt the moment, replays and such are tools which we think are necessary in order to extend the twenty-four hours which used to regulate our daily life.
Pair that with all those free-floating, in the cloud images of yourself and try to live your own life without commentary. Not possible.
Footnote: My husband just offered his understanding of this article thus far and said: "You are pissed off because you are not author to your own biography." THAT'S EXACTLY RIGHT. The possible imagery out there redefines me. It's a manipulation. It's catfishing on steroids.
I am trying so hard to gain a new perspective on how my life affects the universal energies…and now this.
I don't want my soul's journey to navigate the highlights and lowlights of this particular timeline. If my purpose is still undefined, let me continue in the shadows without reflection, without pausing to consider the "what ifs". And to that end…
I give full permission for all who own images of me, to release them into the universe. Give me the freedom to create and allow my gift to light the path I am on.
There will be no grave marker on that final day. After the fireworks, my remains will fodder a young white birch sapling, high in the mountains of Colorado. Come there to find me when the Aspens turn and know that I am with you. Preserve the reunion in your heart, where memories belong.
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