I'm a rebel. Started young… After everyone else had shouted "trick or treat", I'd be the one who chimed in "smell my feet, give me something good to eat"! Ah, the good ole days! I remember annual trips to K Mart for costumes and hoping that each year I wouldn't have to wear my ski coat over my selection. Growing up in Colorado, it was guaranteed to be snowy and cold and readymade costumes had to be roomy enough for the warm layers underneath.
I shared my childhood between two neighborhoods. The 31st of October was always a favored family event. During the school day, Mom was room mother, always in costume. I remember her as a gypsy and a witch. She was a consummate actress. It's a testimonial to her craft that I remember the details of her characters these 50 years later.
My next door buddy, Jimbo, celebrated his birthday on Halloween. All the kids on our street were invited to his party and dinner was always hotdogs and the cake was appropriately decorated in orange and black. It was guaranteed to find some wax teeth in the goody bag. Trick and treating was done en mass and near the 8:00 hour, my brother and I returned home and counted and traded candies.
Our family moved to another neighborhood when I started 2nd grade, I think. Time for new traditions. We moved next door to my grandmother. The sixty years age difference was perfect for us (she really was a child at heart). Readymade outfits were no longer the norm. Costume shopping was accomplished in phases, from notions department at the local five and dime for material, buttons, snaps and zippers straight back to Grandma's house where she cut out a pattern from newsprint, to the sewing machine and finally to the arts and crafts store for face paint supplies.
She loved Halloween and before the threat of treats laced with narcotics, broken glass, etc., you'd be offered a choice of freshly baked goods served from an appropriately themed platter. One year she surprised us all with caramel apples. My favorite memory, however, was the year she gave out money.
The Great Depression changed her generation. Survival skills were honed at their most raw and basic level. Those skills stayed with her. She was an expert of what we would call "up cycling"; always reinventing new from old, beauty from scrap and a weeks worth of meals from just two or three ingredients.
She collected pennies and when the collection jar was full, she would visit her bank and convert cents into quarters which would be given to her grandkids in presentation booklets at Christmas. One year, her penny jar didn't last until December; she decided to count out equal amounts, wrap the change in tidy little net packages (like rice to throw at weddings) and deposit one each to the children.
That year, I must have been approaching "preteendom", because I recall ending my run of the neighborhood and stopping in to help her. Maybe it was upon suggestion from my mother, or maybe it was because my brother had ditched me and I didn't want to go home yet. None the less, I remember sitting in her formal living room with best view of the street and keeping an eye on her as she opened the storm door and chatted with all the little ones. I can hear the excited cries of "Look, Mommie, look at what I got!"
Grandma was just as excited and was pleased that her savings that year was sufficient to include the very last trick or treater. It was a very busy night, so much so, that she commented to me "Oh, my,
this is the first year that I've seen so many children in the same costumes"! Our subdivision had been the target of families living out of town who came by station wagons to get the really good stuff. So, Grandma didnt't think twice about it. Of course, we didn't realize it then, but looking back, the truth of it was the children figured out if they changed their grouping at the corner, they could return to her house and help themselves to more. It was a very successful Halloween.
My children carried on the tradition. They had classroom parties, I was their room mother. I baked treats and entertained the class with homemade "boo bingo" cards. They wore hand stitched costumes when they were very little and their own fashion statements as they got older. My husband would stay home to answer the door and I accompanied both kids to the very last house and helped them carry their overflowing plastic pumpkins back to the house. As they got older, parties replaced
trick or treating and soon, the bewitching hour became the normal curfew.
I don't do Halloween anymore. The defining moment was the year the children on the other side of my front door were taller than my husband. I knew these kids, they'd grown up with mine and I didn't believe that trick or treating was a right of passage to the high school experience.
So, for the last several years, our house has joined the "no porch light" group. We've lived in this neighborhood near twenty years and have seen recent shift in the number of homes with young families. I know some of the newest families haven't been told of the no porch light rule and I fully expect someone to ring the doorbell and hope that the door opens. Some of the less enthusiastic neighbors leave bowls of candy outside, but I'm not in favor of this practice.
We just leave for an extended dinner and hope that our return goes un noticed and we gain re-entry to the garage without giving false hope to the last of the youngsters.
Maybe this tradition is waning. Since when did this holiday become so wholesome? Haven't you noticed the trend of "fall festivals" in classrooms, churches, fraternal halls and retail outlets? Maybe the event has finally come full circle; revisiting agrarian celebrations and perhaps touching on a cultural tone. Could be? I could be witness to it's epitaph. I don't give it much thought.
My memories will entertain future generations around the dinner table. I will be reminded of them each year when I tuck a bag of candy corn among the usual groceries. If I happen to move again, to a town which embraces tradition, regardless of it's origins, I will open my door and delight in the innocence of childhood and remember the ghosts of Halloweens past.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Friday, October 16, 2015
Finding My Tribe
I'm going tribal; rather I am committed to going tribal; I am unsure just how, but I think I am going tribal. Confused? Me, too.
My life choices have me living well enough in a serene and safe location and yet I am out of sync with those around me. I've tried to belong here. Circumstances have predicated that I make a concerted effort to raise my family here with all the benefits of clean living coastal style.
Well, I've done a bang-up job. Kids are mostly on their own journeys and have had independent mindsets for years. They're prepared.
I'm not. All I feel is a longing to be elsewhere. My soul is restless and tired. The me I am is not who I am destined to be. I know this. The message from far beyond the rainbow has been delivered in triplicate now. There is a unified voice which speaks at every reading…I am stuck. My soul is creative but repressed, partly out of fear, partly out of ignorance and partly out of the loss of control.
How did I lose control over me? The answer would be that I gave it away. Gave it away to make room for other's needs. Survival. As a single woman, came dating and marriage. As a married woman, came parenting, post parenting back to marriage and perhaps in the event, my husband dies first, I will navigate life on my own again.
I don't want to wait for any eventuality. The identity crisis is now.
This wanderlust desperation is cumulative. It has been shelved and second-guessed for quite a long time; perhaps approaching one-third of my existence in this present reincarnation.
I have had clues all along. Having lived half my life in one place and living the other half packing and unpacking to support my husband's naval career, raise children, work and volunteer, I want to just settle. And I want to settle where I belong. My heart knows the place; it's familiar.
Having just returned from a short reunion in that place, I realized that my identity lies within its geographical boundaries. My beginning is my destiny. The place where I grew up is waiting for me to return.
I have been itinerant, displaced but grateful for the challenges along the way. Each person, whether chosen by or for me, has been gifted by the universe in order to teach and guide me. I am the product of an enormous collaborative effort and I like who I am.
I will continue to like who I am becoming; I have no self-doubt. In the meantime...
It has been suggested that I find a new "tribe" (for lack of a better noun) and that was not my word of choice. It belonged to my intuitive. Seated in her private office, I was receiving my annual reading and no surprise, my guides were harping on my seeming predicament of being an unwitting prisoner of my present circumstances. That's a very descriptive way of saying "what's stopping you?"
The conversation had been innocent enough, just why was I happiest elsewhere? And, why was I happiest elsewhere by myself? My response to her direct question was "anonymity". Okay then, I wanted to be a blank canvas and experience life with no prejudice. Sounds healthy.
She said "They are bringing up Shirley Valentine. It was a movie, I think in the '80s. It's who you are now. Maybe you can stream it or order it through Amazon." I ordered it. They were right.
She was lost, I am lost. She was used up. I am approaching empty. She took a chance and found joy.
I know where my joy is. Sometimes a step back is necessary in order to forge ahead. Sometimes the best place to get to know yourself is where it all began.
I'm not searching for a new tribe. There's no need...There's no place like home.
My life choices have me living well enough in a serene and safe location and yet I am out of sync with those around me. I've tried to belong here. Circumstances have predicated that I make a concerted effort to raise my family here with all the benefits of clean living coastal style.
Well, I've done a bang-up job. Kids are mostly on their own journeys and have had independent mindsets for years. They're prepared.
I'm not. All I feel is a longing to be elsewhere. My soul is restless and tired. The me I am is not who I am destined to be. I know this. The message from far beyond the rainbow has been delivered in triplicate now. There is a unified voice which speaks at every reading…I am stuck. My soul is creative but repressed, partly out of fear, partly out of ignorance and partly out of the loss of control.
How did I lose control over me? The answer would be that I gave it away. Gave it away to make room for other's needs. Survival. As a single woman, came dating and marriage. As a married woman, came parenting, post parenting back to marriage and perhaps in the event, my husband dies first, I will navigate life on my own again.
I don't want to wait for any eventuality. The identity crisis is now.
This wanderlust desperation is cumulative. It has been shelved and second-guessed for quite a long time; perhaps approaching one-third of my existence in this present reincarnation.
I have had clues all along. Having lived half my life in one place and living the other half packing and unpacking to support my husband's naval career, raise children, work and volunteer, I want to just settle. And I want to settle where I belong. My heart knows the place; it's familiar.
Having just returned from a short reunion in that place, I realized that my identity lies within its geographical boundaries. My beginning is my destiny. The place where I grew up is waiting for me to return.
I have been itinerant, displaced but grateful for the challenges along the way. Each person, whether chosen by or for me, has been gifted by the universe in order to teach and guide me. I am the product of an enormous collaborative effort and I like who I am.
I will continue to like who I am becoming; I have no self-doubt. In the meantime...
It has been suggested that I find a new "tribe" (for lack of a better noun) and that was not my word of choice. It belonged to my intuitive. Seated in her private office, I was receiving my annual reading and no surprise, my guides were harping on my seeming predicament of being an unwitting prisoner of my present circumstances. That's a very descriptive way of saying "what's stopping you?"
The conversation had been innocent enough, just why was I happiest elsewhere? And, why was I happiest elsewhere by myself? My response to her direct question was "anonymity". Okay then, I wanted to be a blank canvas and experience life with no prejudice. Sounds healthy.
She said "They are bringing up Shirley Valentine. It was a movie, I think in the '80s. It's who you are now. Maybe you can stream it or order it through Amazon." I ordered it. They were right.
She was lost, I am lost. She was used up. I am approaching empty. She took a chance and found joy.
I know where my joy is. Sometimes a step back is necessary in order to forge ahead. Sometimes the best place to get to know yourself is where it all began.
I'm not searching for a new tribe. There's no need...There's no place like home.
Messages
Life interrupted-
it happened today.
Deliberately pausing
my agenda in a way
that was so reassuring.
brought a smile to my face.
To gaze at butterflies
in pursuit at the time
and the place…
of my existence.
Yesterday's message
came by way of a penny.
At first, didn't notice,
being busy with many
things on my mind.
And today the same thing.
Different place, not surprising to find
for I was standing outside of my bank.
It could have been taken by some body else.
Now whom do I humbly thank?
Every now and again,
I am touched by great love.
It connects and reminds me,
that below and above me,
is the realm and the destiny
which my soul will embrace.
The messages will continue
through time and through space-
to encourage and comfort,
to empower and embrace,
to reveal my truth,
to share it's power.
and there shall be
no definitive hour of my earthly demise.
For the universe, of which I am apart
is endless and forgiving.
All the more reason
to look forward to living
One message at a time.
it happened today.
Deliberately pausing
my agenda in a way
that was so reassuring.
brought a smile to my face.
To gaze at butterflies
in pursuit at the time
and the place…
of my existence.
Yesterday's message
came by way of a penny.
At first, didn't notice,
being busy with many
things on my mind.
And today the same thing.
Different place, not surprising to find
for I was standing outside of my bank.
It could have been taken by some body else.
Now whom do I humbly thank?
Every now and again,
I am touched by great love.
It connects and reminds me,
that below and above me,
is the realm and the destiny
which my soul will embrace.
The messages will continue
through time and through space-
to encourage and comfort,
to empower and embrace,
to reveal my truth,
to share it's power.
and there shall be
no definitive hour of my earthly demise.
For the universe, of which I am apart
is endless and forgiving.
All the more reason
to look forward to living
One message at a time.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Self Reunion
I'm experiencing a strange emotion. You'd think at my age there would be few unexpected mind versus heart conflicts, but I can't help feeling I'm in the wrong place at the right time.
Loss is not temporary. It lies deep within the soul and is triggered when revisiting the places where ghosts hold the key to unlock memories.
Memories come quickly, all at once. There is scarcely time to breathe between them…and then they're gone and I am left depleted and unrecognizable. I am changed.
I knew that my visit home would be a balancing act. An opportunity existed and the timing was perfect.
"Me time" was all I could think about. I needed it, I deserved it.
When reunited with my brother at the airport, I just burst into tears and knew something was about to
redefine who I was and the person I would become. Just knew it, couldn't explain it and didn't make any attempt to avoid it.
I have been holding my breath apparently. Last time I remember purposeful breathing was at Dad's funeral. I had to remain composed and give the eulogy. I had to remain calm and ensure all the attendees were comfortable, fed and properly thanked.
Life changed then for the second time. Mom died eight years prior. I was exhausted following her death and looking back, never really stepped out of the grief.
I retraced the paths to all the highlights of my younger years. Sometimes the paths had been untouched by time. It was joyful. Other times, there was no tangible evidence of my ever having been there. It was disbelief. How could parts of my life disappear? I felt betrayed.
I do not embrace change. I am in an uncomfortable evolution; living a parallel life with my memories. I exist on one plane and my truth exists on the other. How do I combine my selves and stop the competition?
The answer is the 40th parallel; that imaginary line runs east and west in the city of my youth. I grew up quarter-mile south of it. Guess the real me never really left for I found myself still lingering there in the virgin prairie meadows at the base of the Rocky Mountains. I heard the morning song of the Western Meadowlark. Well, my heart heard them for they are extinct in my home town now.
I don't understand why my soul remained without the outer shell. Have I been living a lie?
I am not sure.
Walking hand in hand with my former self, I wondered what I was thinking of leaving such a beautiful place. Who's hand dealt the cards? Who's the responsible one? Me? Choices and consequences...that would be my guess. I'll leave the choices (formerly presented) part to the universe,..to that continuation of my soul's journey. The consequences? Well, that's undetermined.
I am not easily victimized, must be that capricious nature I was gifted. So perhaps lessons learned will tilt the scale in my favour.
The reunion with family presented an opportunity to learn and appreciate those who had been estranged from me for such a long pause. The new memories danced around old ones and helped to solidify my longing to return there. This was not a sentimental journey. It was the catalyst for my survival...on my terms.
The emotions which I had suppressed burst through the layers of years of living elsewhere. I had lunch with myself in the same place I had taken Dad to celebrate his birthday. Sat in the same place and ordered the same meal. I cried in my salad. I visited an art gallery and stood reverent at the base of original art which spoke to me of the pristine beauty of the solitary Aspen tree.
The conversations, laughter, and tears shared with loved ones, filled me to capacity; so much so, that I could not eat. Had I had the presence of mind and no fear of possible embarrassment, I would have spun myself in the middle of some field with arms stretched wide singing the theme song from The Sound of Music...the Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music,,tra la la.
I left me there again for life does not wait upon dreams. I have obligations and situations which must be resolved before my final reunion.
That day is coming. I am telling you now just in case you turn around and I'm not here. I'll leave a map and if you knew me at all, you'll not be in need of directions.
Loss is not temporary. It lies deep within the soul and is triggered when revisiting the places where ghosts hold the key to unlock memories.
Memories come quickly, all at once. There is scarcely time to breathe between them…and then they're gone and I am left depleted and unrecognizable. I am changed.
I knew that my visit home would be a balancing act. An opportunity existed and the timing was perfect.
"Me time" was all I could think about. I needed it, I deserved it.
When reunited with my brother at the airport, I just burst into tears and knew something was about to
redefine who I was and the person I would become. Just knew it, couldn't explain it and didn't make any attempt to avoid it.
I have been holding my breath apparently. Last time I remember purposeful breathing was at Dad's funeral. I had to remain composed and give the eulogy. I had to remain calm and ensure all the attendees were comfortable, fed and properly thanked.
Life changed then for the second time. Mom died eight years prior. I was exhausted following her death and looking back, never really stepped out of the grief.
I retraced the paths to all the highlights of my younger years. Sometimes the paths had been untouched by time. It was joyful. Other times, there was no tangible evidence of my ever having been there. It was disbelief. How could parts of my life disappear? I felt betrayed.
I do not embrace change. I am in an uncomfortable evolution; living a parallel life with my memories. I exist on one plane and my truth exists on the other. How do I combine my selves and stop the competition?
The answer is the 40th parallel; that imaginary line runs east and west in the city of my youth. I grew up quarter-mile south of it. Guess the real me never really left for I found myself still lingering there in the virgin prairie meadows at the base of the Rocky Mountains. I heard the morning song of the Western Meadowlark. Well, my heart heard them for they are extinct in my home town now.
I don't understand why my soul remained without the outer shell. Have I been living a lie?
I am not sure.
Walking hand in hand with my former self, I wondered what I was thinking of leaving such a beautiful place. Who's hand dealt the cards? Who's the responsible one? Me? Choices and consequences...that would be my guess. I'll leave the choices (formerly presented) part to the universe,..to that continuation of my soul's journey. The consequences? Well, that's undetermined.
I am not easily victimized, must be that capricious nature I was gifted. So perhaps lessons learned will tilt the scale in my favour.
The reunion with family presented an opportunity to learn and appreciate those who had been estranged from me for such a long pause. The new memories danced around old ones and helped to solidify my longing to return there. This was not a sentimental journey. It was the catalyst for my survival...on my terms.
The emotions which I had suppressed burst through the layers of years of living elsewhere. I had lunch with myself in the same place I had taken Dad to celebrate his birthday. Sat in the same place and ordered the same meal. I cried in my salad. I visited an art gallery and stood reverent at the base of original art which spoke to me of the pristine beauty of the solitary Aspen tree.
The conversations, laughter, and tears shared with loved ones, filled me to capacity; so much so, that I could not eat. Had I had the presence of mind and no fear of possible embarrassment, I would have spun myself in the middle of some field with arms stretched wide singing the theme song from The Sound of Music...the Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music,,tra la la.
I left me there again for life does not wait upon dreams. I have obligations and situations which must be resolved before my final reunion.
That day is coming. I am telling you now just in case you turn around and I'm not here. I'll leave a map and if you knew me at all, you'll not be in need of directions.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
The New Normal
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.
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.
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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