That's me. I feel misplaced. Wrong place, right time. The familiar is on the other side of the planet, but how could that be? I am disheveled, untethered, free-floating and it's unraveled my core. I am because I exist, but the identity I have been given is false. I know this.
I'm so tired of the infomercials which interrupt my occasional television viewing. "Just click on the leaf and blah, blah, blah".
So where do the rest of us "click"? I am thinking. Same feeling washes over me seeing those programs which document the lives of persons searching for biological relations; birth parents, birth children and such. It's a constant message: One is defined by family. Really?
I was filling the need of someone else. That last statement is my truth as explained by my intuitive guide. My soul in suspended animation until it was called to complete the lives of others. How did it turn out? Sill determining the results even tho my "parents" are long dead.
Where do I go from here, now that I am no longer part of the original scheme?
I think England.
For years upon decades, people have commented that I am too formal. My grammar is a dead giveaway that I ain't from around here (here being America's Gulf Coast). Even when I lived in the midwest, I would elicit uninvited criticisms on my choices of words.
There's no available research as to genetic predisposition and I can testify that my adoptive parents did not encourage this formality within the child they were raising.
The journey will commence in seven weeks. I am going with my kid. She's formal, too. She has a great interest in all things Celtic. This passion has not been purposely nurtured; it just exists. She is going- to discover. I am going to-reunite; with what or whom is yet to be uncovered.
Now that my life is so unfocused and seemingly fraying at the seams, the timing is paramount. Maybe new vitality will surface to give my life purpose. It's rather tiring to just exist in a shell of comfort and predictability.
Knowing that my identity may collide with the unfamiliar is rather invigorating. The planning is in process and I am getting that uncomfortable feeling, in my gut, that my efforts will not be in vain and that all the planning and detail work will be met with enlightenment. I'm too old to get butterflies in my stomach but they're there!
I wonder if I am coexisting with another self; string theory on a very personal level. How do I separate the reality from perception? How do I shed the labels and falsehoods of living a borrowed life without the risk of losing the memories which sustain me? Who do I think I am? I think I am someone else.
I could subject my pride to a saliva test and be glad that I already knew my genetic makeup. I know from whence my people originated. I just have no way of finding out who my people were. Go back far enough and I know I was one in a troupe of apes at the beginning of a long evolutionary process.
Don't need to travel that segment of my timeline. I just want to know how I got to be who others assume me to be. Why is my true identity undiscoverable? Court records are sealed, borrowed relations are dead and the story stops.
And then maybe it doesn't. The real me could be just on the wrong side of the pond.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Leaving
The quote is partial as it was the concluding sentence in my recent horoscope. Apparently, my immediate goal is to explore the metaphysical. Actually, I have been on this quest for several years now, but not inspired enough to quiet myself and listen to the universe. Maybe it's time."Happiness doesn't reside in possessions; it resides in the soul."
Sometimes wisdom can be found in the obscure place. This sporadic influence and reality check enters my life more as a curiosity than a dogma. I am of the "what's your sign" generation and still find comfort in the knowledge that I a part of a much bigger picture. Now that Steven Hawking has defined the black hole as a portal and his vision suggests that whomsoever enters one will find their way through although completely unrecognizable on the other side. To one who relies on the general premise of proof and will not under any circumstance allow a belief system to provide answers, Mr. Hawking is my hero.
How do I continue to that plane of the metaphysical which parallels my life? On and off again research, coupled with the advice of those already in sync with the universe, I would be wise to learn to meditate. I have a confession, I find that scenario difficult.
I don't think I could learn to quiet my thoughts, exist in the moment and allay all that gives momentum to my existence. I've seen the movie "Eat, Pray, Love" numerous times and know that the Julia Roberts character is eerily familiar.
I need discipline and I need to remove myself from the familiar me. So, this is my plan.
I will seek me from a different perspective. I will connect with the universal energy which sustains me.
Then…
I will stop asking why.
From there…
I will learn to breathe and let the dusting go for another day.
Eventually, I will find my center and with no apologies, redirect my energies to experience joy on all its levels. I may leave you for a while.
And in my absence, your life's path will come upon a fork in the road. Choose the path which will bring you peace. Proceed with wild abandon and if you find yourself in memory of us together, I will be there.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
To Paraphrase...
Just did some research on a favorite phrase of mine only to find out that I inadvertently shortened it. I was only following whom so ever quoted it before me.
Before I reveal it to you, let it be known that I'm not prone to using popular lingo. I was born an old soul and my language comfort zone is conservative, Merriam-Webster vernacular. It really pisses people off around here that my choice of words are difficult to interpret and I have to really dig into my 3rd grade primer to make my self understood. In other words, I have to dumb down to talk to some folks. That's a sad, sad commentary on the current educational system in these United States. I have a tee shirt which espouses this fact. It states "I am right 97 percent of the time, who cares bout the other 4 percent."
My dad was an extreme college professor. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than a scholar.
He lived it, he spoke it, he raised his children to honor and respect every word that came out of his mouth. I did until the day I left for college and then suddenly, there was no evidence that we had ever been related. My admiration for educators was challenged and I became disillusioned, dropped out and made my own way in the company of a very liberal, free thinking crowd. That relationship lasted for more than a decade. Glad to report, that I was not emotionally scarred and those memories gave me deeper insight and appreciation for the good in common man than any lecture involuntarily given me by him.
My education, except for a single semester post college, was attained west of the Mississippi, east of the Pacific Ocean, south of the Canadian border and cradled in the bosom of the vast Rocky Mountains along the 42nd parallel. Elementary school was reading, writing and arithmetic plus Spanish, physical education, art and music. Junior high school was an elevated addition of the previous with emphasis in the sciences and home economics. My high school experience must have been moderately interesting as I graduated in the middle percentile of a fairly large class of over one thousand. College was hit and MISS as far as academics but heavy into the social scene. Could have really gone far with a major in music, but the professor had no tolerance for skipping class, so…
Well that's enough back story. Anyway, my choices of expression are pretty much maxed out and are reflective of the successes and failures as mentioned above. My current challenge has nothing to do with what I learned but where I currently reside. Geography and genealogy are great predictors of both the spoken and written word. I blame both currently for my sporadic inability to communicate. Having traveled here and beyond and appreciating the challenges of cultural exchange, I am constantly amazed at the limitless opportunities to mis understand another. Sometimes I wonder, who is doing the mis understanding. So far, compromise and resolution have been my guide.
But as I enter my twilight years, I think I will resolve to just wear the tee shirt which best describes me on a particular day and let the world figure it out. After all, there's little time remaining to argue a point, better to just be a visible representation of my thought processes.
My current fav tee shirt is black with white lettering. It's printed on the front only, has a small graphic of a penguin outline and states "KEEP CALM AND WADDLE ON". That about says it. Time for the younger generation to figure it all out.
Oh, and the phrase which started it all used to be: "Been there, done that, have the tee shirt". But that's not the whole quote. Sometime in 2007, thanks to a posting in "www.alt.music.pinkfloyd.usernet/newsgroup" it continues "…wore a hole in it and now use it as a duster".
Now that's just the right sentiment. It's a mouth full. Don't know if the entire sentence will fit on the front side of the shirt; may need to up size. Need to get that one in several colors. Could come in handy.
Before I reveal it to you, let it be known that I'm not prone to using popular lingo. I was born an old soul and my language comfort zone is conservative, Merriam-Webster vernacular. It really pisses people off around here that my choice of words are difficult to interpret and I have to really dig into my 3rd grade primer to make my self understood. In other words, I have to dumb down to talk to some folks. That's a sad, sad commentary on the current educational system in these United States. I have a tee shirt which espouses this fact. It states "I am right 97 percent of the time, who cares bout the other 4 percent."
My dad was an extreme college professor. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than a scholar.
He lived it, he spoke it, he raised his children to honor and respect every word that came out of his mouth. I did until the day I left for college and then suddenly, there was no evidence that we had ever been related. My admiration for educators was challenged and I became disillusioned, dropped out and made my own way in the company of a very liberal, free thinking crowd. That relationship lasted for more than a decade. Glad to report, that I was not emotionally scarred and those memories gave me deeper insight and appreciation for the good in common man than any lecture involuntarily given me by him.
My education, except for a single semester post college, was attained west of the Mississippi, east of the Pacific Ocean, south of the Canadian border and cradled in the bosom of the vast Rocky Mountains along the 42nd parallel. Elementary school was reading, writing and arithmetic plus Spanish, physical education, art and music. Junior high school was an elevated addition of the previous with emphasis in the sciences and home economics. My high school experience must have been moderately interesting as I graduated in the middle percentile of a fairly large class of over one thousand. College was hit and MISS as far as academics but heavy into the social scene. Could have really gone far with a major in music, but the professor had no tolerance for skipping class, so…
Well that's enough back story. Anyway, my choices of expression are pretty much maxed out and are reflective of the successes and failures as mentioned above. My current challenge has nothing to do with what I learned but where I currently reside. Geography and genealogy are great predictors of both the spoken and written word. I blame both currently for my sporadic inability to communicate. Having traveled here and beyond and appreciating the challenges of cultural exchange, I am constantly amazed at the limitless opportunities to mis understand another. Sometimes I wonder, who is doing the mis understanding. So far, compromise and resolution have been my guide.
But as I enter my twilight years, I think I will resolve to just wear the tee shirt which best describes me on a particular day and let the world figure it out. After all, there's little time remaining to argue a point, better to just be a visible representation of my thought processes.
My current fav tee shirt is black with white lettering. It's printed on the front only, has a small graphic of a penguin outline and states "KEEP CALM AND WADDLE ON". That about says it. Time for the younger generation to figure it all out.
Oh, and the phrase which started it all used to be: "Been there, done that, have the tee shirt". But that's not the whole quote. Sometime in 2007, thanks to a posting in "www.alt.music.pinkfloyd.usernet/newsgroup" it continues "…wore a hole in it and now use it as a duster".
Now that's just the right sentiment. It's a mouth full. Don't know if the entire sentence will fit on the front side of the shirt; may need to up size. Need to get that one in several colors. Could come in handy.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Santa's Cookies
Family traditions. Surely you have some. I know I did. The proof is in the attic and on the very top shelf of my pantry.
It's late November and my head and heart are in conflict. It's an annual battle and the deciding vote has (until recently) been cast by my children. That vote being to decorate or not.
For a family where religion is an option, traditional celebrations must remain flexible to accommodate
and validate each person. For years, we opted out of the religious component and it was a good fit. We had a collective spiritual connection within our familial group. We served the community without the constraints of belonging to one belief or purposely limiting our service to others in a pre selected location or physical building.
Thanksgiving and Christmas ran together; sometimes spilling into the new year. In our family, the tree was erected after turkey dinner and my husband stayed out way after dark to finalize stringing the lights. We had live trees and artificial ones on alternating years. We mixed previous year's ornaments with new. The ornaments bought when our children were born were hung at eye level; each year a little higher to compliment the height of each growing child.
The few fragile ornaments passed down to me remained high on the mantle, out of harms reach. The lights were blinking some years. Order and themed decor gave way to an eclectic mixing of favorites. It didn't matter if nothing matched because everyone helped.
And then the day came when it all stopped. The anticipation of the holidays became overwhelming and I know that this came about at the same time I began my own business. The days were long and unpredictable and the last thing I needed was to be uncomfortable in my own home. Everything was "house beautiful" and unlivable. It was like living in some one else's doll house. The chairs were not where chairs should be, the table tops and piano top were covered with red and green, elves and reindeer. Someone had to be home all the time to ensure the tree remained erect and not become the latest chew toy for the dogs or scratching post for the cats.
So everything was put into boxes and stored in the attic. Everything but a very old serving platter in the shape of Santa's face. That special plate was stored with old dog dishes and paper towels on the top shelf of the pantry.
I found it yesterday and finally realized it's purpose.
It's the only tangible item I have from my childhood and it didn't really belong to me until I was 40 years old.
It belonged to my mother's friend, Alice. Alice was my parent's next door neighbor. She was their neighbor when home was a furnished apartment in someone else's garage somewhere in Seattle. When they were newly married and expecting their first child through adoption, Alice was the one who bought all the necessary items to furnish a nursery and surprised them by placing the items in the apartment before we came home. As the story was told to me, the agency called to say that they were going to be parents one day and I came home the next. No time to go shopping, no time to get ready. Who knew the seven year wait would end in such a whirlwind?
Our family of three moved to the midwest and correspondence with Alice came by letter and a single visit one summer. I received birthday gifts for many years from Alice and as she got older she sent me "unbirthday" gifts because she couldn't remember the date anymore. I lost track of her somewhere in my high school years.
When I turned 40, our military life had us living in western Washington. For some unknown reason, I needed to know if Alice was still living. I wanted to meet her again and share that Mom had died and ask questions that only she would be able to answer. I found her excited that I tried to find her and she invited me for a visit.
On a crisp January day, my birthday present to myself was that long afternoon with Alice. Questions were asked and answered, tea and cookies were served for a post lunch snack. She baked the cookies herself stating that cookies baked with love and for a loved one were so much better than store bought. She was absolutely right. She shared pages from treasured photo albums which helped me put the pieces of my life's puzzle together.
Time with her passed much too quickly and it was time for my long drive back. She was fussing about the house, remarking that I must take something; something to remind me how I spent my birthday. Something to remind me of her, after all she was my Auntie Alice.
Her demeanor sweetened and she said "Just a minute, I know the perfect remembrance". She handed me the Santa platter; freshly washed and wrapped in newspaper because she didn't have any gift wrap on hand.
We embraced, and knew that it was the final visit. I cried most the way home. The dish sat on the passenger seat as a constant reminder of the unconditional love which had spanned decades. That love was genuine.
The paint on that beloved platter is beginning to crack and there maybe a chip on Santa's nose, but it's the only cookie plate I will ever use.
As for the holidays, perhaps it's time to bring out the elves and reindeer again and this year, the angel on the top of the tree will have a name - Alice.
It's late November and my head and heart are in conflict. It's an annual battle and the deciding vote has (until recently) been cast by my children. That vote being to decorate or not.
For a family where religion is an option, traditional celebrations must remain flexible to accommodate
and validate each person. For years, we opted out of the religious component and it was a good fit. We had a collective spiritual connection within our familial group. We served the community without the constraints of belonging to one belief or purposely limiting our service to others in a pre selected location or physical building.
Thanksgiving and Christmas ran together; sometimes spilling into the new year. In our family, the tree was erected after turkey dinner and my husband stayed out way after dark to finalize stringing the lights. We had live trees and artificial ones on alternating years. We mixed previous year's ornaments with new. The ornaments bought when our children were born were hung at eye level; each year a little higher to compliment the height of each growing child.
The few fragile ornaments passed down to me remained high on the mantle, out of harms reach. The lights were blinking some years. Order and themed decor gave way to an eclectic mixing of favorites. It didn't matter if nothing matched because everyone helped.
And then the day came when it all stopped. The anticipation of the holidays became overwhelming and I know that this came about at the same time I began my own business. The days were long and unpredictable and the last thing I needed was to be uncomfortable in my own home. Everything was "house beautiful" and unlivable. It was like living in some one else's doll house. The chairs were not where chairs should be, the table tops and piano top were covered with red and green, elves and reindeer. Someone had to be home all the time to ensure the tree remained erect and not become the latest chew toy for the dogs or scratching post for the cats.
So everything was put into boxes and stored in the attic. Everything but a very old serving platter in the shape of Santa's face. That special plate was stored with old dog dishes and paper towels on the top shelf of the pantry.
I found it yesterday and finally realized it's purpose.
It's the only tangible item I have from my childhood and it didn't really belong to me until I was 40 years old.
It belonged to my mother's friend, Alice. Alice was my parent's next door neighbor. She was their neighbor when home was a furnished apartment in someone else's garage somewhere in Seattle. When they were newly married and expecting their first child through adoption, Alice was the one who bought all the necessary items to furnish a nursery and surprised them by placing the items in the apartment before we came home. As the story was told to me, the agency called to say that they were going to be parents one day and I came home the next. No time to go shopping, no time to get ready. Who knew the seven year wait would end in such a whirlwind?
Our family of three moved to the midwest and correspondence with Alice came by letter and a single visit one summer. I received birthday gifts for many years from Alice and as she got older she sent me "unbirthday" gifts because she couldn't remember the date anymore. I lost track of her somewhere in my high school years.
When I turned 40, our military life had us living in western Washington. For some unknown reason, I needed to know if Alice was still living. I wanted to meet her again and share that Mom had died and ask questions that only she would be able to answer. I found her excited that I tried to find her and she invited me for a visit.
On a crisp January day, my birthday present to myself was that long afternoon with Alice. Questions were asked and answered, tea and cookies were served for a post lunch snack. She baked the cookies herself stating that cookies baked with love and for a loved one were so much better than store bought. She was absolutely right. She shared pages from treasured photo albums which helped me put the pieces of my life's puzzle together.
Time with her passed much too quickly and it was time for my long drive back. She was fussing about the house, remarking that I must take something; something to remind me how I spent my birthday. Something to remind me of her, after all she was my Auntie Alice.
Her demeanor sweetened and she said "Just a minute, I know the perfect remembrance". She handed me the Santa platter; freshly washed and wrapped in newspaper because she didn't have any gift wrap on hand.
We embraced, and knew that it was the final visit. I cried most the way home. The dish sat on the passenger seat as a constant reminder of the unconditional love which had spanned decades. That love was genuine.
The paint on that beloved platter is beginning to crack and there maybe a chip on Santa's nose, but it's the only cookie plate I will ever use.
As for the holidays, perhaps it's time to bring out the elves and reindeer again and this year, the angel on the top of the tree will have a name - Alice.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Soul Train
I can't believe it. It's quickly and undeniably approaching…my 60th. I can almost begin the countdown and I'm not afraid. Used to be, but not now.
Thankfully the train hasn't pulled into that final station yet and I can pull the brake cord if I panic and need to take just one more side trip; maybe two more. Seems that I've been taking a lot of unscheduled
diversions of late. Just got back from one and planning another. Under pressure to make up for lost time?
If memory serves me correctly, my time has been well spent. Whatever itinerary I've been following, time was not a factor. Well, leisure time was not a factor and that accounts for the inexplicable misplacement of six decades. You'd think that the planning and execution of my life's purpose would have included some serious downtime. Exactly WHEN did I catch my breath or am I still running on the original deep intake of oxygen? I sure could use a boost of that "second wind".
I am in a perpetual introspective state of mind. My mother's journals are the source of my quietness.
Yesterday, I read her final entry. She screamed, "let me die, the pain is too much"…I signed the release". This last glimpse into her life was penned in early November 1987. The remaining pages of her annual daily planner were blank. I assume she just put down the pen and waited. It was a short wait, for she passed the18th of January 1988.
I was married that spring. That should have been the catalyst of a new beginning, but that new chapter was burdened by grief. That grief is still part of who I am.
I want a do-over. Problem is that my web of relationships would have to accompany me and there are some I don't want to repeat. Know what I mean?
Here I sit, wondering about my choices leading up to this pivotal moment. I will be a senior citizen, not quite at the threshold of social security, but the world will look upon me with different eyes. How will my vision be?
Most likely, still nearsighted. That's a gift of genetics. Let me rephrase: How will my soul see things?
As the train navigates and winds through my life's landscape, there's a chance it could be derailed.
I am not in the conductor's seat, just a passenger fulfilling what the universe promises. The whistle blows, the wheels turn, the tracks pass by at high speed, leaving me breathless and unprepared for
the next station; the next one and the one after that. It's not a round trip, there's no stamp "return" on my ticket.
Do I have any say in my destination? The last time I checked, my opinion hadn't been solicited.
There's some internal force directing the route. There's no time table for reference.
Optimism and capriciousness are my strengths. I'm sure that there are counterweights because I stand pretty much middle ground. I am balanced like the "Weebles" I played with as a child. Knock me down, I stand back up. Push me aside and I whirl around and return to a standing and solid position.
I learned that the ability to balance lends itself to occasional confrontations. I have battle scars. You'll not be able to discern where they are or how many I own. Resilience is my shield. I just keep on keeping on and my soul train carries me to my eventual reincarnation. I hope it's just as amazing around the next bend.
Thankfully the train hasn't pulled into that final station yet and I can pull the brake cord if I panic and need to take just one more side trip; maybe two more. Seems that I've been taking a lot of unscheduled
diversions of late. Just got back from one and planning another. Under pressure to make up for lost time?
If memory serves me correctly, my time has been well spent. Whatever itinerary I've been following, time was not a factor. Well, leisure time was not a factor and that accounts for the inexplicable misplacement of six decades. You'd think that the planning and execution of my life's purpose would have included some serious downtime. Exactly WHEN did I catch my breath or am I still running on the original deep intake of oxygen? I sure could use a boost of that "second wind".
I am in a perpetual introspective state of mind. My mother's journals are the source of my quietness.
Yesterday, I read her final entry. She screamed, "let me die, the pain is too much"…I signed the release". This last glimpse into her life was penned in early November 1987. The remaining pages of her annual daily planner were blank. I assume she just put down the pen and waited. It was a short wait, for she passed the18th of January 1988.
I was married that spring. That should have been the catalyst of a new beginning, but that new chapter was burdened by grief. That grief is still part of who I am.
I want a do-over. Problem is that my web of relationships would have to accompany me and there are some I don't want to repeat. Know what I mean?
Here I sit, wondering about my choices leading up to this pivotal moment. I will be a senior citizen, not quite at the threshold of social security, but the world will look upon me with different eyes. How will my vision be?
Most likely, still nearsighted. That's a gift of genetics. Let me rephrase: How will my soul see things?
As the train navigates and winds through my life's landscape, there's a chance it could be derailed.
I am not in the conductor's seat, just a passenger fulfilling what the universe promises. The whistle blows, the wheels turn, the tracks pass by at high speed, leaving me breathless and unprepared for
the next station; the next one and the one after that. It's not a round trip, there's no stamp "return" on my ticket.
Do I have any say in my destination? The last time I checked, my opinion hadn't been solicited.
There's some internal force directing the route. There's no time table for reference.
Optimism and capriciousness are my strengths. I'm sure that there are counterweights because I stand pretty much middle ground. I am balanced like the "Weebles" I played with as a child. Knock me down, I stand back up. Push me aside and I whirl around and return to a standing and solid position.
I learned that the ability to balance lends itself to occasional confrontations. I have battle scars. You'll not be able to discern where they are or how many I own. Resilience is my shield. I just keep on keeping on and my soul train carries me to my eventual reincarnation. I hope it's just as amazing around the next bend.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Halloween's Obituary
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.
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.
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.
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