If I were eating smoked salmon and goat cheese at home right now, it would taste like a jubilant wild song, unedited conversation, a wide open room with flowers and lots of bright noises just beyond the edge.
If I were eating the same meal at the beach it would taste like a breath of immensity, blue as far as blue can be, a bit of earth mixed with the color yellow. I'd turn my head often, brush hair away from my face, searching out the source of each immense sound.
If I were eating such delights on my door step, home alone on a hot summer afternoon it would taste rich and almost too big, even heavy, like quiet knowing, slow speaking, nearly missing the turn to Jenny's house on a long windy road.
In this cafe they taste like gentleness, a peaceful mind, a smile, sweet echos of happiness, gratitude, walking among fragrant purple blooms, stooping to observe their gifts.
I'm sitting cross legged, white satiny slippers still on my feet, on the soft white living room chair from Grandma Amy. I'm still in my pjs at three in the afternoon, resting, eating, trying to hold off a cold. Over them I wear a thick black robe tied at the waist. I normally forget I own this robe, but when a scratch in my throat, a tickle, a few sneezes and a cough tipped me to the need for extra care, I remembered the last garment all the way to the right wall in my side of the closet. I'm eating a second bowl of gf pasta, veggies and bison sprinkled with cayenne, garlic powder, salt and oil with the last spoonful of homemade tomato sauce. David is snoring on the couch. The curtains are drawn for David's benefit. I'm listening to the sound track on a friend of a friends blog, mostly mellow female vocals.
The boys are on their grand adventure through every room of the house with great enthusiasm and creativity. First one then the other guides the dialogue with a "Now you say...." And the other one does. Back and forth like this for a while until a Gameboy or modeling clay slide their attention over. Their voices are a steady music in our house. Listening to them navigate reality is one of my treasures.
The list includes making gf blueberry muffins that aren't vegan to see how main stream I can make them, writing another post for the 30 in 30, lots of liquids, getting the laundry current, staring at sleeping David while thinking appreciative thoughts, and just maybe drumming with Matthew and Devyn...later, once daddy wakes.
Normally I like the curtains pulled back. I like all the days light to stream through, attach itself to every surface, dance with the colors. But today, only a line of light rests across David's blanket by his feet. Otherwise the room is dim, almost demanding gentleness, though demanding is not it's way.
Though I didn't want to think it, I did. I thought I needed a perfect space to write, a clean house, quiet room, clear beginning mind, desire to write at that moment. Well, not write, but write well. Until now, I was unaware that a poem could be created in the same room as Matthew flying through with red cape and sunglasses as Superman, Devyn reading Superman trying to read the funnier bits to me, laundry in a clean heap on the couch, dirty dishes in view and a couple empty bowls painted red from frozen fruit the boys made fast work of at the table beside me. I still ask the boys to wait on requests that aren't time sensitive, but pausing to do that doesn't throw me off track.
Including today's entry, I have 5 pieces left to write of the 30. Swiss Family Robinson (book on tape) is on in the kitchen (for the umpteenth retelling in a week), Matthew is playing on a Gameboy that sings a tink tink song for jumping graphics, dishes are in the sink and I don't feel particularly like writing...but I'm going to anyway...right after I get the kids to bed, the house in order and make a bit of chocolate frosting (Just because I know I can write in the fray now doesn't make it necessary every time :).
It's the next afternoon. I didn't return to writing as I'd intended. But I just reread what I wrote last night. Almost a piece of writing? Okay, not, but it may have to qualify. Maybe if I write a quick poem...
Little man little man what do you say?
Let's explore the universe today!
Little man little man what do you do?
Make up a world for me and you.
Little man little man I love your smile
your little kisses and huggable style
(Written at the table with my sweet little men while they decide if Devyn's going to read Super man aloud to Matthew while they eat their noodles and tomato sauce)
Mrs. Rogers thick, rich accent came from growing up in the south I'm sure. She sat straight in her teachers chair at the front of the room, the east wall, in front of the chalk board she used often. If I had to say a school teacher taught me how to write it was her. Others helped me think a thing through, calculate, experiment and catch a ball. Mrs. Rogers was Serious about English and writing.
She wasn't interested in our self esteem. She was interested in expanding our knowledge of the parts of a sentence, grammar, how to "sharpen the focus" of an idea until the reader could sit with your mind, be a part of the memory, because you were so clear. I can't think of a time I ever saw her smile, but I never wondered if she cared. I knew she did. And she was focused!
I sat on the east wall, first row, windows at my back. I don't think she ever turned the overhead lights on. I wanted an A on something in her class, but don't remember if I ever managed to get one. Here's how it went. At the beginning of the year, she told us how many papers we were to write. Then she told us that she expected each one of us to rewrite each paper until it was finished. This meant working on more than one assignment at a time. After I turned in a paper, she would mark down her comments, expectations and corrections in red, then hand it back to me. Now my part was to rewrite the paper according to her notes. The challenge was that she would give us a new assignment before we were done with the previous one. I think I managed to only ever have 2 papers going at the same time, which was no small task.
I naively thought that what she meant by "sharpen the focus" was the same as describing what a camera sees when it zooms in on a single spot. One time I used many words to describe a drop of rain on a leaf. Then I described a world of fairies living in the drop. I was bound and determined to sharpen that focus, even if I had to make up a new world smaller than a dime!
But this isn't what she wanted. To this day I don't know how to describe what she meant by "sharpen the focus" but I have my own idea I follow. Follow the focus could be it's name. Follow the heat, when writing comes alive. Follow the heart, the energy. Follow it even if I'm a puddle of tears on the sofa with my little laptop lighting up my wet face. Be there again, wherever it is, hand it to the reader carefully, but remain open.Beyond this, just write. No editing , no judge, no excuses, no critic. Practice in this way for years, as many days each year as possible.
In a way, Mrs. Rogers gave me a willingness to practice writing like one practices ballet or sketching. During the two years I was her student, her assignments were my main homework, the greatest challenge from the academic side of school. For her work, for her no-nonsense attitude, for the time she must have spent reading our countless drafts, I am incredibly thankful.
Kitchen timer click ticks consistently form it's perch on the back of the stove, keeping time for the experimental blueberry muffins in the oven. I'm in the funk I get in at this phase of any effort, the beginning after a minor setback that some would reasonably call a bit of learning.
I come out of the gate with an idea, ready to charge to the fruit of success, shining ideas twinkling before me. I begin with a serious energy and optimism. But...if my first attempt is less than I hope for, my shoulders drop and I am touched by a sliver of sadness. I no longer sit with this bit of pity. I look at it, agree with it, that yes, this could be seen as very annoying, then I continue toward the goal.
The way this played out tonight was through an effort at making vegan, gluten free, soy free, agave sweetened blueberry muffins. The first batch was too dense, too sweet, too much like bread pudding, not much like a beautiful blueberry muffin. My mom stayed around our house an extra while since muffins were on the way. The boys happily sat on either side of her, listening to Cricket in Times Square. She sipped decaf tea. And she really liked the first test batch, and the second. She didn't stick around for the third.
By test batch, I mean 2 muffins. Depending on how they come out I either add flour or liquid to the existing batter. This time I added a 1/2 cup of flour, then another 1/2 cup for the following test batch. Oh well then, I thought. If these are fine with Grandma, I'll add the blueberries and bake the remaining batter.
Once the bowl and measuring instruments were clean and dry I set to work again with a different angle toward the same goal. All the while that voice of doubt, of just enough discouragement to keep me quiet and serious, kept up a whisper. It wanted me to know this second batch might not work, that I may need to wait, maybe through several attempts, countless really. Yuck. I dislike this voice, but there it is.
Fortunately the second batch seems fine, fluffy, moist, much like a blueberry muffin ought to be. Hmmm....tastes good too! A little too rich for my taste, maybe a bit too sweet, but I can easily remedy this and I know from experience that many people would enjoy them just as they are, no complaints, even complimenting them. As I have no one available to taste them tonight I'll have to take my word for it, from the inner voice that is kinder, encouraging, the one that helped me wash the dishes, dry the mixing bowl and try again.
I look all around me at the campus cafe. Each in his own world, face engaged in the study of their choosing or some requirement needed to get there. It's Important work, studying. Studying for a degree, that symbol of hours of persistence, dedication to a task, the ability to see a thing through, to think in many directions on a certain matter. In different cities the University name changes, but not the scene.
I hear the espresso maker hiss, the foam form behind a half counter where skilled staff pump out caffeinated drinks for their customers, along with beautiful sweet 3 layer cake slivers, white chocolate macadamia nut cookies and mildly sweet scones. I sometimes look up to the slightly moving legs of those in line as they shift the weight of their back pack from left to right and back, staring at a far wall or visiting with the employee they know well. The counter sees a steady flow of faces, counted out change and grateful smiles.
This cafe is a place of comfort, a cross between the dining room and kitchen with rectangular tables, wobbly chairs, amazingly soft couches with little end tables beside and little lamps. The hum of steady soft voices conversing peppered with the occasional burst of laughter add to the charm.
This is where I have come since I was fifteen years old. Not a University student or even a high school student. I was a drop out, encouraged by some, ignored by others, simply a friend to most, a friend who made an unpopular decision. Having no external agenda for my cafe time, I almost always had a book to read, a notebook to fill and a pen, money for a latte and a pack of Marlboros. Sometimes a walkman, but often not.
My first love was Steep & Brew on Church. Smokers in the back, near the bathrooms, past the dishwasher, which was still fine and nice, despite it's surrounding areas. I usually showed up by 1pm. With drink in hand, I'd find an empty table, set my books down, pour two turbinado sugar packets into the center of my latte, watching the crystals fall through the foam, making a perfect little hole. I enjoyed the foam first, slowly, focusing on the sweet milk in the middle before slowly sipping the rest. Once I finished the foam, it was time to study.
I wouldn't have called it that at the time. I was not in a school, not engaged in work society seemed to consider important. Some might even say I was squandering the hours away. But I wasn't. I was studying my perceptions of the world, of reality. I was studying my voice as a writer, a human, a friend. I was listening to the quiet of my being. I was also developing two important habits, a love of reading and that of writing practice. At fifteen, even sixteen, seventeen on up to twenty, I didn't know this consciously. Then at twenty one I found a book called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. I ate it for every meal, filled an entire notebook during spring break (by this time I was in college, though the experience was short lived), and began inviting all my friends to write with me, to follow this new mentor closely, for she gave me gold and I couldn't help but share.
After Writing Down the Bones I moved on to her second book about writing, Wild Mind, then onto her first book about becoming a writer, Long Quiet Highway. For years that third book was a comfort. Her experience, though different from mine in the external details, was incredibly familiar in the inner details. Her voice was soothing, real, honest and compassionate without being soft. I read her first novel, Banana Rose as soon as it came out and have read it many times since as well. From her I received guidance, but also permission, even encouragement to bring my notebook and a pen only to the cafe table, to tilt my neck and write for hours, which I did often. It's not that I ever considered staying home because I didn't have "important" work to accomplish, but she helped me see that the work I was engaged in was important, as well as helping me develop my art, painting with words.
From the day after I turned 17 I waited tables, up until Devyn joined our family. I tried a few other things, but always went back to the fun of visiting a few minutes here and there with regulars, cheap meals, decent money and exercise, serving people plates of food, bowls of soup and whatever they chose to drink.
Among the few other things was door to door sales from business to business. Believe it or not, I made enough money this way, but the schedule and morning office pep talks finally wore me out. I was working 60 to 80 hours a week in 5 days. And the morning pep talks seemed to me about disrespecting the customer sweetly to make a sale. Not that they asked us to go against anyone's wishes, just an attitude I sensed.
I enjoyed the job when I was out there, walking around, visiting with people. I had high sales for our office. After a month or two I could do a days work in half the day, so I spent much time visiting with customers, sharing life stories or hanging out with my mom or dad by going to their towns to sell. At the time my dad lived 3 hours in one direction and my mom lived 2 1/2 hours in a different direction. One time my mom came with to see exactly what I did. I enjoyed having her with me.
What exactly I did was carry a big black duffel bag full of items, like calculators, games, planners etc. We were able to sell them much less than the stores because we were the stores...a pretty cheap work force at 100% commission. I wasn't too proud to be seen at my work, but none too sure of it's value either. Basically I'd walk into a business, look the nearest worker in the eye, tell them I had stuff to sell at a good price in my bag, and ask if I could show the employees. A surprising number of places allowed me in. I later found out this was because I didn't have a pitch, just a "Hi there."
One of my favorite aspects of that time was all the sunsets I witnessed over the corn fields. That was always a moment I could be completely detached from my life situation, from my uncertainty about the future. Another favorite was the long drives that afforded lots of meditative consideration of all that had come before in my life and all that I hoped to do, have, be and give.
Over the final weeks there I spent most days either at my moms or dads place, letting them offer what guidance they could to their obviously floundering offspring. A small amount of each day during that time was spent "in the field", but I don't remember my sales dropping, just my will to walk into another business.
In order to work so many hours I had to wake before the sun, shower, dress and feed my kitties in the dark. I drove before the sun as well, south to the office. On the way I often stopped at a Mobil station for cigarettes and to fill my tank. Because I smoked, I cracked the window several times a day. After a while, it got off track just a bit, so I was in the habit of quickly and gently adjusting it as I rolled it up completely.
Well, one morning, when the car door was open (fortunately), I did the usual adjust as I rolled it up and BOOM! the window blew out onto the cement lot, hundreds of little safety shaped pieces of auto glass. Could moving the window 1/2 an inch cause such a freaky display?!? I had no idea. The sun was still behind a curve of earth. I was awed, dumbfounded. I don't even remember what I did between the window shattering and arriving at work with an amazing but true tale.
Someone helped me duct tape plastic bags to the frame, but it was March, cold and wet, so this was of little help against the elements. Over the following days, maybe even two weeks, I went to my dads mostly. I was truly at a loss. I would sit in his living room, limp in the soft chair, aware that tears would be appropriate, even desirable, but really just numb. He offered comfort, empathy, food and coffee. The worst was days of cold wind and rain, the plastic flapping wildly with every passing truck.
But in all this, there was a gem. In a small town between my place and dads I found an auto glass shop. I found it on my own. I spent the good portion of a day there walking around town, chatting with the staff, watching the process by which a window is installed in a car door. And then I paid for it in cash. For me then this was a HUGE triumph. I was no longer defeated but empowered. I actually felt some of my doubt about my ability to be a grown up slip away, replaced by an inner light that matched the brilliant, clean afternoon sun as I drove away from that little shop onto the highway, able to look clearly out the window on my left for the first time in seemingly ever!
Can you feel that first wave of tired, the point when sleep would come easily, sweetly, where you'd sleep through the night, and wake wonderfully refreshed, ready to take on the new day?
Is no one else needing your attention? Does your husband have bedtime under control, smoothly transitioning the tired kiddos from pj's to clean teeth and faces, to a couple stories and all the rest?
This is the time! Seize your chance now, go brush your teeth, ease quietly into bed, keep prayers simple and sweet, meditate with the lights out, let yourself drift into sweet sweet dreams...because if you wait even 10 minutes longer you may find 3 projects that don't seem too hard, possibly folding the clean laundry on the couch, catching up on facebook, and just a bit of straightening up. Then you may get a second wind, a wave of clarity, a willingness to sweep the kitchen floor, write a letter, balance the check book, finish that movie from last night that wasn't all that good but you're curious to know how it ends.
Oh, that would be sad. Because in that time of a little of this and a little of that, you might begin to think deep thoughts about your life, about your children or realize what changes would make that chocolate cake recipe perfect. Before you know it, you've got pen and paper out and you're writing a "to do" for the next day, for the next week.
Unfortunately it's getting late now. Your mind is going full steam ahead, but your body is looking at the clock, periodically counting the number of hours you'll sleep if you go to bed by x time, then y time, then z time, which won't really allow for enough rest (even if you could get your mind to relax again), though you'll be alright.
But alas, you will probably not wake with that completely refreshed feeling that was within your reach.
One of us just walks away...for good.
I have your number for a time, your new address, a few memories of your face with the back drop of new walls, your new home in this odd and unfamiliar little town where I worry you're going to work yourself to death.
It's been a while since we talked, since one of us drove the 60 miles one way to say "Hi", to have those familiar conversations in the living room. The long evenings where I later write a poem and you write a song, bent thoughtfully, bent beautifully over your old guitar. Some day you'll know how to play like you know how to walk, I can feel it.
One day it would be 195 miles to say "Hello" because I moved too. I'm starting a new life, running really, because that's what I know how to do.
I think your name one afternoon, dial hopefully. Then that recording, that familiar voice, disconnected, no further information is available about...
I don't know your mothers number, my only hope to find you. You don't know I've left our town. I know I won't see you again.
This one better write itself or nothing will be laid on this page.
I want to write about how different DFW Texas and Mississipi are from Central Illinois in matters of socializing, either with a friend or with a new face at the grocery store. I'll just tell what I experienced in the south. Walking through the aisles of main stream and health food grocery stores eyeballs meet, people politely smile, nod and sometimes say "Hello". Often, a brief conversation is had in front of several brands of canned tomatoes, each sharing their favorite brand and maybe a simple description of a good recipe, or we talk about the cute shirt one of our children are wearing, or whatever.
Those who know me well will say that of course this was my experience since I naturally initiate a bit of visiting with new people in Illinois too. Here's the difference. In DFW and Mississippi, this was the expected norm. Quite often I was not the initiator of the chats. I happily enjoyed each visit, but many times was quietly wandering the aisles in search of a certain ingredient for black bean soup, retracing my steps a few times, when the person nearest us would just start commenting on the weather, what they were making for dinner or how their left leg ached on Thursdays. Oh how I love this part of southern culture.
And this was not all. I have very few memories of short phone conversations that stuck strictly to the matters intended for the call. Usually we'd visit for up to an hour, discussing the kids, the state of the world, swimming on Sunday, childhood memories, or our hopes for an upcoming gathering. These conversations were full of meat too. The pieces that connect humans, that challenge us, that we rejoice in. Often we spontaneously brain stormed some situation one of us was working on. This was also right up my alley!
Then there were the long afternoons together. Families spending whole days lounging around at one house or another, kids playing, moms comfy on big couches in the living room or hanging in the kitchen where some chore was being tended to, dinner, dishes, snack preparation. These visits always had a set start time and rarely had a preset ending time unless some activity was coming up. At first I thought it was just luck, that our newest friends were fond of long slow visits, but it kept happening over and over, almost no matter where we went. In fact, when we'd be ready to leave with out a plan to go to, going just because I wanted to be home, our hosts would make absolutely sure we didn't want to stay a while longer, have dinner!
Even event planning meetings were longer too, less structured, more full of casual conversation, smiles and story telling.
Indeed I miss this. True, I have made many friends here who are of the long play date variety, the visit in the store kind, the discuss our children at the playground though we just met types and I am SO grateful for these continuing friendships that are getting stronger every day...but I still miss a whole culture that is about hospitality, forging bonds of friendship, courtesy nods and sweet little chats about town.
The details are vague, but I think I know why I'm not fond of tent camping.
I was a Junior counselor at a summer camp for a sort of gentle reform program for 7th and 8th graders. It was called Earn and Learn.
In my life Earn and Learn was magic. I was a camper the previous year, recommended because I was often late to school, to the point of... a real problem. So the summer between 7th and 8th grade I was the camper. Wow, I'm silenced for a moment realizing how much I want to say about that surely life saving program, about their way of challenging us, helping us learn and grow. Well, another post of the 30 maybe.
Anyway, camp both years was a lot of outdoor activities like a many mile bike ride, horse back riding, swimming across a small lake, ketchup and mustard fights, repelling... and tent camping the year I was a counselor. I'd never been camping outside of snug cabins with soft bed and cold tile floors. But I was about to have an experience of the great outdoors. I remember walking quite a ways, though it may have been a less than enthusiastic inner attitude on my part that made it seem like a long walk. So there were lots of trees and grass. And our tents which were set up by those who know. Likely the whole experience would have faded from memory except that it rained...and rained and rained, until we had to leave camp much earlier than expected and trudge all the way back to the main camp (carrying our soggy, heavy everything), the one with cabins, a dining hall and a kitchen we worked in til 1am many nights scouring the walls, the floors and anything else with a surface, having been told that an inspector was coming soon after our stay, that we needed to make the place far cleaner than we found it. Looking back I wonder if that was true or if it was a way to build character in the young staff. Work til 1am, wake at 5am, or was it 6? It was the latest I'd stayed up after getting up the earliest I'd been up after getting to bed the latest/earliest I ever remember over and over!
That's all I remember about that my tent camping endeavor...blah!
In all the years since, I hadn't thought a single bit about the possibility that I would ever do such a ridiculous thing again. Fortunately or unfortunately for me, I married a man that would happily bed every night in a sleeping bag under the stars miles from anything. So far we haven't since we had a baby 13 months after our wedding. We did sleep in a tent once when the boys were much smaller, a few paces away from a perfectly nice cabin. But I understood. Even the illusion of camping helped...a little. David's just waiting patiently until spring when we can take our boys on a real camping trip since they are old enough to appreciate what he can teach them of his love for nature.
I guess never going as a family when I was little makes a big difference too. It's completely off my radar as a way to spend a weekend. But this marriage thing, it requires doing what the other person wants, even if we feel uncomfortable or just bored. The one and only time I went shopping for a dress (I was part of a wedding for a dear friend) he came with me, all through the mall, to store after store, for hours and hours. For one evening we experienced what stand up comedians have tons of material about and we could see why all the jokes are a hit! He does lots of house work, tries his very best to remember all my friends names and pretty much lets me make plans for all of his off work time.
I was only aiming to write a few words about that soggy expedition, but I think I've just talked myself into suggesting a family camping trip!
Sloggy mind, fresh popcorn, green tile table,small wooden bowl with the last few pecan pieces and nut dust, Matthew's water bottle, the top of my water bottle peeking over the back of my laptop screen, voices of doubt, empty spaces, tall trees I climbed at Brummel Park, 2 washcloth napkins, a stack of various gluten free flours.
Sadness, slowness, peaceful, childlike, staring at large dry leaves the boys brought in last autumn after a walk with dad, shy, sensitive, eating handfuls of the popcorn, editing before I write.
Courageous, healing, creative, fascinated, loving, determined, prayerful, thoughtful, grateful, wondering why I ever forget, even for a second, how amazing my family is.
My name is Heidi Beth. I am a Baha'i', a wife, mother, daughter, aunt, sister in law, friend, writer, baker, cook, teacher, actress, gathering initiator, student, holder of visions, observer, keeper of art, listener, wanderer.
Silence that fills every space, sits with me, Prayer Book open on my lap.
Soft light simply is.
I know the small sighs I could hear were I to move closer, kneel beside a sleeping child.
For now I'm content to know the covers are pulled up over their shoulders, covers I've rearranged twice during the night as little ones twirl in their sleep at the calling of night dreams.
I am still half in their world of sleep, though my body is upright on the black couch by our front window.
Thoughts that closed in last night when I stayed up too long begin to untangle, form a clear picture for this new day.
Soon I'll get up, make breakfast, rotate the laundry, sweep the kitchen floor, fold towels from the pile on the opposite couch.
But not yet.
If I knew how to play guitar, I'd walk to the corner, between book shelves, open the lovely black case, bring the guitar to my lap and listen to my fingers pray a melody.
I have the music of gratitude. Breathe in, breathe out, smile. I pray for the willingness to accept the prosperity in my life today.
With a prayer for guidance, I'm done for the moment.
A space opens wide.
I open The Hidden Words, listen to Baha'u'llah.
O SON OF SPIRIT!
My first counsel is this: Possess a pure, kindly and radiant heart, that thine may be a sovereignty ancient, imperishable and everlasting.
Maybe some day, I think, some day.
Today I'm okay with progress not perfection.
Now let the day begin.
I was the 15 year old telling my mother how to improve her driving though I had never been behind the wheel. I studied her feet, how she balanced the needs of the gas pedal and the clutch with each shift. I told her with great and annoying authority how she could master a smooth transition from 1st to 2nd. I couldn't seem to shut up because I KNEW her driving could improve and since I was now in the know (my dad had been giving me pointers and descriptions of how to), well, good thing she was open and patient.
In Drivers Ed we spent long boring periods reading glossy paged books, sitting in sterile simulators with bad audio in a cold class room, listening to the teacher go on and on and on. From my classroom I could see the parking lot across the street, full of orange cones, ready for the new young driver to practice before braving the streets.
Then one day, we were allowed behind the wheel. First of course, we had to spend just a bit less boring class times weaving cones. But soon enough I flipped the turn signal, looked both ways, looked again, then turned onto Dodge with a tense and sighing instructor at my right.
Two events stand out in my learning to drive experience. One of them is a brief and terrifying moment in the car with my instructor as I merged onto a busy I-94West. After signaling, I looked behind in to the lane I was merging onto, as well as the rear view mirror, then I merged successfully. BUT, my instructor, who I had heard didn't even drive himself but rode his bike everywhere, screamed at me that I hadn't looked behind me, and what was I thinking and that is so dangerous and blah!!!!!!! It didn't take much reflection for me to conclude this was a dangerous reaction! So, that was that. One practice merge per class.
The second involves my patient mother who believed my intelligence about smooth driving with a manual transmission existed in my body as well as my mind. Once I had permit in hand, down we go to the car, ready to set out on some errand and with a proud and happy smile, my mom tosses me the keys. I don't remember whether my inability to drive a stick shift in actuality showed itself when I jerked down Greenleaf Ave a couple blocks or if I admitted my ignorance right off. Surely she remembers and will let me know after reading this.
It all worked out soon. My dad took me to Robert Crown's parking lot after hours, suffered through a series of jerks, stalls and fancy noises and eventually felt I was knowledgeable enough to drive around the block.
I got my drivers license at the first possible moment, having to go to two facilities in one day because I forgot to put my seat belt on so failed my first test. The second tester tapped out a happy tune on the roof of the car. Very nice :).
I definitely preferred manual to automatic and still do. The challenge of shifting smoothly was fun and engaging. As Dory said when I took her out one afternoon to learn to drive a stick, "It feels like I'm driving a race car!"
And I never have stopped telling my mother how to drive...
In the small bowl, yeast, sucanut and water, once mixed, begin to foam.
In the medium bowl, an egg, agave nectar and oil settle into a blob no matter how long the electric whisk just worked them.
In the big bowl, flours, salt, baking soda, baking powder, xanthum gum, and flax meal are blended together to become one entity.
Now the contents of medium and small bowl go into the large one. They are mixed together well when a dough is evident.
Now into the breadmaker's bread pan they go, sides of the bowl carefully scraped with a spatula. Then the mass is gently shaped.
The bread pan fits with a click into it's counter top oven. Eighty minute quick bake begins with a series of beeps.
Eighty minutes later, a perfect loaf of bread is set on a plate then turned right side up and left to cool a bit.
Then we eat :).
In order for this to happen, the three bowls need to be clean and dry, as well as measuring cups, whisk, forks, spatula and the little oven pan. All the ingredients must be in the cupboards, fridge and flour containers.
In order for this to happen, someone must order a few items off the internet and go to a few different stores, walk the aisles, read labels, purchase the needed items then go home and put them away.
Before all this, a recipe is needed. Not the final recipe. That will come with learning, experimentation, more than one mistake and writing it down for future use. The recipe will change with experience, new ideas, suggestions from friends.
But when success is reached, the bakers smile while chewing ;)
Home for me is friendship. David is my best friend so this is good.
Home is delightful delight. Home is the space I curl up in, where I am quiet, seemingly asleep, listening carefully to the fabric of my thoughts at 2am or an hour of prayer mid afternoon so intense I must move slowly to return to the world of matter.
Home is a spacious floor, a shelf full of beautiful books, Michael Hedges first thing on a spring morning.
Home is safe and challenging, gives me space to make mistakes and learn from them.
Home is company over for hours and we eat whatever is in the fridge, over piles of legos, over stacks of books I'm urging my fried to borrow, listening to our children navigate new friendship, connected to love.
Home is that space of meditation where I fly, short super heroes, messy dining room tables, lots of laundry, most special in the world tiny loud kisses with giggles, soft little hands in mine, an eager question, an insightful observation that reminds me Devyn and Matthew are ever growing more mature.
Home is a funny conversation with David, an unexpected family afternoon laughing like crazy watching Bedtime Stories on my laptop at the Baha'i Center long after the days program has ended.
Home is love, joy, peace, healing, wonder, beauty, gratitude...
I am home.
Meet Freddy. He's big, huge, enormous! He sheds, drools, barks and wags. He lives in a small house owned by Little Man. Freddy takes up 1/3 of the house. Little Man Loves Freddy. Freddy lets Little Man use him as a bed and pillow each night. Freddy and Little Man play fetch with broom sticks on the prairie.
Little Man hates pickles. Freddy loves Little Man. Freddy loves pickles. Freddy and Little Man live 5 miles from town and travel by horse drawn wagon. Freddy actually only eats pickles, so Little Man built a storage shed next to the house. Once a month, Little Man travels to town, buys pickle barrels to fill the wagon. These he stores in the shed. This is better than traveling 10 miles a day to feed Freddy. Hmmmm....Freddy eats a lot.
Little Man misses Freddy when he's outside eating. Little Man invites Freddy in to eat. Little Man breathes in and out carefully, adjusting to the horrid smell of pickles. Freddy eats with a consistent repetitive smack, smack, chomp, gulp, chug a chug a chew. Little Man finds he enjoys this new music. Soon he is doing a pickle jig. Love goes this way for Freddie and Little Man. By the second day, Little Man is used to the smell of pickles. By the 5th day he doesn't mind the smell of pickles. By the 10th day, Little Man enjoys the smell of pickles...almost as much as he enjoys dancing.
I promise myself I'll get to balance the check book, eat a spoonful of chocolate frosting and stretch out my crossed legs once I write something.
Allison and I used to walk through clothing aisles for fun. We'd search for the ugliest article, hold it up for the other to see across the way, make a sound like only a 13 year old can and laugh like crazy. Really it was a sport for us, at least once a week for many months. I thought not once about who we might be annoying or not impressing. We weren't impressed and everybody should know right? Gblaahch!
We also rode our bikes between our homes, through the middle of Evanston, mostly down Wesley. Lots of yellow houses on that route. We cleaned her house once a week too because she had chores to do but we wanted to be together. I avoided her cat. Beautiful but unfriendly. We sometimes spent an afternoon in her parent's bedroom den where the typewriter sat and wrote stories and poems. We danced all over the living room, we cried (a lot) at all the trouble life was becoming as we got older, we sang real loud to Duran Duran and Simon and Garfunkel as it played on the turntable that sat in the corner of the dining room I don't remember ever seeing anyone eat in since there was a more convenient dining table in the kitchen. We watched Alex, The Life of a Child more than once and cried every time. I can't even write that with out starting to cry. We played badminton in her yard most warm afternoons, our only objective to see how long we could keep the birdie in the air. When I looked toward the house from my side of the net I always saw a gallon of tea basking in the sun on a yard table. We walked to the beach, walked aimlessly around downtown Evanston. One summer she helped me watch a couple brothers who were 10 and 12. By then we were 14 and 15.
Time went by.
I went to college for a semester and discovered Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones. I was 21. Most of what I can remember from then on is sitting across from each other at a small cafe table, cigarettes burning in the ashtray, 2 cups of coffee in white ceramic mugs, our heads bowed over our spirals, each writing rapidly, aiming for our first thoughts for a full 10 minutes. When time was up we'd raise our heads and look at each other, eyes dazed, bodies resettling into the moment, breathe deep and smile. Then we'd each read aloud what we'd just written. Her pieces were these intense journeys into the heart. Her imagery was rich. I don't know what I wrote. I have all or most of it in a box in my bedroom. We'd immediately choose another first line or topic then bow again to the rush of creativity.
I wrote with many friends over the years in just this way. I've been there when people who never thought they could write looked up after reading what they'd written (or listened as I read aloud with their permission since they felt embarrassed) either with a full smile or holding in a smile of pride, delighted at their work. But it was the hours with Allison that are the foundation. At one point we lived in the same building, sharing morning coffee with our legs stretched out before us, a crate for an end table, keeping a close on eye on her most recent cat Cassidy who was aggressively playful and more than a little scary. We'd talk shop in the evening after our shifts of waiting on the public, helping them eat. Eventually I moved away into the cornfields and she moved away to another state.
Time keeps us aware through the harder tests of becoming an adult as well as the inevitable challenges of an expectation of maturity.
A few months back I saw a friends daughter with her friend at Target. They didn't see me. One of them held out a fascinating shirt from the round rack for the other to appreciate, crinkled her nose, made a unique noise and they burst out laughing.
At first I thought about immaturity. Then I thought about friendship.
I ate breakfast at 3pm when I worked in the North Loop. I worked at a nice clean diner til 1am every shift. After work I took the red line subway north to the purple line rail through Evanston to Davis. I waited naively/confidently for a cab to take me to my friends house where I would sleep on the floor til late the next morning or early afternoon. The cabs were green. I always asked the driver to wait til I was inside the 2nd floor back door. Sometimes I shared the ride with a young man whose name I wish I remembered. He felt protective since I lived in a rough neighborhood. We became friends. We'd go out before work or on off days, to the pier, or just to walk downtown talking life. He felt there must be some way out, some way to make it as an adult, but his hope was full of doubt. I always felt peaceful with him.
Anyway, on to less interesting memories. I ate breakfast at a carryout hamburger joint around the corner from the diner I would later work at for 8 hours serving soup, salad, pancakes and Greek chicken. For breakfast I almost always ordered an omelet with sausage and cheese with hash browns and wheat toast. I particularly liked jelly on my egg dish, spread on evenly. This is where I was quiet. My book, a crossword, anonymity, people all around quickly accomplishing more than I could fathom. They all walked by the wall sized window so fast, so purposeful. When I was on the street, going to the places I went, I ambled. I looked at the cars passing by. I looked at the sky, the store windows. I remember the huffs of impatience behind me right before some determined pedestrian blew past.
I was a regular at that burger joint. I liked being recognized but not known. This made my late breakfast kinder as I wasn't much interested in being known just then.
You know, it doesn't have to be anything. It could be a few words, a few lines. Mundane. It could be about going to the grocery store and following my list exactly. It could be about diaper changes or cooking fish for the first time. It could be interesting or fall flat with a dull thud. But if it's a piece of writing, it counts.
We were newlyweds. I was in our 2nd apartment, down the hall from our first apartment (that we left after only a couple weeks when the prettier bigger place opened up) in down town small town on the same street as 5 bars that let out at 1am, let out screaming drunks in an economically depressed town, seemingly all geared up to have a good fight, under my window...at 1am, when I usually woke from horrid nightmares, woke to their vicious slurring anger at volumes passing sirens reach. High ceilings and radiator heat don't have enough appeal to stick around that nonsense for long.
But...in the two months we did live there, while David was at work one afternoon, I tried to cook cat fish.
Pan on the burner, fish in the pan, heat beneath, a bit of oil, all set. Domestic in the kitchen I was not at all, or even properly knowledgeable. Here's how it went. The pan started smoking and in a flash flames had engulfed the fish and spread through out the pan. I did not know about grease fires. I did not know to cover it instead of douse it. I was a DORK! I doused it, the flames grew, I panicked, rushed the pan to the bathtub where it would have more room to be a fire while I continued to panic. In the tub, the flames licked up higher. What happened next was a blur, but a little voice deep inside, the one that heard Mr. Fireman when he came to my elementary school 15 years earlier, suggested that covering the pan was the only hope. I don't know what I covered it with. I only know the fire was put out, my heart was pounding and fast! I was in a cold sweat. I felt like an idiot, and I would not be using stainless steel frying pans for a long time if I ever would again. This moment is so embarrassing I have only told a few people, maybe only David. Now I'm telling you.
Later, when we moved to a little bit larger town in the corn fields I asked a friend, an older woman we liked to visit, how to cook fish. She didn't even know how to answer my question, the answer was so obvious. Pan, heat, oil or water, wait til it's done all the way through, put on plate. Yeah, now I know and cook fish all the time. Regardless, I didn't use a stainless steel pan for another 9 years. The difference between the one I tried to melt and the one I use now is qualitative. The first one was thin and cheap, this one is thicker and sturdier.
Lessons? Too many to count.
You know what else I remember from that afternoon. It was a beautiful sunny day and I liked how the light settled on everything in the living room, which contrasted with the dark scary bathroom scene. Ugh.
I'm waiting for you she says.
She waits.
I'm waiting but I can't hear you.
She listens, hopeful.
I'm waiting for you and I don't know if we will ever meet again.
She sets aside the wash cloth, picks up her diapered dear, sits in the squishy chair they've adopted, dear nestles in to her lap content and she begins to read, "My name is Nicholas, I live in a hollow tree."
I'm waiting but I'm happy now she realizes.
When we meet again we'll hardly recognize each other.
What will we have to talk about?
We won't. We'll watch the sunrise over a corn field and remember how it looks over lake Michigan.
Then we'll look at dear sleeping in his bed, adore his baby face more than we ever enjoyed the most beautiful sky, even in New Mexico.
When darling arrives, I have forgotten I am waiting.
Darling in my arms, dear by my side, both napping, I breathe slowly, in and out, quiet like never was.
There you are.
It was because of my neighbor across the street. He was the first person I was completely afraid of. I found out that he'd bent Jonah over the iron rail out front of his building, just to be mean. Jonah was OK, but in a lot of pain, physical and emotional. They were supposed to be friends. I could see the black railing from the front room window, the room with a thin carpet full of big colorful flowers and their long green stems. We lived in the basement apartment, the kind with windows level with the front lawn, with pipes that clanked and hollered any time for any reason (I thought everyone lived with this fancy utility concert). Sitting at the window (which I did often, idly observing the world as only a young child can), when my eyes wandered to his front step and I saw the black rail, neighborhood boys leaning on it, standing around it (which was many hours a day), I'd feel afraid. I was afraid because I knew someone who could purposely harm another and not seem to care. I was 6, just becoming aware of the world and Jonah was my friend (only a year older than me). We lived in that apartment until I was 10. I remember that every time I looked across the street I became freshly aware of meanness, the kind that goes beyond harsh words, the kind that scars. I would feel upset and worried, worry with no words. Now I might say that I wondered if he would ever hurt me, but I don't think that was it (though I was always afraid for Jonah). I believe I was worried about meanness and not a particular person. I never heard of him hurting anyone else, but that once was enough to leave a scar.
From the kitchen sink at our house on Wiley I could turn my head to the right and see the back yard. We lived there 9 months. Let's see, Devyn was 13 months old when we moved in. While we were packing up the apartment we lived in prior he helped move boxes. One afternoon he eyed a particularly large box in the dining area and decided to move it. This little baby, just barely walking (less than 2 months) put 2 hands on the top edge, bent one knee, straightened his other leg behind him, lowered himself just a bit and pushed the box! His technique was so...advanced...and surprising. Impressive too! During our last month in the same apartment we became acquainted with Devyn's interest in all things decorative and with in reach (even if he had to jump for them). Packing started early.
So having a yard for this little guy was great. It was also my first experience living in a little house on a quiet street with a fenced in yard and attached garage. We decided to try the extended family thing so my mom moved in with us. She took the room over the garage. A good learning experience, but a story all it's own for another day. Our time at the house on Wiley could be a book actually. As I type, a list of key experiences, beautiful memories (like watching my dad and Chris go into their own world inside the steady base beating of their djembe drums on New Years eve), turning point realizations, adventures in possibly owning a cafe then not, and the two long visits my dad enjoyed with us come to mind and beg to be shared. But not today.
In this yard, on hot summer days, David would often pull out our long blue plastic sled, fill it with water and call it a swimming pool. Then we'd strip Devyn to babyness and let him splash and dance until he was ready to stop or got too cold. I was still newly married, an only child trying to adjust to life with a husband and now a cheerful, playful, energetic, curious, intelligent little boy. I struggled with wanting order and clean dishes more often than necessary. I struggled with letting in all of this wonderfulness that was now my family life. So I spent many hours washing dishes. I'd be at the sink, quietly feeling in control of my world, content to be seeing tangible immediate results for my efforts and from that place I'd look out and see Devyn and David having a grand time getting wet, experiencing life fully. I liked the way afternoon sunlight slid in to the room with the sounds of their laughter. I liked how Devyn would come in and out on various toddler errands only he could define. I liked making food for the boys. I liked being outside with them too but I wasn't nearly as good as David at being present with Devyn, aware of the possibilities for joy and what a little one may find entertaining. Fortunately for me and probably for Devyn too, he was easily absorbed in a given task, like taking apart a mechanism on the screen door for hours, which David would later put back together, or looking out the window at squirrels eating the scraps of food I threw in the yard, because I was often only comfortable if I was cleaning, washing up after dinner, sweeping the floor. I did spend plenty of time nursing Devyn (the upside down kid), helping him paint at his little wooden desk, hanging out with friends and family that came by often, taking bus rides to construction sites where Devyn would be mesmerized by the real life big machines he first saw in little board books, but I had a limit that always came sooner than I wanted it too.
Fortunately I've grown since then and dishes can wait (but not too long...)just like the phone (no matter how much it annoys certain people that I ignore the ringer often ;)), because I have a beautiful family to enjoy (which has grown since the Wiley place to include Matthew, another energetic, intelligent, inquisitive boy) .
I stopped over 8 years ago. In the sweet haze of first thoughts when the sun was new, bright and peaking through our black curtains decorated with jungle animals, an insight washed over me. This particular morning it was in words. First thing upon waking I often realize important things easily, as if all along I've known and now it's just so simple, a matter of course. Sometimes the knowing comes in images, faces of friends, a vision of what should be. Other times in a prayer or verse of Baha'i Writings to a kind melody, a deep peace. This day my thoughts conversed. "If you're going to keep nursing Devyn, you should give up caffeine." "That's true, it can't really be good for him, even the one cup I drink each morning." So that was that. Weaning Devyn for good coffee wasn't a reasonable trade off in my mind so the decision was made and firm that quick.
A certain detail here should not be left out. At the time I drank one cup of coffee a day, first thing after morning prayers. This was a beautiful cup of coffee. We had a drip/espresso maker so...as I had, for years, brewed my coffee with double grounds, that's what I still did at the time. Then I added to this a single shot of espresso, then heavy whipping cream. Perfect! That was my one cup. 3 cups in one mug actually, but I didn't think about it at all. The nursing video at the Health Dept said I could have that one cup and my baby would be fine.
In reality he was fine. I'd avoided caffeine through the whole pregnancy and never deviated from the one cup rule since he was born. But here now was this clear directive from me to me and I listened. For the next 3 days, Devyn and I slept. We got up for meals and for a bit of play, but we were both sleepy and slow. Fortunately for all of us, I didn't experience withdrawal headaches. After our days of sleepiness and long naps, Devyn was back to his incredibly energetic playful self. Still, those 3 days were all the memory I needed if I ever was tempted to drink another yummy cup of regular Joe during the time he nursed. By the time he stopped, Matthew was born and happily nursing and I had lost the desire to experience the caffeine type energy. In fact, it began to seem undesirable and still does.
If only there was a way to enjoy the wonderful, rich, creamy taste of coffee the way I used to make it, with no consequences. Oh well, there's always dark chocolate ;)
I wasn't very old, still too young to be completely in my body. I was at a point where I walked around hollow, listening to my heart beat, listening to the empty space where I could not bear to think about what was most painful (healing would come later, in waves and moments, through prayer and courage). Adulthood loomed and I felt utterly without guidance. I had dropped out of high school and started waiting tables at Pizza Hut on Dodge, then the IHOP in Wilmette. Many people didn't understand. "You have so much potential" they said. "That's nice" was my inner reply. I don't know what I said out loud. Maybe I smiled and enthusiastically explained all the reasons I'd left or maybe I just assured them it would be OK, knowing they weren't convinced, but I had made up my mind firmly.
When I was off work I was writing in that cafe on the corner by the Dempster el stop, the one with brick inner walls they eventually painted white, the one that I saw closed recently as I rounded the corner onto Sherman Ave or at Steep & Brew in the back, the smoking area. I spent my time in Northwestern's music rooms with a few friends when they were out of school for the afternoon. I read Richard Bach and hoped life could be as beautiful as he hoped it could be, as he claimed to experience.
Around this time, my grandma Katz was getting old and sick. The kind of sick that comes from worry. She lost weight, seemed to unlearn how to talk, needed to sleep a lot, be fed with a spoon by another. I watched in observation mode as I couldn't hold on to an image of her for long and certainly no thoughts about her condition. It was what it was and I was her kin, so I sat with her in the kitchen, listening as she struggled to be understood, when she may have only wanted to have a sip of water but the effort to communicate that simple request was exhausting.
In February 1990, she went in to the hospital for several days. It was serious, so we were called to her bed side in St. Louis, several floors up in a quiet hospital wing. It's the nicest hospital I've ever been in. Enormous windows, good natural light, serene and quiet (to my recollection). There was even a large room full of couches and tables near her room. This is where I spent most of my time. I had a pair of head phones and several tapes of Simon and Garfunkel. I had an 8 1/2 x 11 cardboard bound spiral with a bright yellow cover. I'd wander into my grandma's room, see my aunt Marsha, Agnes or my mom by her side, holding her hand. They were often silent. I might linger in the doorway a moment but since I had nothing to offer, I'd slip out again, head for that large comfortable lounge, turn on my music, open my notebook and write what I saw. I'd write about the sun coming in the window just so, about grandma laying there so small and helpless, about the quiet. I'd also write poems about flying, paint word pictures of gorgeous sunsets and share my hopes for the adult I would one day become.
We were there for 3 days. I went to another universe during that time. The universe of slow sadness, of beautiful wondering. Hours and hours each day, from morning til night, I wandered back and forth between the lounge where I was cocooned by my art to grandma's room. Sometimes I'd go to her side, talk to her, but it was awkward. It didn't seem to be my place. As I write this I can still feel the air brush past my face, the still air of a hospital corridor as I wandered about knowing I couldn't feel impatient. I nearly filled that yellow spiral. I would leave the overhead lights off in the lounge until the last bits of light faded each evening. No one ever joined me in there.
Grandma didn't die in February. She held on until December. December 1990 in her house is less clear to my memory than the hospital. I know the house well, but no details of the mundane aspects of the trip have lasted. I only remember that my grandma was in her corner bedroom, in her bed, small, so so small. I was always aware of the antique mirror on the inner wall, huge, reflecting bottles of perfume and a hair brush she kept on her dresser. Her legs moved of their own accord beneath the green covers almost constantly. It was her breathing though, her labored, raspy breathing that I could hear clearly no matter what room of the house I was in that penetrates every thought of that good bye.
At that time in my life I was a heavy sleeper, often hard to wake, even aggressive toward anyone who disturbed me. But not that night. I fell asleep after midnight to the hollow rattle of her sighs. I was on the couch in the front living room, the one with the prettiest furniture, the fireplace and ornaments collected over a lifetime. I slept on the couch where I sat with my grandma 10 years earlier explaining the Baha'i Faith. It was the only time I remember having her full attention. My legs stuck straight out over the edge of the cushion, grandma and I angled toward each other in deep conversation. I patiently explained progressive revelation over and over. She wanted to understand but only asked the same questions over in over in the most earnest tones. I remember that my grandma was always busy cooking and cleaning, usually afraid, often uncomfortable, so to have her sitting there with me, just us on that big couch, together in the middle, her listening to me respectfully, having a regular kind of conversation was Gold. Tears spring to my eyes as I write this, as I recall us sitting there, side by side. You'd have to have known grandma Katz to know how wonderful this was. This was the couch I slept on, the one I woke on a bit before 8am December 19th when something unseen drew me up out of bed to the doorway of her room. My mom woke at the same time and we met there, looking at Molly Katz, unexplainably aware that we were witnessing her last breaths, both aware that this was a time for her to be alone, like an invisible shield kept us respectfully on the other side of the open doorway.
Right now Carlos Nakai Earth Spirit is playing on Pandora. This is the one I listened to in the delivery room the miracle morning Devyn was born. Now I listen to it as I re-experience the moment my much loved grandma was born into the Abha Kingdom. Oh God, I didn't know I had any sadness left for her parting, anything I'd miss. But then I saw us in the pretty living room, grandma with her only grand daughter, talking the way I wish we could have done more often while she was alive in body.
I have talked with her many times since that December morning we said good bye. She has hugged me and comforted me through countless painful times in my young adult life from her new home. Sometimes she jokes around and cracks me up. I'm willing to accept this may be wishful thinking but I believe it is more real than the floor I stand on when I wake each day.
After midnight, I sat at the foot of my bed. The room was simple, no decorations. I was being helped by a friend of a friend who lived in a trailer in a small town surrounded by cornfields somewhere in Illinois. They had a spare room which I called home for a couple months. I was a 3rd shift waitress, serving biscuits and gravy, coke and gallons of coffee to the regulars, the local farmers and mechanics, the factory workers and my fellow lost 20 something peers.
I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing with my life, other than writing, making money and hanging out with friends...but it wasn't enough. This early morning, in the quiet, the empty flat quiet of the edge of nowhere in central Illinois, I was trying to write a beautiful anything. My letters were big and chunky, sloppily scrawled across each line. The paper was recycled so had an off white tint and it was wide lined. I remember the big spaces available for each word made me feel childlike and inept, as if my life at that moment was hopelessly stuck.
Sitting alone in this emptiness I temporarily called home, cross legged on my blankets, I listened to a hard rain dance on the roof, splash on the cement, slosh onto the muddy patches of earth outside my window. I would write for 10 minutes then sit stone still, listening. I'd sit and only sadness sat with me, a determined alert sadness that cannot sleep, that only hears the rain, the scratch of a pen and my racing thoughts. Then I would write for 10 more, over and over in this way, all the while under this natural symphony, until dawn.
I love the tap, slop, swish of a downpour, the tink thunk of water patting window pane, even when I was stuck with what I perceived as my pitiful lost self.
For a few hours I was cool. I was at the raised round booth with a solid wood table at the south west wall of Yesterdays, a local and better quality TGIF type place. I was there with friends from our short lived improv troupe. Usually we met in someones apt, the kind that's payed for by magic. The kind with very little furniture, including a few turned over card board boxes with fancy cloth on them as well as an old cold cup of coffee and a full ash tray. If you were to look up from your perch while sitting near such a table, you'd see sitting on the window ledge a wooden incense burner with 1/4 of a stick left and the wormy crumpled ashes below, not all landing in the intended tray. Maybe that was just an image of 20 somethings in the 90's around my neighborhood, but it was common.
But tonight we were celebrating after a great show, feeling close and happy. The audience had been large and appreciative, offering compliments at show's end. We thought this was the beginning of something big (it actually lasted only a few more weeks due to major disunity and hurt feelings). We had a few dollars and little sense (I'm 37 now, and think about reality in terms of budgets and sustainable situations).
I almost got away from the point I was heading for. There we were, hunched over incredible nachos, melted cheese, tomatoes, guacamole..., enormous juicy cheese burgers covered in dripping amounts of ketchup, mustard, and mayo, thick with pickles and onions on a fat white bread bun, chunky, perfectly browned french fries on the side. We sipped our sugary sodas between bites, between jokes, between happy glances whenever our eyes met. I remember Meghan, Jason, Sam and the slightly older balding guy who seemed to have more experience and better ideas than the rest of us (can't remember his name any more).
I felt like I was in a commercial.
Mr. Sohn sang "Heidi Heidi Heidi Ho" slow and low almost every day as I walked in to his class on the first floor, next to the lunch room. I didn't want to be noticed. I was 10, then 11 in his class. There were carpeted steps up the back of the windowless room, desks on each level.
Erin Carter and I made up a secret alphabet to send notes in class. It was a success. We learned our alternative letters well enough to read at nearly the same pace we read the regular English words. 27 years later I still remember most of it. One day Mr. Sohn spotted a neatly folded note as it was passed across from hand to hand between Erin and I. Ready to embarrass us so that we would surely never try that stunt again, he unfolded the paper before the class, poised to share it's contents but sadly for him and much to our amusement, he merely turned the sheet over and over, round and round unable to make sense of our foreign scribbles.
On the first day of 6th grade, Chad Kingsley, who had grown considerably over the summer walked up and towered over me saying, "Let's arm wrestle now." So there in Mr. Sohn's room, before class, we arm wrestled. He was the first person my age to beat me. Up until that year the boys and girls were around the same size and since I spent so many hours at the gymnasium doing flips and pulling myself around bars, I was strong for my age and size.
Mr. Sohn liked to play old radio programs for us. The lights would be turned low and to our delight (well mine at least, can't speak for the others), once all had entered class for the day, a spooky old tale would come on. I guess these were from before TV, when the family would sit around the radio, entertained by tales of woe and adventure. It was obvious how much Mr. Sohn enjoyed these shows. I have a picture in my mind of him leaned back at his desk chair, hands folded on his perfectly round stomach, a contented smile playing on his face.
He was kind, gentle. He liked teaching. He liked King Lab. We liked him.
Copying the challenge of a friend who paints beautifully with water color, I'm challenging myself to write 30 blog entries in 30 days, and not just a run down of daily life, but pieces of writing. I risk being very boring, but I also risk writing beautifully at times, inspired by the heat of intensity that pushing through the resistance that will surely come must bring, for this is when writing comes through and I am not writing, but writing is writing and i am just the key tapper or pen pusher.