I'm stalling in the place between poetic prose and silence.
Quiet, slightly intimidated by everyday life and the prospect of accountability, routine.
I wither there, I think.
Or do I?
I don't really know anymore.
Some semblance of routine has proven fruitful.
I feel insecure here, sure the anvil waits, resting precariously on an invisible shelf.
Not above my head but above my hopes, if I don't swoop them up fast.
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results.
I've swooped up many a premature dream, only to come away with a learning experience and a handful of ashes.
Waiting hurts. In the space that must open, a garden of awareness blooms.
Lessons to carry forward.
I will need to possess certain skills, definite strengths, or risk another crumbling skeleton of potential.
Or do I bring success up short lest I become visible when dreams become reality.
For a year I've been seen.
A child wearing mom's clothes, hoping the world will only notice my big girl smile.
These thoughts are not wrapped in a neat package, coming to a definite conclusion.
More like floating.
I am not unhappy, quite the opposite, nor as fragile as I was even twelve months ago.
Still, I tread carefully, allowing tears of gratitude and letting go of yesterday mix behind my eyes.
Living a dream feels like I used to imagine running through prairie grasses would, if I could be flying just like the girl in a yellow dress, music accompanying her stride, the whole field bathed in sunlight.
Watch this short video before reading further.
Last night, I almost didn't take my boys to the library for a viewing of this documentary. That would have been a huge loss.
I completely forgot there was even a viewing to attend, too wrapped up in my own concerns; wondering if anyone else would comment on a poem I posted in the morning, feeling tired at the thought of doing dishes, trying to remain confident that the children in our theater company will rock opening night in less than three weeks, feeling grateful I was able to talk for two and a half hours with a friend who lives almost 1,000 miles away, wishing spring were already here.
A couple hours before the program my mom called to ask if I was planning on taking the kids. To what? The movie. Movie?
Then I remembered. A faint shadow of understanding whispered, “Go for the boys,” as if I would merely come along to enable their enrichment.
I knew we were going to see a documentary about a band comprised of twenty eight people with varying challenges; autism, down syndrome, blindness, cerebral palsy. But there was no way to expect the triumph they celebrated.
An ASL interpreter was at the front of the room, translating opening remarks, summarizing the show we were about to watch. I looked around. “Too many empty seats,” I thought, forgetting our three seats had almost been unoccupied. “We all care,” I reasoned. “How do we reach people who need to know what their fellow human beings are capable of?” This question, unanswered, often leaves me feeling discouraged the moment it passes through my mind. I was beginning to shift from the “this will be good for my kids” mentality to “I need to shut up and learn.”
I believe in people. I believe nearly every one of us is potentially a genius as long as we're given proper support, guidance, and encouragement; challenged to reach our best; and treated with infinite patience and unconditional love. I believe this is true regardless of any label or condition we may be identified with. Yet I was blown away, moved to tears many times, by the quality of the music that The Spirit of Goodwill creates, the member's individual family and work stories, and the way the band director treated his members with complete respect, expecting no less than the best.
How easily we notice what is missing, not quite right, what we are bad at or can not manage to do, what our children lack, their faults. But this is the absence and not the substance. We can not throw dark on light but we can walk into a dark room with a candle, so small, yet illuminating a space much larger than itself. Does this mean we should ignore our weakness, flaws, defects and challenges, skipping though the tulips singing, "If you're happy and you know it wiggle your ears," pretending our challenges don't exist? No. Such knowledge is necessary to keep a balanced perspective, to know where we must begin taking baby steps, a marker to look back on to help us gauge our forward progress as well as knowledge to keep us safe; it's like realizing that a blind man shouldn't drive a car, no matter how much he's willing to practice.
But what do we so often do? We focus on how life would be better if...
We made $20,000 more a year, had a clean house, more energy, better health, younger bones, nicer children, a more considerate spouse, a life partner that completes us, no more debt, if we hadn't been abused by our parents, insulted by teachers, lied to and tormented by our siblings, and a hundred other very real challenges that truly can impede our progress to a hoped-for life of happiness. I know too well how crippling some of these realities can be. I believe we also mistakenly focus on a "disabled" people's disabilities as the primary qualities determining if they are going to have a good and productive life and how much they will be able to contribute to society or drain its resources (as if anyone could really know). "The Spirit of Goodwill" band blows this idea out of the water.
Here's the major insight I came away with last night: either we are all disabled or we are all abled, depending whether we focus on our capacity and possibilities for development or on our lack of certain abilities.
Tuesday, I listed five flaws I perceive in myself. In honor of The Spirit of Goodwill Band and all they have accomplished since 1996 and all they will surely contribute to the well being of anyone who has the privilege of hearing their music and learning their story, I offer a list of my strengths and personal battles won in my almost forty years on the planet and I hope you'll do the same.
I am generous.
I am a good teacher, currently using this gift to teach my own children and as part of a thriving children's theater company I helped start.
I have almost learned gratitude as a default response to negative stress.
I have learned to consider and respect other people's feelings (quite a feat for this only child).
I am a high quality gluten free baker (fooling those who don't know the wheat is missing).
I am a loyal friend.
My children enjoy spending time with me, laugh at my jokes and know my husband and I see their contributions to family life and the world as valuable.
I have learned the value of giving my best, even when I want my best to be better, risking criticism even though I know it will hurt. (I used to hide my light lest it get trampled.)
I can unpack and decorate after a move faster than almost anyone I know.
I am passionate about the value of art/creativity.
I love chocolate.
What are your strengths, especially those that are the flip side of past weaknesses? I challenge each of us to write a post about our abilities, what we are good at, what we offer that enriches our world. Let's celebrate our abilities. Open Call!
Since I joined Open Salon last September, I've been considering writing a post where I tell how Sharon, aka mimetalker, has influenced my life. My first thought was that I should ask permission, then she left this:
"13. In full disclosure, I once changed the diapers of the person who put out this open call.
Sorry for the ewww factor, Heidi.
Mimetalker
September 21, 2010 04:03 PM"
as the bump comment for her 12 Random post.
For no reason other than that writing ideas started pouring into my head from the ether, I haven't revisited the idea of publicly acknowledging her positive influence on my life... until today.
When I was little, my parents loved to tell Sharon and George stories. I appreciated and respected George, but I loved Sharon (the way young children fasten on a grownup and want to just like them). What I gathered, in my childish perception was that wearing two different colored socks would make me cool, telling outrageous stories with a straight face and sticking to them through thick and thin until someone believes in aliens in human form is a worthy endeavor and being happy and devoted to serving humanity and bringing art to the forefront of human well being are critical to a life of joy.
I only accidently stopped wearing mismatched socks for a few years while my children were small and everything in my world cried for order. Fortunately I'm back to wearing one pink and one green sock when I'm wearing a red shirt and black jeans – especially when I teach for the children's theater company.
Theater! That's the specific art. I do tolerable well as a mime, that is if you ask my children, nieces or any child they ask me to show off for, though I would be too shy to mime around mimetalker. But that's not the kind of performing I'm talking about. When I was very small, I have memories of Sharon, George, my parents and many other talented, dedicated actors, as part of a traveling theater troupe all over Illinois. I don't remember any of the shows, but my mom confirmed that Sharon did have a speaking part in at least one. I remember the sense of community, sitting in the sun; my legs stretched out, green grass sticking up between my toes; and feeling all was right with my little world. So right, in fact, that I wanted to grow up and create/be a part of just the kind of creative, witty, loving, community I experienced back then.
I've never lost that vision. Now our local theater company is in its second term and gaining momentum, both on the being visible in the community front and, more importantly, through creating strong, valuable friendships that sustain, nourish and enliven the families involved.
Over the years, my family and Sharon's have not spent much time together and usually only at George's parents' house for random and too infrequent gatherings. I have only a single memory of playing at Sharon's house in Rockford. All I see are her two young children playing in a toy room. There was just enough of an age difference that I thought of them as little and myself as older. Now we're all the same age-ish and I long to be able to spend more time getting to know them and their amazingly beautiful families.
I also knew from an early age that if anything were to happen to my parents before I reached 18, I would be cared for by the Davises. I've also been told that when my parents told Sharon, she was almost giddy with excitement, so much so that my mom and dad were a bit disconcerted. I never wanted anything to happen to happen to my parents, but I liked our backup plan.
To be honest, I wanted to be like Sharon. Now that I'm on Open Salon, learning more about her life than I ever did from other people's stories, early memories and bustling gatherings, that were more impressions than images I can pull details from, I'm sure I chose a great role model.
Happy Birthday, Sharon!
Everybody dance!!!
what are you gonna do with all this quiet
hold it at arms length with your face turned away, singing, "nanny nanny boo boo, you can't catch me"
tap it out in free verse
carry it in your pocket for another day only to find quiet melts like chocolate
hang it around your neck as an invisible talisman reminding you to, "one of these days," sit still and hush up
give quiet (in an empty box) to the next person you see and hope they run far far away
get out a shovel and bury it in the yard next to a tangle of last years pumpkin vines, hoping more quiet will be ready for you to enjoy come spring
preserve it as if quiet hangs around like a fruit instead of a gift that must be enjoyed or lost
are you going to be quiet or tip toe back to doing, just in case
Indecision is the first clue, then guilt. Spontaneous creativity that normally makes family life fun begins to fade, replaced by direct, plain spoken instructions like, "Go to your room. Close the door. Come out when you're no longer interested in insulting your brother."
I wrote in this frame of mind earlier today. I clicked publish then took down the post a few minutes later. The subject is too dear to let it slide into the world at an almost-sideways moment. What I wrote had nothing to do with parenting issues, but my perception was probably lopsided or nearly so.
Before actually beginning to tilt, I dropped my boys off at grandma's house, grouched at her in an only half joking way, left, called my husband at work and made light of anything I could think to make funnier in the retelling. We did have a good laugh, laughing at ourselves, or, in this case, me.
While my kids enjoy movie night with grandma and grandpa, I'm clomping around town righting myself. Exchanged a broken coffee maker for a new one, meandered around the health food store and now I'm at a grocery store cafe eating heavily cayenned hummus, string cheese and a latte.
I'm posting minutiae because it helps me straighten up and fly grateful, see my life in an accurate light.
I'm overwhelmed by beauty yet again. Yesterday our children's theater company had a family potluck - a joyous occasion lasting from 6-10pm following an intense day of rehearsal from 1-5pm. Our show opens in three weeks. Delight and determination side by side, each living in my bones as we near opening night.
Deep breath. In my mind, I close my eyes, spin and spin and spin, my arms stretched up as if waiting to catch sunshine. I gain speed, lift off and slide through the ceiling, like magic, out into space. I am weightless and free. From here I know, all is well.
My children don't read most of what I write, but they know other people do. They only read stories about themselves and facebook status updates where I tell that Super Man is in the building as a way of sharing that my son's been in the dress up box and is currently darting through the house, a long red cape flapping behind him or similar. They've been helping me write a middle grade chapter book and love the idea that their mom puts life into words. Recently my boys have been offering me writing topics.
At bed time each night, we take turns answering, "What did you enjoy about today?" For a while my younger son would start his turn by wrapping small arms around my shoulders, planting a kiss on my cheek and exclaiming, "I enjoy hugging mommy!" Lately, he scans the memory of recent hours and gives clear impressions of gratitude, unafraid of exposing that he doesn't quite understand the question, because he does now.
Last night he asked me (again) to write about his friend.
Her name is Bea. Bea lived in his cousins' house. Once upon a time she was my brother-in-law's nanny, but in her last few years alive, he took care of her. When she first came to live with his family, she was bedridden and seemingly in her last months. Soon though, through the love of my sweet, soft spoken little niece, she began to recover.
In time, Bea took on doing laundry for the whole family and tending a large garden in the back yard. Whenever we visited my in-laws, my son made straight for her room, knocked, and loved to hear her familiar, raspy "Who is that?!" He opens the door, stands in front of her, his face beaming.
"Is that you?!" She asks him.
He smiles and nods.
"Did you grow again?"
More smiles and nods.
"Well, what you been doin'?"
He never answers directly, usually inquiring about the contents of her room instead.
"How come you have to sit in that rolling chair?"
"Cause my old legs is shot!"
"Why does your bed have those bars?"
"Come out here with me. I want to show you my peas. They're growin' good this year. The rabbits ate up all my lettuce. How am I gonna get um? What you think?"
He never answered. He liked to watch her face, light sparking in her brown eyes, how she moved. He liked when she asked him questions. He liked listening to her watch him grow to be a big boy.
When Bea and I talked too much about gardens and bunnies, he would run off to find his cousins.
We have four years of memories with Bea answering her bedroom door, the familiar love scene playing out.
(I read this whole post aloud to my boys, my little guy beside me. When I got to the part about Bea dying he asked me to stop, his lower lip turned down. After a minute he was okay with me going on. I asked him if I should leave the sad part in. He said no. Because his older brother asked me to keep it, my little guy suggested we share the dying story on a different page. Since OS doesn't offer that option, pretend you are now turning to page two.)
__________________________________________________________________
Shortly before my younger son's sixth birthday, Bea's body gave up. I believe too, she was ready to go.
Visiting her in a nursing home, pale green tiled walls and crooked people in wheel chairs all around, was not the same. That year, we had a large garden, our first. We brought Bea pictures of jalapeno plants, cucumber vines and tomato stalks, all fenced in to keep small animals out. She was unable to sit up and walk around. She did ask the hoped for questions, even smiled, but her unhappiness with a less than ideal staff was palpable.
We were relieved when Bea came home. I was grateful she could die in her bed, surrounded by people who love her dearly. My son held onto hope. He pictured knocking on her door, hearing her animated response, him walking in, finding his friend sitting in her walker, smiling because he was there.
In August 2009, we spent much of two days at my in-law's place, saying goodbye. What follows is an edited version of what I wrote at the time.
We spent the day at Bea's house. Much of the afternoon and evening I sat with her. She is dying. Yesterday she moved to new a stage of letting go. I so hoped she would open her eyes, smile. My younger son especially wanted her to sit up and ask him how he is so the two of them could have a conversation that is sweet to witness, sweeter even to experience. He is sad.
"I don't ever want Bea's body to die" he says and his eyes are filling with tears.
My older son wrote her a story in anticipation of our visit. Though he wasn't sure how to share his gift, we told him to sit close, read loud, that she would hear and know he was near. Bless his heart, he shared the whole story. In response, she barely moaned. We told him that meant "Thank you."
While my sons enjoyed time with their cousins, I held Bea's hand, caressed her forehead, looked for any indication she could hear me. I told her about the court case, our garden(I checked it before we left so I could give an accurate report), the children's theater company we are starting, and a funny story about kids and chocolate cake. From my place at her bedside, I could see most of the yard. I pictured Bea staring out her window, watching children skip and play, keeping an eye on her garden, watching seasons change.
Seasons change.
Her CNA and I spent most of the afternoon talking, a beautiful, powerful conversation about love and God, kids, how growing up is harder than we anticipated, homelessness and drug addiction. There seemed nothing more important than to hand each other our hearts. Sitting beside my dying friend drew reality into focus. There was only Bea's still body, her room with its signs of daily life missing as she had been away too long, her dear assistant, fading light as a summer day eased into evening, the sound of children playing beyond her door and a slow dance of gentle thoughts in my mind.
I did not want to leave. We were there seven hours. When it was almost time to get in the van, my boys and I went in to see her alone. They said "Hi" and "See you later Bea." They were unsure how to talk to someone who can only hear, whose eyes can not open, who seems asleep but is merely waiting, listening to two worlds. They love Bea so they tried, in their soft timid voices. I gave her a hug, a kiss on her forehead, whispered, "I love you Bea" by her right ear. I looked at her one last time. The smallest smile formed on her lips.
Every few weeks, usually at bed time, my younger son tells me again, always with tears welling up in his eyes, "I wish Bea didn't die. I want to see her again."
She never minded his not answering questions. She just asked another one or offered him a glowing compliment. She smiled when he came into her room. She looked at him. She saw him. She loved him back.
When my son prays for Bea, he sings the same prayer he offers every night.
"I am O my God but a tiny seed, which Thou hast sown in the soil of Thy love and caused to spring forth by the hands of Thy bounty." - Abdu'l-Baha
By the end all our hands are high in the air, reaching for the sky. If she were with us those nights, her hands would be up too and she would surely laugh, asking if he was going to be a rose or a big oak tree.
We are a sea of bodies
each on a mysterious
winding path
We are a sea of souls
no separation
no names
We could reach each other
I stretch my right arm
heavenward
a ballerina
seeking
I am a line
a wisp of smoke
bending
in morning's
first light
a breath
over and over
day after day
until the veils
are thin
as vapor
What do you see
Long brown curls
green eyes
a smile between syllables
See beyond
ache to reach
what supports
my breath
carries yours
connects us
What do we risk
by not
by hiding
behind
imaginary barriers
pretending
we are
each an island
that another's story
is not woven
into our own
On my way to a writing group
I walked past despair in flesh
her crumpled form convulsing
in a broken down vestibule
in a forgotten neighborhood
where cars make quick stops
Her head tucked in knees
like arrows gathered in shredded arms
wasting away
shaking
shaking
shaking
I continued
along shattered sidewalks
my tears a stream of sorrow
Where are we?
I closed my eyes
I ached
I reached for her
Through emptiness I cried out, "O God! What can I do?!"
My soul rocked like a child seeking comfort
I went cold
Dusk came on
I stepped inside the library
blinded
by a familiar light
She lives in me now
a constant reminder
we must love
without walls
I am never alone
My husband works long hours. So often, days will pass, days where I am always with my children, when not a single fight or incident between the boys occurs, nor a single break where I am only dancing to the beat of a single drum, my own. When there is easy laughter, grand games of make-believe, no trauma, no heart break, no real battles, there are still matters to be dealt with. Bodies need food, clean clothes, adequate rest. Our kitchen needs to be used, then cleaned. For peace we enjoy to be the norm, my children need to be heard, conversed with, guided, appreciated, given an environment to thrive in. Without a break, I fill up on this richness and empty of inner resources to maintain it.
If I fail to step away and into mental quiet where I am only paying attention to my own limbs, if only for an hour every few days, I begin to tilt, answer questions that have not been asked, address issues that only exist in my sideways perception. Often this results in my children feeling rightly misunderstood - not good for any of us.
Two and a half years ago, when my dad was recovering from a quadruple bypass, my family essentially lived in two homes. I ran extra errands making up for missed details lost in mental confusion. I cooked extra meals, served three unable to completely care for themselves. Fortunately, at the time, we lived one block from my parents. If I'd had to cross town several times a day, I would have given up too soon. We watched a lot of PBSkids in his living room. No one could take a break. Need was only a matter to be considered for children's well being and the man healing in his recliner, the man whose breast had been split, whose spirit now sagged beneath the weight of realizing what he had lived through and a necessarily slow recovery. We only maintained this pace for six weeks. I know so many who spend years caring for an elder parent or a sick spouse.
Compared to some, my ongoing care giver tasks are light. Compared to others, I carry a heavy load. Comparisons are irrelevant. I once heard a phrase that lodged itself in my thinking and saves me often. "All unhappiness comes from comparison." I agree. Comparing this moment to a "better" one a year ago is even dangerous. But that's a discussion for another day.
Earlier today, I came across this passage from "Sabbath, Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight In Our Busy Lives" by Wayne Muller (p.49). I immediately thought of all the people I know who are care givers - not just for loved ones who are ill, but parents of young children as well.
"Shortly before Jesus was killed, he was sharing a meal with his followers at the home of Simon, a leper. A woman arrived, bearing an alabaster flask containing expensive ointment. She broke open the exquisite flask and anointed Jesus' head with the precious oil. His disciples were very very angry with Jesus, saying: Why this waste? This ointment might have been sold for a large sum, and given to the poor. But Jesus responded, Why do you trouble this woman? She has done a beautiful thing for me. You always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me.
What is Jesus saying - not to worry about the poor? Of course not; his entire ministry is about service and kindness for those in need. He is saying that a life of compassion must include compassion for all beings, including the giver.
Our reluctance to rest - our belief that our joy and delight may somehow steal from the poor, or add to the sorrows of those who suffer - is a dangerous and corrosive myth, because it creates the illusion that service to others is a dreary thing. Jesus says there will always be opportunities to be kind and generous. Just as there is a time for every purpose under heaven, so is there a time for nourishment and joy, especially among those who would serve."
May we all find balance in order to enjoy both our time of rest and the company of those we care for.
boy perched sleepily on my hip, i walk softly to a twin bed in the corner, settle us down
we're easing into the last time this love scene will play out as it has for months into years as you grew
i would carry you
to forever
let this moment
last an always
if only
time stood still
and I could do everything
never let go
if doing everything
were best
and little boys
stayed small
i am ready to be done
there must be a last time
we both know
i rest my back
against the wall
rest you in my arms
in a dark room
sing our bedtime prayer
once you are latched
my milk flowing for you
prayer and milk
weighing heavy
on your eyes
"Blessed is the spot, and the house, and the place, and the city, and the heart, and the mountain, and the refuge, and the cave, and the valley, and the land, and the sea, and the island, and the meadow where mention of God hath been made, and His praise glorified"*
last syllable hangs in the air, a hum
following familiar melody
i see you wholly with my arms
one hand beneath your shoulder
the other brushes
a piece of hair
from your eye
to you
my voice is silk
edge of a blanket
you never caressed
for comfort
as I have
always been here
shadows from a street lamp
allow me to see
your outline
rise and fall
of eyelids
you hoping
sleep
will
wait
just
a
little
while
longer
while I sing again for you, shadows of gratitude and a another prayer - to hold my heart together - mingle in my thoughts
drop by drop
tears land
on your pajamas
i sing again
rock you gently
tears fall like rain
i never rise from beneath your sleeping form
we're still in the southwest
bathed in silent shadow
lingering on the last hum
still fading slowly
slowly
even as you grow
a child now
who stands in full morning light
years since
telling me the same
knock knock joke
every day for a week
laughing with each delivery
perfection
of new found humor
budding
in your soft gray eyes
dancing
on a face well defined
surrounded by hair
no longer
baby soft
same tune, only slower when i sang him to sleep as a wee one
even now, years later, when his brother and i sing Blessed is the Spot at bed time (we love to harmonize), he yawns big, shifts to a sleep position and gives up his fight to stay wide awake. he doesn't go right to sleep, but he allows himself to begin drifting off
he's the boy dancing in the sun upper left on my banner
*Prayer revealed by Baha'u'llah
A summer Saturday afternoon in the 80's.
But you do it every other day, he won't know the difference.
"I can't. He'll know they're for me this time."
"He won't sell to me anyway, I look ten. He knows you."
I'm fourteen. I walk downstairs and into the convenient store we live above.
"Winston soft pack please."
I hand Shocky a dollar, accept my prize, turn and leave. Once outside, I dart up to my apartment emitting a high pitched squeal, as if a ghost is on my tail.
Allison and I race over to Washington school, sure the Winstons hiding in my pocket have some way of announcing their presence to the entire town. Up the wall we scale, onto the roof, tucked in a hidden corner. She lights up first. We're giggling as if aiming toxins at our lungs is cause for celebration. We're petrified, thinking as clearly as the tiny stones beneath our feet. I follow. We're still giggling. We see a cop car, no lights, no hurry, drive down Main street when we peek around the second floor wall. Sure we're about to be busted, leaving eighteen cigarettes behind, we scramble down the wall and speed back to my place, entering through the front door breathless and excited.
Allison and I like our roof top corner. Every few days we return to smoke a cigarette, just one. Our girlish fear fades. We're having a now and then adventure, the way we go to the beach a few times a week or slide down my steep front stairs with pillows tied to our seats after school when we can't think of anything else to do.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gymnastics season hasn't started yet at the high school. It's 4pm, I'm downtown, out front of McDonalds, hanging out with a newly familiar group of kids. One lights up. Then another. I ask for a cigarette, light up too. Just like on the roof, only we're not hiding. I'm not a child anymore. The wind lifts my hair, brushes past my smile, colors the scene happy. An hour later I want another cigarette. The next day, I walk into the convenient store and buy two packs of Winstons from Shocky.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Late Freshman year, barely after dawn, between getting dressed and gathering books into my backpack, I take a last drag off a Newport then squash it into a large, round silver ashtray sitting on my dresser. I'm ready to walk to school.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sixteen years old, on my day off from IHOP, I'm in the back room of a downtown cafe, (my haven) behind the dish washing area, next to the bathrooms. I sit alone at a small square table with a half sized spiral, "Johnathon Livingston Seagull," a latte, an ash tray and a pack of Marlboro 100's.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm twenty three, living in the bedroom of a girl I never met in a town I've never been to until now. Her parents are friends of my mom. She asked if I could live with them while I get back on my feet (again). Before I go out looking for a job each January day, I sit on their front steps with a hot cup of strong coffee, my notebook and a pen. After putting out my morning cigarette, I head back in, drop the butt into their kitchen garbage and head out into the still-too-big world.
After living there a week, Elliot asks me to collect my butts outside and dispose of them away from their house. Their kitchen is beginning to smell like an ash tray. I'm amazed. I can't smell a thing.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've been sweating in a green polyester lace-lined dress all day, serving lunch to those who prefer a presentation for their wine service, fine maroon carpets and stain glass views. I'm Twenty four, in my own apartment and finally experiencing a small bit of stability. I'm sitting on the end of my couch. Next to me is a second-hand end table with a black plastic ashtray holding a burning cigarette, a glass of orange juice, a couple sugar cookies and a six inch table top fan pointed toward the kitchen. I'm reading Garrison Keillor's "Lake Wobegon Days," laughing at how illogical and fragile people can be.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Walking to a cafe, I light up a Marlboro. I watch smoke trail from the far end. I take a second drag. I throw the rest down on a broken sidewalk square.
I'm driving down the highway. It's a cold winter day. I light a Newport, crack the driver side window, take a drag, look ahead at endless road. I wonder why, really, do I smoke? I toss the other half of the cigarette out the window.
I repeat the scene over and over for months.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spring has come, summer is around the corner. I wake before dawn. Strong coffee brews in the next room. I write morning pages at a small round table.
I've been doing this for eight weeks. Writing before coffee, cigarette, food or water. I'm listening. Pages written, I move to the sofa, cross my legs and pray. Before I get up to pour a cup of coffee and light a cigarette, I read aloud from an index card words in my own handwriting, "I am a non-smoker."
Then I pour cream in my coffee, light a Marlboro and start getting ready for work. Before bed I read aloud the same words on my index card.
I do this every day, wondering how I'll go about quitting.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two weeks later I'm at a seasonal Baha'i school for my state. Standing outside during break, a friend of my parents, a man I loved playing word games with at Poppin' Fresh when I was ten, asks me for a quarter so he can call my dad and encourage him to attend. Mike sees the Newports in my hip pack when I fish for change.
"You keep your quarter, I'll pay you to quit smoking."
Lightning flashes in my eyes.
"Don't bring it up again. I have no other vice. I'll do this on my own time."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later the same evening, I'm playing Tubesockey, darting across the gym with a stick made of a wrapping paper tube with a stuffed sock taped to the end. Out of nowhere, a rabbit comes alive in my chest - a kicking rabbit who keeps perfect rhythm fast and hard. I look down and see my rib cage moving, thump, thump, thump. Sounds of joyful screams fade completely as I set down my stick and walk quietly into the warm night.
Thankfully no one follows and I'm alone outside.
My dad told me how deep breathing helps him relax. I take in a deep, slow breath.
Thump, thump, thump my rib cage dances, rocking my body, so forceful is the movement of my... heart?!
"O God, I will never smoke again, if You will just make this stop."
I'm a walking meditation.
Thump, thump, thump, rapid movement of my chest is still visible through my shirt.
"O God, please! I promise, I will never smoke again if You will make this stop."
I don't want to go to the hospital.
I don't want to die.
I don't panic.
I breathe in, I breathe out, listening only to my prayers and my heart.
I find a patch of grass, lay down, stretch my body the way I was taught in relaxation class in eighth grade.
My body jerks up and down.
Measured breathing changes nothing.
Breathe in, "O God, Please!!! I swear, I will never have a cigarette ever again."
Breathe out, "Please! Make it stop!"
I pull my jerking body up to sitting, cross my legs, rest my hands, palm up on my knees.
Deep breath in, slow exhale... nothing changes.
Rocking to a demanding beat, I sing aloud, "Ya Baha'u'l-Abha,"* over and over, just like my dad used to every night of my childhood, just like he did when he saw that truck right before it slammed into the passenger door the night when he walked away unharmed.
Thump, thump, silence.
I've kept my word.
I quit three times before that fateful night. Twice (a week each) to recover from bronchitis, another time for nine months. I haven't had a cigarette for almost fourteen years.
* O Thou the Glory of Glories
One day, I'll probably write a more detailed account of growing up in an ice rink. For now, I wanted to draft a sketch. This is a revision of one of my first posts. Even with cuts, it's still long, but hopefully entertaining.
It started as many extreme life changes, with little knowledge of what we were getting into. I was five. A neighbor gave me her daughter's old ice skates at the end of a birthday party. I was smaller than all other children my age, blessed with a closet full of hand-me-downs and now this pair of wonderfulness I carried home.
Two steps in the door, I asked if we could go skating. A phone call informed us we could go the following day. Unfortunately for my parents I was not a mild child. I screamed, cried and pleaded endlessly, as if by sheer will I could get my parents to make the rink change their schedule. Life goes on and even whiny children quiet down when waiting is all there is to do.
Next day, my mom, dad, a neighbor, her son and I adventured to the local rec center. (At this point my mother jumps in to tell of our first time, but she's not here tonight so my memory will have to suffice) My parents' friend Marie, her son Jonah and my dad, the same people who promised my mom they could help her skate, were all clutching the wall for dear life, waddling and slipping just like her. Irritated but undeterred my mom was also managing along the wall, bit by bit, looking down or no more than one foot ahead. I have no idea what I did.
This worked three quarters of the way around. Fortunately, one side of the ice was sectioned off by orange cones, therefore no wall. When my mom reached this terrifying place she froze, reviewing her choices: get on all fours and crawl to the other wall; turn around and go back (breaking the rules); scream and yell much like I had the day before; do nothing and pretend it was a dream.
My brave mother did finally let go of the wall and carefully wobble, surely whispering a desperate prayer, and in great concentration, upright, all the long way to the other side.
So great was her exultant triumph she went around again and again (still a wall buddy) until she developed a firm belief that if she came back and took lessons, she might learn to glide first on one foot then the next, no hands.
This is how we came to live at the rink for the next eight years.
I don't know the details of her story or my dad's, other than they took lessons, competed, performed in shows and could get around real fast. Eventually they both learned to jump and spin. I do know my story, at least an outline of it.
I started in group lessons, quickly tested up the patches of Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta and into the freestyle levels where I had the advantage of a private coach. The fruits of this labor?
My first group performance I hid under an enormous hoop skirt with fifteen other first graders from the beginner class. We emerged to delighted squeels as a spotlight tried to follow us. By eight I had solo parts in both the annual Nutcracker, Spring shows and group performances that involved more skill than toddling out from under a dress. At different times and in no order I was the Sugar Plum Fairy, a Snowflake, a tiny furry mouse being chased by the housekeeper (my mom) and in one act, my friend and I did cartwheels and front walkovers on ice. In same show my mom and her friend, both decked out in grass skirts, carried blazing torches across the ice to the tune of "Princess Pupule has plenty Papayas. She loves to give them away." Fake skirts, real fire.
Every day after school I pulled the laces of white leather ice skates as tight as possible despite discomfort. I giggled and raced with other children who were always there with me. Much of our time was unstructured when we were expected to practice waltz jumps, spirals, lunges and eventually axels, back spins, flips and loops. This we did, but in our own loose jointed kid way, except for one girl (I'll call her Sara) who was always with her mom. Her mom skated behind her every day, pushing for perfection constantly. Sara was often in tears. She was better than the rest of us but we did not envy her. We reached out to her in friendship, careful never to mention the obvious.
I was always aware of the concession stand. I'd trot off the ice and dash to the high red ledge, asking for another hot dog, bag of orange salty popcorn and a coke. My parents complained that I spent too much time there and not enough time on the ice they were paying for me to practice on. Maybe, maybe not. Half the joy of those years was in memorizing friends. Sharing a bag of pretzels revealed a different aspect of their personality. And I love hot dogs.
When it was my turn to perform solo in any show, when all was dark save a ring of light following the preceding skater as they executed their much practiced routine, I stood shivering behind an enormous wall that reminded me of a giant black Hefty bag. I was nervously ready to launch onto the ice the moment their music faded. Out there, a million miles from anyone, engulfed in a bubble of terror, I couldn't hear the cheering section of my peers in the far right corner second floor seating. I heard my blades scratch ice. I was aware a million people with two million eyes followed me, a lone figure in a vast emptiness.
I wish I'd enjoyed those brief moments more, been present, or at least not petrified. If anyone had asked me what I was afraid of I wouldn't have told them. Too embarrassing. I was afraid of what my friends thought of me. I was afraid they were high in the stands secretly laughing, talking about how pathetic I looked. Back in the changing room, surrounded by encouraging chatter I was over it, until next time.
My feet hurt in stiff white boots that left red dents in my legs and squinched my toes. Taking them off at the end of practice was a high point. But I loved everything about skating: flying for hours every day, spinning fast and jumping in full circles; time with friends having spelling contests as we laced our skates; maneuvering through quick changes in crowded co-ed locker rooms (late seventies, early eighties); eating snacks at tables that remind me of Volkswagen Bugs for their chunkiness in solid bright colors where our mothers also sat waiting for us to finish practice; listening to the mothers talk, the rhythm of their speech, the way their mouths formed words, the way they leaned in to each other listening intently.
There was more to our rec center than ice rink. When I was six, the same year I started ice skating, on Friday nights, in another wing, a local gym set up open gymnastics for all kids who wanted to fly in circles around little bars and fling themselves off the end of runways into a foam pit. I was there every Friday the year that program lasted.
As far as latch key children go, I was lucky. If I wasn't skating I was at gymnastics (another unwritten story, "How I Became a Competitive Gymnast") for three hours after school most days. I had somewhere to go regularly where I exercised, made friends, ate expensive junk food and learned skills that still live in my muscles, ready to show off whenever I enter an ice arena, gymnasium, backyard with friends or anywhere with a semi soft floor.
Just last Friday, to impress my five year old niece who would gladly live upside down herself, I was standing on my head while maneuvering my legs into artful positions until I nearly crashed into said niece. I caught sight of her right in my face. She was bent in close, studying maybe? In any case, when I saw her eyeball next to mine, I lost my balance and fell sideways with a twist.
He didn't cry on his birth day.
He peed on my floppy stomach, nursed energetically, made small chirps from his look out in a swaddling blanket, wandered the hospital room with those large hazel eyes and sighed while he slept in the crook of my arm next to a protective rail.
But no tears.
Ten more days passed at home without a single fuss. When finally, on the eleventh day, he stretched and squirmed, grunting and moaning, I knew this must be very painful gas.
Still, no crying.
Two weeks before his first birthday, straddling my lap at our dining room table, head on my shoulder, arms flopped at my sides, he slept fitfully. His first cold was a serious misery and each time he awoke, his nose still wouldn't let air through.
For the first time in his little life, he cried. He wailed. He screamed and sobbed. So I rocked, sang and patted my baby back to sleep.
Then I sat perfectly still.
Besides not crying much, my son is determinedly happy, upbeat, friendly, full of ideas and either speeding around trying to carry them out, focused like an inventor in a small area of whatever room he's in, or socializing.
This is just his way. Tears are only for serious occasions and joy or mischief is to be created wherever possible.
So when I looked down at his stretched out figure on the living room floor, face cradled in his hands, and realized he was convulsing beneath the weight of a river flowing out of his eight year old being, my heart broke. Even more so because there was no apparent trigger.
His dad and I were sitting on the couch, a guitar at my side. My husband had wanted to hear the song I was learning to play. Still a beginner with this six-stringed wonder, "Puff the Magic Dragon" came out one word, one strum at a time. For a while he and I tried to keep pace with my choppy time as we sang along, but really, it's Puff!
So I set the guitar down, placed the songbook where my husband could easily see the words and away we flew, through a magic land of little boys, mist, fire breathing friends and love. As the last "...a land called Honah Lee," faded is when I noticed our son's anguish.
He wouldn't answer our concern. He wouldn't turn his face to the afternoon sunlight spread across his back. He simply cried and cried into his sheltering hands.
This went on for several minutes. We didn't feel right neglecting him in his time of need, but his actions suggested he wanted to experience in solitude, this deep and mysterious pain he was clearly in. But we know our son, so we stayed right there with him, now on the carpet, rubbing his back, letting him know he is loved, letting him cry.
Sweaty and spent, with a small muffled voice, he finally asked, "What about the little boys?"
Right then we knew. As we sang, "A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys," he went from sailing on the joys of friendship and adventure with Jackie Paper and Puff to being told little boys don't last. We heard, "people grow up." He heard, "I'm a little boy in danger of not lasting."
Once he knew the lyrics simply meant Jackie went away because boys get older and become men uninterested in the stuff dragons are made, he turned his wet face to us and offered a slow smile. We all walked to the couch and he curled up quietly in both our laps at once. "I would never stop playing with my friend Puff," he declared.
I believe him.
it is really best
if i don't
tell what didn't happen
until i can
find a place
in my heart for
pretend
can i have coffee
with my characters
is that what i
need to do
have them over
when i and boys
spend moments
as we know
should i offer them
a bowl of soup
or better
ask them to chop
potatoes
carrots
sit a spell
spin a tale or two
until
through
our supper
would this be better
than first
trying to imagine
a fictional world
enter minds
of cardboard figurines
a stranger
there's my problem
i put flesh
on parchment
with only dust
in my hands
i care about
the words alone
am merely amused
by my story
this being so
how can i give
the reader a
worthy narrative
how does one
invite invisible
concepts to
dining table
couch
heart
cross legs
close eyes
deep breath
visualize a band
of guests
really i ought
to greet them
one by one
older woman first
then her young neighbor
eventually
i need to meet
girl's best friend
must i craft her
in letters first
or eyelid pictures
then set myself
before a screen
give her bones
before
next writing class
i will need to know
have spent
time writing
these folks
lives