I was up most of the night. We had a slumber party for my baby. She is turning the age that is one older than five. I can not say the age, because it is an old age. And I am just not old enough to have my baby, my very last child to jump from my womb, be that one year that is older than five. So. Instead, we all pretended that she was going to be the good age, the FIVE age, again. She even pretended with me, for about as long as it took for her to realize that she'd have one less candle. Which means, I stayed in my little dreamworld, where my beautiful youngest child is NOT turning a number that is bigger than the amount of digits she has on one hand, and SHE, darling child that she is, put that big number right in the middle of her cake, but told me to cover my eyes. She did, however, offer to stay the FIVE number for another year. All I have to do is give her her very own Television and Playstation. As. If.
I put up a scene from my current WIP, right here on this very blog. Did you miss it? Well, just scroll down. It's pretty much the opening scene. It was one of those off-the-cuff, what would happen if I did this instead of that, things. In the original version, it does not open at a funeral, nor is there a grandmother even mentioned. That just happened last week, actually. I literally woke up in the middle of the night and knew that it had to be changed. The central theme of the story is going to be the same, but the motivation for Glory is totally different, much more real, much less contrived. I like it better this way. Hopefully, you'll agree.
I've decided to put up a small scene every week. I think I'm going to do this on Thursday. They will not be in any order. They may not even really make sense. It is just going to be me showing you that I am writing something. You may comment, lavish me with praise *grin*, or tell me it sucks. However, if you tell me it sucks, you better darn well add your name, and a way for me to get in touch with you. Because I'm going to want to know specifics. That doesn't mean to just tell me it's ok, especially if you think it sucks. This is supposed to be a writing blog, right? So if it sucks, tell me why.
Have any of you noticed anything so far this month? About this blog? I'm trying something new. I'll tell you about it at the end of the month. We'll see how it goes.
Finally - It's CINCO DE MAYO today. I remember years gone by when, as a child, my mother would take us to Olivera Street in LA. They had these huge festivals every year. It was so much fun. The food...oh, the food. Now, of course, I'd be heading for a booth that sold margaritas. Because really, what's more CINCO DE MAYOish than margaritas? Nothing! That's right, nothing at all. Grab yourself some decent Mexican food, and I don't mean for you to make a run for the Border, ok? Grab some friends, gather round and pour out a few "rocks, lotsa salt" type drinks, and ENJOY!!
Just remember - Friends don't let friends blog drunk. Or something like that. So be careful out there today, ok?
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Friday, May 04, 2007
"Ah-ha!" she says...
You know, there's a reason why books are filled with those wonderful "Ah-ha!" moments, why we love those moments in the story when a character finally 'gets it'. It's because those same moments happen in our very own lives.
Have you had one of those moments? Of course you have. It may have been just a small thing at the time, then you looked back and realized how monumental it really was. It may have even taken you a bit to see how big that moment was. But you've had them. I know *I* have.
I've had so may of those moments in my life. They haven't always seemed like a big deal, but looking back, I can see how big they were.
Like the last time I saw my mom. She'd walked out of my house and gotten in her car. I stood in my front room, staring out the window, seething with anger and hurt, and a thousand words I wanted to hurl at her back. My tongue was bloody from the force of my teeth, keeping those words inside my body, because you really can't just utter those words to your mother, even if she might deserve them. Then that moment happened. That moment that I will always feel certain was sent by God. The moment that I looked out that window and saw her put her hands on the wheel, and glance up into her mirror. I remember her eyes. And I knew, I just knew, that I couldn't let her drive away without saying a few words. I ran out the front door and into the yard, up to her car door and pulled it open. She came out of the car with fire in her eyes and a battle waiting just beyond her lips, but she said nothing. I put my arms around her and held her tight, and said the words that I knew she had to hear. "I love you, momma." Then I let her go and turned back to my house and went back inside and watched her drive away.
That was my "ah-ha" moment. The moment when everything changed for me. I had so much anger, so much resentment, so much pain, swirling around inside of me. It had been there, building and growing, for so long, so many years. I'd go months sometimes without speaking to her, angry over some slight, imagined or real. Then one of us would pick up the phone and start talking, like we'd been speaking to each other four times a day all along. No apology given, none accepted. Just the silent dance we did with our words. But in that moment, when I walked out my door and pulled her into my arms and held her and whispered those words of love instead of those other words that were on my tongue, in my heart, I crossed a line. I didn't see the line when I crossed it. I didn't see it for almost two days, until I saw the phone fall from my fingers and could still hear the echo of that voice tell me that my momma was gone. I crossed a line and set aside the hurt, the fear, the anger, and just shared the love. And for that moment, for that one single moment, I just loved my momma, without all of the years of everything that had come between us for so long. I set aside all of the disappointments and the rage, and just shared the love. And I felt peace.
That peace lasted me through that first night of her being gone. It lasted me through the second night, while I was driving through Knoxville with a car full of sleeping children, crying because of a song I heard on the radio that I know was played just for me. It sustained me through walking into her house and not hearing her voice. It held me up through her funeral, with so many people that never knew her, never loved her, the same way that I did.
Love can do that. Sharing the love can do that. So can letting of the pain. It wasn't an easy thing to do. But when I did it, and I felt that peace, that simple peace of holding my momma in my arms, it was like hearing my soul say "Ah-ha! This is it. This is what I've been searching for, all these years."
Ah-ha. I've had my moments. Care to share yours?
Have you had one of those moments? Of course you have. It may have been just a small thing at the time, then you looked back and realized how monumental it really was. It may have even taken you a bit to see how big that moment was. But you've had them. I know *I* have.
I've had so may of those moments in my life. They haven't always seemed like a big deal, but looking back, I can see how big they were.
Like the last time I saw my mom. She'd walked out of my house and gotten in her car. I stood in my front room, staring out the window, seething with anger and hurt, and a thousand words I wanted to hurl at her back. My tongue was bloody from the force of my teeth, keeping those words inside my body, because you really can't just utter those words to your mother, even if she might deserve them. Then that moment happened. That moment that I will always feel certain was sent by God. The moment that I looked out that window and saw her put her hands on the wheel, and glance up into her mirror. I remember her eyes. And I knew, I just knew, that I couldn't let her drive away without saying a few words. I ran out the front door and into the yard, up to her car door and pulled it open. She came out of the car with fire in her eyes and a battle waiting just beyond her lips, but she said nothing. I put my arms around her and held her tight, and said the words that I knew she had to hear. "I love you, momma." Then I let her go and turned back to my house and went back inside and watched her drive away.
That was my "ah-ha" moment. The moment when everything changed for me. I had so much anger, so much resentment, so much pain, swirling around inside of me. It had been there, building and growing, for so long, so many years. I'd go months sometimes without speaking to her, angry over some slight, imagined or real. Then one of us would pick up the phone and start talking, like we'd been speaking to each other four times a day all along. No apology given, none accepted. Just the silent dance we did with our words. But in that moment, when I walked out my door and pulled her into my arms and held her and whispered those words of love instead of those other words that were on my tongue, in my heart, I crossed a line. I didn't see the line when I crossed it. I didn't see it for almost two days, until I saw the phone fall from my fingers and could still hear the echo of that voice tell me that my momma was gone. I crossed a line and set aside the hurt, the fear, the anger, and just shared the love. And for that moment, for that one single moment, I just loved my momma, without all of the years of everything that had come between us for so long. I set aside all of the disappointments and the rage, and just shared the love. And I felt peace.
That peace lasted me through that first night of her being gone. It lasted me through the second night, while I was driving through Knoxville with a car full of sleeping children, crying because of a song I heard on the radio that I know was played just for me. It sustained me through walking into her house and not hearing her voice. It held me up through her funeral, with so many people that never knew her, never loved her, the same way that I did.
Love can do that. Sharing the love can do that. So can letting of the pain. It wasn't an easy thing to do. But when I did it, and I felt that peace, that simple peace of holding my momma in my arms, it was like hearing my soul say "Ah-ha! This is it. This is what I've been searching for, all these years."
Ah-ha. I've had my moments. Care to share yours?
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Almost Southern (The excerpt, in case you were looking)
"And may Almighty God receive this beloved soul to the gold lined streets of Heaven this very day. Amen." The impassioned voice of the baby-faced country preacher mercifully came to a halt. It had only taken 27 minutes to deliver the funeral service. A lifetime full of ninety-nine years, fourteen children, fifty three grandchildren, one hundred sixty seven great grandchildren, eighty two great great grandchildren, fifty nine years of marriage, fifty eight years of hatred, a lifetime of ambivalence, and one incredible journey was reduced to a twenty seven minute eulogy by a man barely old enough to remember to shave before the service. The irony of it grated on Glory Baker's last nerve.
Walking down the steps of the church to the sidewalk that would take her to the waiting processional, Glory felt heat rising in waves from the sun-bleached pavement. It felt like opening an oven in the middle of baking a cake, but without the sweet smell of chocolate wafting up to slap you in the face. It was yet another miserably hot day, in a long line of miserably hot days, that marked the beginning of summer in Brimstone, Mississippi. Another miserable day in a life that had seen its share of misery. Thankfully, the windows in her car still rolled down. Lord knew the air conditioner had given up the ghost ages ago. As she got into her car, Glory thought of just driving away from Brimstone, out onto the interstate, pointing her car North, and not stopping until she either ran out of gas money or the sputter in the engine finally turned into a full blown pneumonia.
Instead though, she poured a few drops of warm bottled water onto a napkin and dabbed the napkin between her breasts, up and over her left collarbone, and across the back of her neck. She could imagine, if she really concentrated, that she felt the faintest stirrings of a breeze across her moistened skin. It was almost enough to offer some relief. Almost, but not quite. Glory started the car, fell in line behind one of her hundreds of cousins, and glanced in her rearview mirror before pulling out onto the street.
However, the thought of standing outside in this sweltering Mississippi heat, listening to that overzealous young man talk of love and eternal rest in the same breath as her great-grandmother Rose's name, was just too much to bear. Instead of following the snake-like trail of snail's paced cars heading for the small cemetery on the outskirts of town, because Heaven help you if you buried your dead in town like the Catholics did, Glory did the unthinkable. She turned left when she was supposed to turn right, and headed straight to the Sonic. A cherry limeade would make this day ten times better. It always did.
Walking into her grandmother's house an hour later, Glory's senses instantly went on high alert. She noticed the typical mothball smell had a faint tinge of something sweet today. As Granny Grace had given up any type of cooking that did not involve steaming the life out of raw vegetables in the microwave, the smell could only mean that Granny Grace had yet again picked up a stray. Wondering if this time it would be a young man, or maybe an old woman, Glory called out her typical greeting, "Hey Granny, I'm home from the front lines. Did you miss me?"
Holding the extra limeade in front of her like the peace offering that it was, Glory wended her way through the maze of old furniture and tables topped with every form of bric-a-brac known in the South, to the back porch. As suspected, Granny Grace was holding court in her favorite rocking chair, looking for all the world like the matriarch her mother's recent death made her. As the oldest female in the family, Glory was pretty certain Grace would play that matriarch card often, and mercilessly. That was just the way of the Baker women. Use the gifts that God gave you, take control of every situation, and stretch the truth to serve your needs. That should have been embroidered on one of the dozens of pillows that lay scattered around the Baker house, their family motto in cross-stitch, for all the world to see and heed.
"Well, Glor-ee Bea. Where in tarnation have you been? We all gathered out there at the side of that gaping hole in the ground, and I couldn't find you for lookin'. One of the boys swears he saw you turn left onto Main, but I told him his eyes must be going quicker than mine. You know the way to the cemetery, and there's no way you'd have missed Rose's service for no good reason. No self-respecting Southern woman would miss the funeral of the head of her family. So tell me, what good reason have you brought me?" Grace's steely voice dribbled juicy drops of Southern Mississippi onto Glory's screaming senses. Glory knew that the accent could come or go, strengthen or wane, at a moment's notice, at the whim of its owner. Right now, tone and inflection combined to equal one royally pissed off Granny, trying in vain to project the living personification of grace under duress.
Glory leaned down to plant a kiss on a papery cheek, and simultaneously slip the still miraculously iced drink into waiting hands. "Now Granny, your one mistake of the day was spent on me. And so early in the day, too," Glory teased, lovingly.
"Mistake? Now you listen here, Missy. It was not a mistake to expect you to be at that funeral. You know good and well that -" Grace started, before Glory cut her off with the one thing guaranteed to silence her, every single time.
"Southern, Granny. I can't be a self-respecting Southern woman, because I'm not Southern. Your daughter made sure of that. Remember?" Glory finished, full of wistfulness at the one thing in her life that not even her Granny Grace could change.
For it was true. Glory Bea Baker was not Southern. And there was nothing anyone could do to change the twist of fate that brought her into the world across the river in Cincinnati, Ohio. In the North. As a damned Yankee.
Walking down the steps of the church to the sidewalk that would take her to the waiting processional, Glory felt heat rising in waves from the sun-bleached pavement. It felt like opening an oven in the middle of baking a cake, but without the sweet smell of chocolate wafting up to slap you in the face. It was yet another miserably hot day, in a long line of miserably hot days, that marked the beginning of summer in Brimstone, Mississippi. Another miserable day in a life that had seen its share of misery. Thankfully, the windows in her car still rolled down. Lord knew the air conditioner had given up the ghost ages ago. As she got into her car, Glory thought of just driving away from Brimstone, out onto the interstate, pointing her car North, and not stopping until she either ran out of gas money or the sputter in the engine finally turned into a full blown pneumonia.
Instead though, she poured a few drops of warm bottled water onto a napkin and dabbed the napkin between her breasts, up and over her left collarbone, and across the back of her neck. She could imagine, if she really concentrated, that she felt the faintest stirrings of a breeze across her moistened skin. It was almost enough to offer some relief. Almost, but not quite. Glory started the car, fell in line behind one of her hundreds of cousins, and glanced in her rearview mirror before pulling out onto the street.
However, the thought of standing outside in this sweltering Mississippi heat, listening to that overzealous young man talk of love and eternal rest in the same breath as her great-grandmother Rose's name, was just too much to bear. Instead of following the snake-like trail of snail's paced cars heading for the small cemetery on the outskirts of town, because Heaven help you if you buried your dead in town like the Catholics did, Glory did the unthinkable. She turned left when she was supposed to turn right, and headed straight to the Sonic. A cherry limeade would make this day ten times better. It always did.
Walking into her grandmother's house an hour later, Glory's senses instantly went on high alert. She noticed the typical mothball smell had a faint tinge of something sweet today. As Granny Grace had given up any type of cooking that did not involve steaming the life out of raw vegetables in the microwave, the smell could only mean that Granny Grace had yet again picked up a stray. Wondering if this time it would be a young man, or maybe an old woman, Glory called out her typical greeting, "Hey Granny, I'm home from the front lines. Did you miss me?"
Holding the extra limeade in front of her like the peace offering that it was, Glory wended her way through the maze of old furniture and tables topped with every form of bric-a-brac known in the South, to the back porch. As suspected, Granny Grace was holding court in her favorite rocking chair, looking for all the world like the matriarch her mother's recent death made her. As the oldest female in the family, Glory was pretty certain Grace would play that matriarch card often, and mercilessly. That was just the way of the Baker women. Use the gifts that God gave you, take control of every situation, and stretch the truth to serve your needs. That should have been embroidered on one of the dozens of pillows that lay scattered around the Baker house, their family motto in cross-stitch, for all the world to see and heed.
"Well, Glor-ee Bea. Where in tarnation have you been? We all gathered out there at the side of that gaping hole in the ground, and I couldn't find you for lookin'. One of the boys swears he saw you turn left onto Main, but I told him his eyes must be going quicker than mine. You know the way to the cemetery, and there's no way you'd have missed Rose's service for no good reason. No self-respecting Southern woman would miss the funeral of the head of her family. So tell me, what good reason have you brought me?" Grace's steely voice dribbled juicy drops of Southern Mississippi onto Glory's screaming senses. Glory knew that the accent could come or go, strengthen or wane, at a moment's notice, at the whim of its owner. Right now, tone and inflection combined to equal one royally pissed off Granny, trying in vain to project the living personification of grace under duress.
Glory leaned down to plant a kiss on a papery cheek, and simultaneously slip the still miraculously iced drink into waiting hands. "Now Granny, your one mistake of the day was spent on me. And so early in the day, too," Glory teased, lovingly.
"Mistake? Now you listen here, Missy. It was not a mistake to expect you to be at that funeral. You know good and well that -" Grace started, before Glory cut her off with the one thing guaranteed to silence her, every single time.
"Southern, Granny. I can't be a self-respecting Southern woman, because I'm not Southern. Your daughter made sure of that. Remember?" Glory finished, full of wistfulness at the one thing in her life that not even her Granny Grace could change.
For it was true. Glory Bea Baker was not Southern. And there was nothing anyone could do to change the twist of fate that brought her into the world across the river in Cincinnati, Ohio. In the North. As a damned Yankee.
Yeah, an excerpt. Not much of one, admittedly. But it's a start. Tell me what you think.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Differences and Balance
I have a love affair with my town. If you read my other blog, the one where I talk about the books that I read and love, you know this already. I live near Fredericksburg, Virginia, and I just love it there. It's the embodiment of all that appeals to the bohemian lurking inside my soul. Plus, it reminds me of Old San Juan, in Puerto Rico. And anyplace that can take me back to the (sometimes) carefree days of my early twenties is bound to be high up on my list of favorite places.
I've got some amazing friends that live in Olde Towne. I met my friend Hannah at the restaurant where I work part time. Her and her husband live on Caroline Street, which happens to be one of the main roads in the area. It's full of buildings that have been there for ages, some for centuries. You can practically feel the history oozing out of the bricks when you walk down the streets. It's very romantic, having the sense that you're seeing an older, simpler time.
Last night, I joined Hannah and her husband at Bistro Bethem, for a night of live music and fun with friends. My own darling husband did not join me, so I was out all by myself. It doesn't happen very often. I felt weird, disconcerted, like I was only half dressed or something. I still enjoyed being out, but just felt "off" all night.
When the Bistro closed, we headed over to Wings on the Water, a fun little place on the banks on the Rappahanock River. A birthday celebration was underway, and I got to be a small part of it. Hannah and her husband know just about everyone involved in any way with the Olde Towne scene, and I always get to meet such fun and interesting people when i'm with them.
I had a great time, got to meet lots of new people, heard some stories that always make me wonder if they really happened. Some things seemed like they could have only happened between the pages of a well-written book. But they were real. For the most part.
As I sat there, surrounded by these characters, I was seized yet again by this feeling that I have to write about this. I've been toying with this idea of a woman that lives there, in the 'Burg, and is part of the scene that I get to witness some nights. She's come here from someplace else, she has nothing with her but her guitar and a notebook full of words from her heart, and she finds her way into these open mic nights all over town, singing her stories to strangers. She has no idea that she's causing such a sensation, because she lives in her own private world. She lives in the life, but she's not really a part of the life. She takes part in some of the rituals, meets some of the people, but she keeps her core, that very deep part of her, hidden away. She becomes fascinated with this man, quite a few years younger than she is, that she sees in some of the same venues. He is everything that she wants to be - fun, young, full of life, not bitter, not in hiding. She sees their differences as tangible things, things that make them too opposite to be the same. then something shocking happens, and she gets a glimpse into the 'real' him. What she sees is that he's hiding too.
There are so may layers to this story, and I haven't even written the first word of it yet. But it's simmering. I have a feeling that I'm going to have to do a lot of research for this one, which may require a lot of time in those places. Research. Yeah, it's a monster. :)
Beyond that, as I drove home, I was struck by how much I resemble that woman in some ways. For me, that 18 mile drive down dark country roads in the middle of the night represented a line of demarcation almost. I cross that line when I step out of my 'normal' life every week and join my friends for a night out. With or without my husband, for a few hours every week I get to become someone else. But is it really someone else, or is it only a well-hidden part of myself that I only let surface on rare occasions? Regardless, I literally make one turn, and that road that starts out in Olde Towne brings me 18 miles to my home. I leave those old buildings behind, pass the train tracks, go through the 'Burg's version of the projects, go by the GM plant and some new pricey housing developments, then I'm in the country. Still on the same road, I pass farms that have been in families for generations, a military base that is nationally known, and the corner store where I stop every day to buy a drink on my way to work. Another few miles and country churches and I'm at my driveway. All the way home last night, I looked around me, seeing the places that grace the landscape of my life. I noticed how one flowed into the next, each one distinct, yet the change was so seamless. I thought about that change, that almost imperceptible shift from one reality to the next, as I left behind the life that I enjoy and reentered the life that I love. And something just clicked.
We are all, every one of us, part of this world. It takes so many different types of people to create each life that we lead. And the life that we choose, the reality in which we currently exist, it changes all the time. Sometimes the change is seamless, like the country road I travel every week. Sometimes, it is a stark change, rife with sadness or chaos. But there is always continuity in the change. There is change in the continuity. Seems contradictory, doesn't it?
But if you think about it, it's not.
Driving home last night, I reconciled the part of me that longs for that 'unorthodox' existence that I glimpse every week with the part of me that craves stability and belonging. I love to be part of that other world, where people often put more thought into the words that they sing than their plans for the future. Yet I also need this haven that I've helped create, where the mom is mostly sane and the dad comes home at the end of every day, and the babies know deep in their souls that they are loved. Both of these people are me. I don't have to give up one for the other. Both can coexist. Without either one of them, I would feel like I was missing something. I would feel every day like I felt last night without my best friend by my side.
I can't deny either part of me. I shouldn't deny either part. The secret is to learn to balance both lives, both worlds, in a way that neither part of me, neither life, suffers.
I think I can do that. Can you?
I've got some amazing friends that live in Olde Towne. I met my friend Hannah at the restaurant where I work part time. Her and her husband live on Caroline Street, which happens to be one of the main roads in the area. It's full of buildings that have been there for ages, some for centuries. You can practically feel the history oozing out of the bricks when you walk down the streets. It's very romantic, having the sense that you're seeing an older, simpler time.
Last night, I joined Hannah and her husband at Bistro Bethem, for a night of live music and fun with friends. My own darling husband did not join me, so I was out all by myself. It doesn't happen very often. I felt weird, disconcerted, like I was only half dressed or something. I still enjoyed being out, but just felt "off" all night.
When the Bistro closed, we headed over to Wings on the Water, a fun little place on the banks on the Rappahanock River. A birthday celebration was underway, and I got to be a small part of it. Hannah and her husband know just about everyone involved in any way with the Olde Towne scene, and I always get to meet such fun and interesting people when i'm with them.
I had a great time, got to meet lots of new people, heard some stories that always make me wonder if they really happened. Some things seemed like they could have only happened between the pages of a well-written book. But they were real. For the most part.
As I sat there, surrounded by these characters, I was seized yet again by this feeling that I have to write about this. I've been toying with this idea of a woman that lives there, in the 'Burg, and is part of the scene that I get to witness some nights. She's come here from someplace else, she has nothing with her but her guitar and a notebook full of words from her heart, and she finds her way into these open mic nights all over town, singing her stories to strangers. She has no idea that she's causing such a sensation, because she lives in her own private world. She lives in the life, but she's not really a part of the life. She takes part in some of the rituals, meets some of the people, but she keeps her core, that very deep part of her, hidden away. She becomes fascinated with this man, quite a few years younger than she is, that she sees in some of the same venues. He is everything that she wants to be - fun, young, full of life, not bitter, not in hiding. She sees their differences as tangible things, things that make them too opposite to be the same. then something shocking happens, and she gets a glimpse into the 'real' him. What she sees is that he's hiding too.
There are so may layers to this story, and I haven't even written the first word of it yet. But it's simmering. I have a feeling that I'm going to have to do a lot of research for this one, which may require a lot of time in those places. Research. Yeah, it's a monster. :)
Beyond that, as I drove home, I was struck by how much I resemble that woman in some ways. For me, that 18 mile drive down dark country roads in the middle of the night represented a line of demarcation almost. I cross that line when I step out of my 'normal' life every week and join my friends for a night out. With or without my husband, for a few hours every week I get to become someone else. But is it really someone else, or is it only a well-hidden part of myself that I only let surface on rare occasions? Regardless, I literally make one turn, and that road that starts out in Olde Towne brings me 18 miles to my home. I leave those old buildings behind, pass the train tracks, go through the 'Burg's version of the projects, go by the GM plant and some new pricey housing developments, then I'm in the country. Still on the same road, I pass farms that have been in families for generations, a military base that is nationally known, and the corner store where I stop every day to buy a drink on my way to work. Another few miles and country churches and I'm at my driveway. All the way home last night, I looked around me, seeing the places that grace the landscape of my life. I noticed how one flowed into the next, each one distinct, yet the change was so seamless. I thought about that change, that almost imperceptible shift from one reality to the next, as I left behind the life that I enjoy and reentered the life that I love. And something just clicked.
We are all, every one of us, part of this world. It takes so many different types of people to create each life that we lead. And the life that we choose, the reality in which we currently exist, it changes all the time. Sometimes the change is seamless, like the country road I travel every week. Sometimes, it is a stark change, rife with sadness or chaos. But there is always continuity in the change. There is change in the continuity. Seems contradictory, doesn't it?
But if you think about it, it's not.
Driving home last night, I reconciled the part of me that longs for that 'unorthodox' existence that I glimpse every week with the part of me that craves stability and belonging. I love to be part of that other world, where people often put more thought into the words that they sing than their plans for the future. Yet I also need this haven that I've helped create, where the mom is mostly sane and the dad comes home at the end of every day, and the babies know deep in their souls that they are loved. Both of these people are me. I don't have to give up one for the other. Both can coexist. Without either one of them, I would feel like I was missing something. I would feel every day like I felt last night without my best friend by my side.
I can't deny either part of me. I shouldn't deny either part. The secret is to learn to balance both lives, both worlds, in a way that neither part of me, neither life, suffers.
I think I can do that. Can you?
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
New directions
Wow. I've been blogging for officially over one year now. Time it does fly, yes?
When I started this blog, it was because of the Cherries. You remember that, don't you? If not, don't feel you have to go back to the beginning. But I did. I spent the day reading through all of my old blog posts, as a way of re-walking this last year, and trying to see how far I've come from where I was. I do that sometimes. Just like I sometimes will spend days reading the same post, picking it apart, re-writing it in my head, trying to make it better. Please tell me I'm not the only one!
Anyhow, in this massive re-read of all old stuff, I remembered something. This is really supposed to be a 'writing blog'. It seems that in using this as more of a way to document the goings-on (I just LOVE that phrase!) in my life, I've not always used this place as a warehouse for writing-type-stuff. That's gotta change. My last post is proof of that.
Now, on first perusal, if you actually read that entire last post, you would maybe think that it had nothing to do with writing, except in that I used an awful lot of words. You may even think that on the sixth or eleventh perusal, but only if you actually made it to that many perusals. Like I did. But if that's what you thought, you'd be wrong. Like I was.
Then I got my head surgically removed from my nether-regions and took another look at that post. And another look at my current work. Take a guess at what I found. Ok, be a spoilsport and just sit there. You don't have to guess. I'll tell you.
That last post needs to be in my story. No, not the whole post. And really, not even a whole lot of the words. But the feeling? Yeah, that's got to be in there.
So, I'm going in yet another new direction with my WIP. Because the first direction was too scattered, being my initial try with Nano. And my second direction ended up being like something someone should have posted a huge WRONG WAY sign on. I had the best of intentions with the second direction. It came from the right place. But it was just the wrong direction to try to take this particular story.
But I didn't know that. Until I wrote my last post. And I saw what my story was missing. I need something, or more specifically someONE, to be the link for my MC, between who she WAS, and who she IS, in order to illustrate who she is GOING TO BE. I can't do this in a prologue, infodump is BAD, and really, backstory needs to stay in my own little head. But the reader really needs to see who she was in order to understand who she is, and appreciate who she is becoming. The best way that I see for doing that is to include a person that has known her for all of her days. This has to be a person with whom she still acts like who she was, and struggles to remember who she is now when she is around, but also a person who totally believes in who she will become.
But, unlike in my very own little life, that person will not be her Grams.
I think.
When I started this blog, it was because of the Cherries. You remember that, don't you? If not, don't feel you have to go back to the beginning. But I did. I spent the day reading through all of my old blog posts, as a way of re-walking this last year, and trying to see how far I've come from where I was. I do that sometimes. Just like I sometimes will spend days reading the same post, picking it apart, re-writing it in my head, trying to make it better. Please tell me I'm not the only one!
Anyhow, in this massive re-read of all old stuff, I remembered something. This is really supposed to be a 'writing blog'. It seems that in using this as more of a way to document the goings-on (I just LOVE that phrase!) in my life, I've not always used this place as a warehouse for writing-type-stuff. That's gotta change. My last post is proof of that.
Now, on first perusal, if you actually read that entire last post, you would maybe think that it had nothing to do with writing, except in that I used an awful lot of words. You may even think that on the sixth or eleventh perusal, but only if you actually made it to that many perusals. Like I did. But if that's what you thought, you'd be wrong. Like I was.
Then I got my head surgically removed from my nether-regions and took another look at that post. And another look at my current work. Take a guess at what I found. Ok, be a spoilsport and just sit there. You don't have to guess. I'll tell you.
That last post needs to be in my story. No, not the whole post. And really, not even a whole lot of the words. But the feeling? Yeah, that's got to be in there.
So, I'm going in yet another new direction with my WIP. Because the first direction was too scattered, being my initial try with Nano. And my second direction ended up being like something someone should have posted a huge WRONG WAY sign on. I had the best of intentions with the second direction. It came from the right place. But it was just the wrong direction to try to take this particular story.
But I didn't know that. Until I wrote my last post. And I saw what my story was missing. I need something, or more specifically someONE, to be the link for my MC, between who she WAS, and who she IS, in order to illustrate who she is GOING TO BE. I can't do this in a prologue, infodump is BAD, and really, backstory needs to stay in my own little head. But the reader really needs to see who she was in order to understand who she is, and appreciate who she is becoming. The best way that I see for doing that is to include a person that has known her for all of her days. This has to be a person with whom she still acts like who she was, and struggles to remember who she is now when she is around, but also a person who totally believes in who she will become.
But, unlike in my very own little life, that person will not be her Grams.
I think.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Do you see what I see?
All my life, I've lived with the knowledge that I come from a long line of strong, Southern women. I've known this, I really have. And I've always feared that I would not live up to their expectations. Because I don't really know what it is to be Southern, I'm not always sure what the Southern response should be in any given situation.
My great-grandmother, Gladys, was ninety-five years old when she died. We actually put her in the ground on her ninety-sixth birthday. We stood by her grave and shouted "Happy Birthday" to her, while trucks stopped out on the road to see what was going on. You see, she had 13 children, 11 of which were still alive. Twelve of those kids had kids of their own, only my namesake uncle died before marrying and raising his own family (baby of the family, only one that died in Viet Nam, very tragic story). Most of the grandkids already had children. And some of the great-grandchildren (like me!) already had children. There were a LOT of people there for her funeral. I'm sure we made quite the sight, dressed in every color of the rainbow, screaming our heads off at the side of the hole in the ground.
My kids are fifth generation babies, just like I was. There were pictures taken of each of them, resting snugly in my great-grandmother's arms, printed in her local newspaper. After the birth of each child, I had to make the pilgrimage, no matter where I was living, to her home in Oklahoma, so that she could have her picture taken with my babies and put in the paper. She loved those pictures, she felt that they showed she'd accomplished something. When she passed, I felt a hole open up inside of me, and that really surprised me. No more pictures would be taken of her and my children, to be printed in that paper, so that her friends could see how beautiful her family was. Yes, they mostly equated beauty with how many grand-children you could claim. For my great-grandmother, her family was beyond just simply beautiful, for she had over three hundred, if you counted them all up.
I think that hole was there because she was the least complicated female family relationship that I'll ever have, and I truly mourned that simple friendship we shared. She teased me because I stopped at six children, telling me she did it with more than twice as many. Yes, I'd agree, but life was simpler back then. She'd reply that it was simpler because the adults ran the house, not the other way around. I'd silently agree. We bonded because of our big families though. Not to say that she was a sweet little old lady, because she was far from that. By the end, her eyesight was all but gone, her hearing only worked when you were two rooms away and muttered a curse under your breath, and most of her internal organs decided to go to work on a part time basis. I guess after almost ninety six years, some things just decided they'd worked long enough.
My relationship with my mother was tumultuous, at best. We rode this roller coaster of recriminations and regrets, love and laughter, for most of my life. In hindsight, I can see the signs of a very manic depressive life in the way that we lived. I've charted and graphed and diagrammed my life with my mother ten ways to Sunday, and no matter how I look at it, I see the peaks and valleys in the journeys that we took. It fills my heart with sadness when I think of how unhappy she must have been at her core, for most of her entire existence, to keep leading such a vagabond life, searching in vain for a peace that would release her from the demons in her mind. It shatters me when I think of all of the angry words I hurled at her, so many times, when she announced she was uprooting us, again, to start over somewhere else. Yes, I loved the adventure of moving, but part of me really longed for a place I could call home, and I wasn't getting it with my mom. Still though, seeing so many ugly scenes in my mind's eye, and having the knowledge that she was most probably bipolar, really puts a different spin on why we traipsed across the bottom half of the country as often as we did.
My daughters, each of them, are very assuredly Southern, even though the oldest will deny it if asked. However, I am trying to eradicate some of the baser Southern tendencies from them. I don't want them to think that nice girls do what they're told, and never complain, and boys are in charge of everything. I want them to use their brains. I want them to use their mouths. I want them to do math, and science, and drive fast, go to college, and want more, and be able to actually get it. I have difficult, and very beautifully distinct, relationships with each of my four daughters. My oldest is truly one of the best friends I have. My baby is the song that is sung in my heart. The other two are mercy and grace, always doing for others and unto others, and both know just how to smile. I am truly blessed with my daughters.
My hardest relationship is with my grandmother. I call her Mama, or Grams, depending on my mood. My mother gave birth to me when she was only 18, so my grandmother was around quite a bit to help out. Or at least that's the story I used to tell myself. I think the reality is that my mom was with my dad, in another part of the country, for the first few months of my life. My dad was not all that great back then, and I think my mom left him. Or my Papa went to get her. I'm really not sure. That part is fuzzy. Hey, don't blame me, I was less than a year old. I think.
Anyhow, we somehow ended up living with my grandparents. My grandfather, or Papa, up until the day he died, was the man that I compared all other men to. He was my measuring stick, in the way that my husband has become the same thing, encompassing all that is right and perfect with men, a living reminder of how chivalry is not dead. I have long-treasured memories of that special man, and all of the ways that he spoiled me and doted on me, and showed me that I was worth love. I didn't always feel that growing up, as there was never a 'dad' around long enough to establish that bond that is so essential in a girls life. My Papa forged that bond with me, and made sure I understood that the parade of men that went through my house like there was a revolving door on my mom's bedroom had nothing to do with me. It didn't really have anything to do with her either, except as an indicator that something was wrong. But we're Southern, see, so nobody would dare accuse her of being a mental case. Instead, it was whispered that she was still shaken up about the way my dad had treated her, and she'd never gotten over that. Whatever. Anyhow, Papa was the single steady male in my life, and I adored him for it.
Why do I keep skirting the issue of my grandmother? When I started this, it was just going to be short blurbs about everyone else, because I really wanted to talk about my Mama. She's been on my mind a lot lately, because we're going to see her soon. It's been since my great-grandmother's funeral, in December of 2005, since I've seen her. Half my family hasn't seen her since December of 2004. I can't believe how long it's been for some of them. And I don't call as much as I should. I know I don't. Part of me rebels, because I honestly can't remember a single time, ever in my entire life, and I mean EVER, that that woman has picked up the phone and dialed my number. She just doesn't do that. It goes beyond hating the long distance bill too. She just thinks that she shouldn't have to call. She thinks everyone else should call her. She's the matriarch of the family now, and she takes her role very seriously.
I used to get so angry with her for her attitude. She acts like people owe her something, because she's buried her Daddy and her Mom, her husband and her daughter. Yes, my grandmother is the last person behind me now. When she's gone, there will be no one for me to turn to with questions about my past, about my history. Of course, she's not always been the most reliable source, or so I thought. I'd get upset because I'd share a memory of mine and she'd tell me it hadn't happened, or tell me I was remembering it wrong. Generally, I felt she wore rose-colored glasses when it came to memories.
It wasn't until recently, until reading another blogger talk about memories, that I came to understand that there is truth in what my Mama remembers, but there is also truth in what she doesn't.
I am not yet thirty five years old. I have my life stretching before me, like a blank book, waiting for me to write my story, waiting for me to fill in the missing pieces. She has her book almost full.
She's buried the people that meant the most to her, and now she lives in a house alone, waiting for the phone to ring. I helped her move from the home that she shared with my grandfather for over thirty years in Texas, to a smaller house in Oklahoma. It's still new, and unfamiliar, and strange to her. There are no memories of her children in that house. There aren't even really memories of her grandchildren or great-grandchildren, as not many people have visited her there.
Every day, her world shrinks a little bit, and there is nothing she can do about it. She was diagnosed with macular degeneration a few years back. She went in for cataract surgery and instead left knowing that her world would slowly go dark until she saw nothing. I can't even imagine that. So much of my life is centered around my sight. Yes, I think that there are many blind people that live full and happy lives, but those people are not my Mama. She's had her sight for so long, and to know that it's going must be heartbreaking for her.
Beyond the sadness though, I think there is anger. Her life is written, but she's not ready to put down the pen yet. Her dad has been gone for over twenty years, her husband for over ten. Her daughter has been gone for five, her mother for over one. Her and I? We're still here. She looks behind her and sees emptiness. She looks in front of her and sees me, the child of her baby child - the daughter of her daughter that is gone, the one that almost didn't make it, the one that endured.
I spent so many years not understanding her, being angry with her, wanting her to step into my whirlwind of a life and rescue me from my mother. She didn't though. She was the safe harbor from the storm in the summer, but she never let us stay beyond Labor Day. We always had to return to the craziness of our "normal" life, and I really hated her for that. My brother was there, but I've learned that his memory is very subjective, almost non-existent. On most days, he'll admit that *I* am his memory, because he's blocked most everything about our younger years. It's just too painful for him.
So here I stand, in the middle. My daughters are in front of me, with more blank pages than even I have. My Mama is behind me, with only a few empty pages left. I stand in the middle, surrounded by the ghosts of strong women, strong-willed women. Here I stand, in the middle, hoping to raise four daughters to be the kind of women that know their own worth, that know not to measure themselves against women in magazines or on television, frightened that I will fail them. Here I stand, in the middle, hoping to live up to the expectations of my Mama, expectations that have been colored by her many years spent twisting and shaping the past to fit into a mold that is acceptable to her.
I take all of this with me when I sit down to write. I feel this pull to include my mom's gypsy-ness, to pull it apart, to try to understand it, to hopefully escape it. I feel compelled to include the adventurous spirit of my daughters, how they each think of going to colleges, far apart from each other, getting married and settling down someday, dreams so far from what I dreamed, but also similar in many ways. They want home too, but they want it because they know, from the experiences I've given them, what home really is. I feel like I haven't failed them there. When I write, I want to describe my great-grandmother's patience, her steadfastness. Hers was not really a love match, but she stood by his side for decades, and she wept at his funeral. He was not an easy man to love, my great-grandpa Joe, but she managed it. She lived her entire life in a forty mile radius of where she was born, never venturing beyond those boundaries that were set back then, never seeing what was beyond those imaginary lines.
Mostly though, when I write I want to re-create my Mama. I want to tell the world of how she married young and had two daughters, then divorced that man because he was not nice. Divorce in those days rarely happened, and the scandal was swift and harsh in her rural Oklahoma town. She left her two small girls with family and went to California on her own. The courage it must have taken to do that astounds me. She knew that she needed to get her head together, knew that her girls were going to be cared for, so took off on an adventure of epic proportions in order to grab the life she must have really wanted. While there, she met and married my Papa, a Marine three years her junior. Again, the scandal must have been intense. Instead of marrying an older man that could take care of her and her children, she chose the man that made her heart melt faster than ice cream on a California beach. She grabbed him and held on tight. My mom was born shortly after that, in California, the product of a love so dazzling, so blinding, it was a thing of beauty to behold. Their marriage lasted forty three years. Only the hands of death could separate them. She stood by him through the military, the Korean War, when he drove a gas truck to put food on the table, when things were rough and lean, when things finally started getting better. She stood by him. She wasn't always the picture of gentility, she had her moments of fire, but she stood by him.
When I look back at her life, when I glance behind me to see the pages that were written before I arrived on the scene, it's sometimes like re-reading my very own chapters. Maybe the reason I have such mixed emotions where she is concerned is because I connect with those parts of her that are me. Her sense of adventure, her courage, her willingness to face a scandal because she knew it was best for her to get out of a bad situation no matter what society said, these are all things that I've always admired about her but have not always recognized in myself. She gave me those things, but it took me quite a few years to see that. She whispered them in my ear when she rocked me to sleep as a baby, she hid them in the stories she told me as a child, she wove them through the memories she shared with me as a teenager. Always, they were there, her gift to me, though sometimes I tried to refuse. Still, they were there.
When I look back at her life, when I read those pages that she has already written, I see something very clearly. She is me. I am her. And that is not a bad thing at all.
My great-grandmother, Gladys, was ninety-five years old when she died. We actually put her in the ground on her ninety-sixth birthday. We stood by her grave and shouted "Happy Birthday" to her, while trucks stopped out on the road to see what was going on. You see, she had 13 children, 11 of which were still alive. Twelve of those kids had kids of their own, only my namesake uncle died before marrying and raising his own family (baby of the family, only one that died in Viet Nam, very tragic story). Most of the grandkids already had children. And some of the great-grandchildren (like me!) already had children. There were a LOT of people there for her funeral. I'm sure we made quite the sight, dressed in every color of the rainbow, screaming our heads off at the side of the hole in the ground.
My kids are fifth generation babies, just like I was. There were pictures taken of each of them, resting snugly in my great-grandmother's arms, printed in her local newspaper. After the birth of each child, I had to make the pilgrimage, no matter where I was living, to her home in Oklahoma, so that she could have her picture taken with my babies and put in the paper. She loved those pictures, she felt that they showed she'd accomplished something. When she passed, I felt a hole open up inside of me, and that really surprised me. No more pictures would be taken of her and my children, to be printed in that paper, so that her friends could see how beautiful her family was. Yes, they mostly equated beauty with how many grand-children you could claim. For my great-grandmother, her family was beyond just simply beautiful, for she had over three hundred, if you counted them all up.
I think that hole was there because she was the least complicated female family relationship that I'll ever have, and I truly mourned that simple friendship we shared. She teased me because I stopped at six children, telling me she did it with more than twice as many. Yes, I'd agree, but life was simpler back then. She'd reply that it was simpler because the adults ran the house, not the other way around. I'd silently agree. We bonded because of our big families though. Not to say that she was a sweet little old lady, because she was far from that. By the end, her eyesight was all but gone, her hearing only worked when you were two rooms away and muttered a curse under your breath, and most of her internal organs decided to go to work on a part time basis. I guess after almost ninety six years, some things just decided they'd worked long enough.
My relationship with my mother was tumultuous, at best. We rode this roller coaster of recriminations and regrets, love and laughter, for most of my life. In hindsight, I can see the signs of a very manic depressive life in the way that we lived. I've charted and graphed and diagrammed my life with my mother ten ways to Sunday, and no matter how I look at it, I see the peaks and valleys in the journeys that we took. It fills my heart with sadness when I think of how unhappy she must have been at her core, for most of her entire existence, to keep leading such a vagabond life, searching in vain for a peace that would release her from the demons in her mind. It shatters me when I think of all of the angry words I hurled at her, so many times, when she announced she was uprooting us, again, to start over somewhere else. Yes, I loved the adventure of moving, but part of me really longed for a place I could call home, and I wasn't getting it with my mom. Still though, seeing so many ugly scenes in my mind's eye, and having the knowledge that she was most probably bipolar, really puts a different spin on why we traipsed across the bottom half of the country as often as we did.
My daughters, each of them, are very assuredly Southern, even though the oldest will deny it if asked. However, I am trying to eradicate some of the baser Southern tendencies from them. I don't want them to think that nice girls do what they're told, and never complain, and boys are in charge of everything. I want them to use their brains. I want them to use their mouths. I want them to do math, and science, and drive fast, go to college, and want more, and be able to actually get it. I have difficult, and very beautifully distinct, relationships with each of my four daughters. My oldest is truly one of the best friends I have. My baby is the song that is sung in my heart. The other two are mercy and grace, always doing for others and unto others, and both know just how to smile. I am truly blessed with my daughters.
My hardest relationship is with my grandmother. I call her Mama, or Grams, depending on my mood. My mother gave birth to me when she was only 18, so my grandmother was around quite a bit to help out. Or at least that's the story I used to tell myself. I think the reality is that my mom was with my dad, in another part of the country, for the first few months of my life. My dad was not all that great back then, and I think my mom left him. Or my Papa went to get her. I'm really not sure. That part is fuzzy. Hey, don't blame me, I was less than a year old. I think.
Anyhow, we somehow ended up living with my grandparents. My grandfather, or Papa, up until the day he died, was the man that I compared all other men to. He was my measuring stick, in the way that my husband has become the same thing, encompassing all that is right and perfect with men, a living reminder of how chivalry is not dead. I have long-treasured memories of that special man, and all of the ways that he spoiled me and doted on me, and showed me that I was worth love. I didn't always feel that growing up, as there was never a 'dad' around long enough to establish that bond that is so essential in a girls life. My Papa forged that bond with me, and made sure I understood that the parade of men that went through my house like there was a revolving door on my mom's bedroom had nothing to do with me. It didn't really have anything to do with her either, except as an indicator that something was wrong. But we're Southern, see, so nobody would dare accuse her of being a mental case. Instead, it was whispered that she was still shaken up about the way my dad had treated her, and she'd never gotten over that. Whatever. Anyhow, Papa was the single steady male in my life, and I adored him for it.
Why do I keep skirting the issue of my grandmother? When I started this, it was just going to be short blurbs about everyone else, because I really wanted to talk about my Mama. She's been on my mind a lot lately, because we're going to see her soon. It's been since my great-grandmother's funeral, in December of 2005, since I've seen her. Half my family hasn't seen her since December of 2004. I can't believe how long it's been for some of them. And I don't call as much as I should. I know I don't. Part of me rebels, because I honestly can't remember a single time, ever in my entire life, and I mean EVER, that that woman has picked up the phone and dialed my number. She just doesn't do that. It goes beyond hating the long distance bill too. She just thinks that she shouldn't have to call. She thinks everyone else should call her. She's the matriarch of the family now, and she takes her role very seriously.
I used to get so angry with her for her attitude. She acts like people owe her something, because she's buried her Daddy and her Mom, her husband and her daughter. Yes, my grandmother is the last person behind me now. When she's gone, there will be no one for me to turn to with questions about my past, about my history. Of course, she's not always been the most reliable source, or so I thought. I'd get upset because I'd share a memory of mine and she'd tell me it hadn't happened, or tell me I was remembering it wrong. Generally, I felt she wore rose-colored glasses when it came to memories.
It wasn't until recently, until reading another blogger talk about memories, that I came to understand that there is truth in what my Mama remembers, but there is also truth in what she doesn't.
I am not yet thirty five years old. I have my life stretching before me, like a blank book, waiting for me to write my story, waiting for me to fill in the missing pieces. She has her book almost full.
She's buried the people that meant the most to her, and now she lives in a house alone, waiting for the phone to ring. I helped her move from the home that she shared with my grandfather for over thirty years in Texas, to a smaller house in Oklahoma. It's still new, and unfamiliar, and strange to her. There are no memories of her children in that house. There aren't even really memories of her grandchildren or great-grandchildren, as not many people have visited her there.
Every day, her world shrinks a little bit, and there is nothing she can do about it. She was diagnosed with macular degeneration a few years back. She went in for cataract surgery and instead left knowing that her world would slowly go dark until she saw nothing. I can't even imagine that. So much of my life is centered around my sight. Yes, I think that there are many blind people that live full and happy lives, but those people are not my Mama. She's had her sight for so long, and to know that it's going must be heartbreaking for her.
Beyond the sadness though, I think there is anger. Her life is written, but she's not ready to put down the pen yet. Her dad has been gone for over twenty years, her husband for over ten. Her daughter has been gone for five, her mother for over one. Her and I? We're still here. She looks behind her and sees emptiness. She looks in front of her and sees me, the child of her baby child - the daughter of her daughter that is gone, the one that almost didn't make it, the one that endured.
I spent so many years not understanding her, being angry with her, wanting her to step into my whirlwind of a life and rescue me from my mother. She didn't though. She was the safe harbor from the storm in the summer, but she never let us stay beyond Labor Day. We always had to return to the craziness of our "normal" life, and I really hated her for that. My brother was there, but I've learned that his memory is very subjective, almost non-existent. On most days, he'll admit that *I* am his memory, because he's blocked most everything about our younger years. It's just too painful for him.
So here I stand, in the middle. My daughters are in front of me, with more blank pages than even I have. My Mama is behind me, with only a few empty pages left. I stand in the middle, surrounded by the ghosts of strong women, strong-willed women. Here I stand, in the middle, hoping to raise four daughters to be the kind of women that know their own worth, that know not to measure themselves against women in magazines or on television, frightened that I will fail them. Here I stand, in the middle, hoping to live up to the expectations of my Mama, expectations that have been colored by her many years spent twisting and shaping the past to fit into a mold that is acceptable to her.
I take all of this with me when I sit down to write. I feel this pull to include my mom's gypsy-ness, to pull it apart, to try to understand it, to hopefully escape it. I feel compelled to include the adventurous spirit of my daughters, how they each think of going to colleges, far apart from each other, getting married and settling down someday, dreams so far from what I dreamed, but also similar in many ways. They want home too, but they want it because they know, from the experiences I've given them, what home really is. I feel like I haven't failed them there. When I write, I want to describe my great-grandmother's patience, her steadfastness. Hers was not really a love match, but she stood by his side for decades, and she wept at his funeral. He was not an easy man to love, my great-grandpa Joe, but she managed it. She lived her entire life in a forty mile radius of where she was born, never venturing beyond those boundaries that were set back then, never seeing what was beyond those imaginary lines.
Mostly though, when I write I want to re-create my Mama. I want to tell the world of how she married young and had two daughters, then divorced that man because he was not nice. Divorce in those days rarely happened, and the scandal was swift and harsh in her rural Oklahoma town. She left her two small girls with family and went to California on her own. The courage it must have taken to do that astounds me. She knew that she needed to get her head together, knew that her girls were going to be cared for, so took off on an adventure of epic proportions in order to grab the life she must have really wanted. While there, she met and married my Papa, a Marine three years her junior. Again, the scandal must have been intense. Instead of marrying an older man that could take care of her and her children, she chose the man that made her heart melt faster than ice cream on a California beach. She grabbed him and held on tight. My mom was born shortly after that, in California, the product of a love so dazzling, so blinding, it was a thing of beauty to behold. Their marriage lasted forty three years. Only the hands of death could separate them. She stood by him through the military, the Korean War, when he drove a gas truck to put food on the table, when things were rough and lean, when things finally started getting better. She stood by him. She wasn't always the picture of gentility, she had her moments of fire, but she stood by him.
When I look back at her life, when I glance behind me to see the pages that were written before I arrived on the scene, it's sometimes like re-reading my very own chapters. Maybe the reason I have such mixed emotions where she is concerned is because I connect with those parts of her that are me. Her sense of adventure, her courage, her willingness to face a scandal because she knew it was best for her to get out of a bad situation no matter what society said, these are all things that I've always admired about her but have not always recognized in myself. She gave me those things, but it took me quite a few years to see that. She whispered them in my ear when she rocked me to sleep as a baby, she hid them in the stories she told me as a child, she wove them through the memories she shared with me as a teenager. Always, they were there, her gift to me, though sometimes I tried to refuse. Still, they were there.
When I look back at her life, when I read those pages that she has already written, I see something very clearly. She is me. I am her. And that is not a bad thing at all.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Fear and Hope in Central Virginia
I am not a poet. I'm not a preacher, or a counselor of grief. I'm not a politician, or a talking head on television armed with witty writers of dialogue to fill my teleprompter with words of wisdom and healing. I'm not an author that can fashion language into pictures so startling and full of light that even the most stone-hearted among you will be moved to tears.
I'm just a mom. And a resident of Central Virginia.
I doubt that you will gain much from my ramblings that you can't find at other, more prestigious and informative sites. I haven't searched the web for facts, or assembled long pages of theories on why this thing or that has happened. I don't have any answers. If you're looking for those, you've come to the wrong place. All I have is my feelings, my fears, and yes, even a bit of hope. I am driven to share these with you today. I don't expect that my voice will be heard beyond the pages of this small, personal blog. I would be very surprised to learn that more than a few will even read this. Still though, I must write today. I must share what is on my mind.
Raising children with my husband in Virginia has been one of the monumental blessings of my life. This place has become home to me, in a way that this vagabond mom only ever dreamed home could be as a child. Growing up in too many states to really remember, traveling the country according to the whims of my own gypsy-hearted mama, I always held a secret desire for a special place to belong. In my childish yearnings, I wanted a large place, made of strong walls that could withstand any storm, all strong winds, and yes, even the occasional hurricane of words and shouts that living as a family often entails. I saw a sturdy structure, most usually on a hill, overlooking some picturesque site or another that would easily fit on a postcard or a landscape calendar. This place would be near the mountains, with fresh clean air. It would be near the ocean, close enough to escape to my beloved salt water if the need arose. The place would be near a large, vibrant city, to appease my need for activity. Yet it would also be near a small, quaint town, with old streets and historic buildings, to keep me in touch with a past that has shaped me. In this place, I would find a group of friends, young and old, rich and poor, that would feed my soul with love and laughter. I would have that thing I so often searched for in every place to which I was sometimes unwillingly dragged - community. It's almost funny that, after joining the Navy and seeing the world, I would land in Virginia. This was not the place that I pictured when I thought of home those many years ago, yet has become exactly the home I always longed to have.
When tragedy strikes, I automatically start cataloging my choices, trying to decide how things that I have done in my past are going to affect my future, and the future of those that I hold most dear. This is especially true now that I have children. I rethink virtually every decision that has led me to this place where I am now, in a house with sturdy walls, on a hill overlooking a small pasture, with mountains in the distance and an ocean down the road, two capitals within an hours drive, an Old Towne that I've claimed as my own, and a community that has embraced me despite my eccentricities.
People ask where you are from, and you say the place that means "home" in your heart, sometimes the place of your birth, usually the place of your childhood. I often replied "Well, I grew up all over, but I live in Virginia now". More recently though, I've come to think of myself as a Virginian all the time. Two children have been born here, four others have adopted it as their own home. Of those six, two of them look forward to one day attending the great college that is Virginia Tech. We pass the turnoff often on our travels to see other family, and it never fails to garner a wistful look and a "Someday, Mom, you're dropping me off there" comment.
Would I still send my children there now, after this week? How could I, knowing the tragedy that has befallen so may? Of the thirty people killed, almost 20 were from Central Virginia. Does that change my mind about the future direction my children will take? Should it?
Without going into already catalogued detail of the gunman and his victims, or supposed errors made by school administration or handgun dealers, I want to say, loudly and unequivocally, that my children will attend Virginia Tech in the future, if it is their desire to do so. While I abhor violence in any form, I still recognize that not all people are as full of the despair that claimed the young man responsible for the deaths of so many.
My fear that this tragedy could happen again, and my own cherished children could be involved, is far outweighed by the anger that is slowly seeping over me at the way the media continues to fuel the flames of hatred and intolerance already so hot in this world. While "gun control" generally evokes strong feelings in a person, regardless of the side you might take, that knee-jerk reaction should not be the solution. Nor should a condemnation of the school or its officials take center stage during this time. Instead of finding a direction in which to point fingers, people should be united in mourning the loss of lives cut short in their prime, of lives that were full of courage and grace, and yes, even of a life that was full of anger and despair. I'm not condoning the acts committed by the young man responsible, but the loss of life, any life, really is a reason to mourn.
The students at Virginia Tech are a very special group of some of the best and brightest minds this country has to offer. Young people from all over the country strive to make it to Blacksburg, in search of an education that will often mean the difference between a decent job and merely making ends meet. In this state, however, going to Tech is more than just the thought of a good education close to their houses. It is a dream that lives in the hearts of young boys and girls, teenagers, and even adults, a dream to wear the red and orange and be a part of something that is larger than self. For some, making it to Tech is like coming home.
That's a sentiment I can understand. While I'm not a Tech alumni, I am a Virginian. Home is not just where you lay your head at night. It's a peace that invades every facet of your life, every shadow of your soul. Tech was home to many of those students. However, this week their safe walls were breached by violence and death. Should they leave and try to find a new home elsewhere, or would that be like letting evil win? Those choices are not for me to make, neither are they for you to judge.
Whether or not 'gun control' laws are made stronger, whether or not the administration undergoes censure, ridicule, or even the inevitable and sadly common lawsuits, the victims will not return. The wounds that were inflicted go deeper than the bullets that were discharged. Peace was shattered, and home was violated. But friends, hope was not lost. Even today, all over the country, and most especially down the road at Tech, people gather together and weep, mourn the loss of friends and co-workers, and look together toward a future that includes the knowledge that, although we may not understand it, there is always a Perfect Plan. Prayer vigils have sprung up across the campus, across the community, across the state, and even across the country, led by students that are not willing to pin blame on anyone, but seek only the chance to mourn and heal.
Please join me as I send my prayers to the people involved in this tragedy, to the family and friends of the people that died, to the community that is suffering the shattering of so many lives, and yes, even to the young boys and girls whose dream it has always been to attend that still great school. During this week when so many lives have been changed forever, I cling tight to my family. I cherish the fragile peace that exists within the walls of my own fortress on a hill, and I thank the Lord above that He has blessed me with this home that I have. And I pray that others will find the same solace that I have in His comforting embrace, no matter the state of their own world right now.
Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the LORD thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest. - Joshua 1:9
6223
I'm just a mom. And a resident of Central Virginia.
I doubt that you will gain much from my ramblings that you can't find at other, more prestigious and informative sites. I haven't searched the web for facts, or assembled long pages of theories on why this thing or that has happened. I don't have any answers. If you're looking for those, you've come to the wrong place. All I have is my feelings, my fears, and yes, even a bit of hope. I am driven to share these with you today. I don't expect that my voice will be heard beyond the pages of this small, personal blog. I would be very surprised to learn that more than a few will even read this. Still though, I must write today. I must share what is on my mind.
Raising children with my husband in Virginia has been one of the monumental blessings of my life. This place has become home to me, in a way that this vagabond mom only ever dreamed home could be as a child. Growing up in too many states to really remember, traveling the country according to the whims of my own gypsy-hearted mama, I always held a secret desire for a special place to belong. In my childish yearnings, I wanted a large place, made of strong walls that could withstand any storm, all strong winds, and yes, even the occasional hurricane of words and shouts that living as a family often entails. I saw a sturdy structure, most usually on a hill, overlooking some picturesque site or another that would easily fit on a postcard or a landscape calendar. This place would be near the mountains, with fresh clean air. It would be near the ocean, close enough to escape to my beloved salt water if the need arose. The place would be near a large, vibrant city, to appease my need for activity. Yet it would also be near a small, quaint town, with old streets and historic buildings, to keep me in touch with a past that has shaped me. In this place, I would find a group of friends, young and old, rich and poor, that would feed my soul with love and laughter. I would have that thing I so often searched for in every place to which I was sometimes unwillingly dragged - community. It's almost funny that, after joining the Navy and seeing the world, I would land in Virginia. This was not the place that I pictured when I thought of home those many years ago, yet has become exactly the home I always longed to have.
When tragedy strikes, I automatically start cataloging my choices, trying to decide how things that I have done in my past are going to affect my future, and the future of those that I hold most dear. This is especially true now that I have children. I rethink virtually every decision that has led me to this place where I am now, in a house with sturdy walls, on a hill overlooking a small pasture, with mountains in the distance and an ocean down the road, two capitals within an hours drive, an Old Towne that I've claimed as my own, and a community that has embraced me despite my eccentricities.
People ask where you are from, and you say the place that means "home" in your heart, sometimes the place of your birth, usually the place of your childhood. I often replied "Well, I grew up all over, but I live in Virginia now". More recently though, I've come to think of myself as a Virginian all the time. Two children have been born here, four others have adopted it as their own home. Of those six, two of them look forward to one day attending the great college that is Virginia Tech. We pass the turnoff often on our travels to see other family, and it never fails to garner a wistful look and a "Someday, Mom, you're dropping me off there" comment.
Would I still send my children there now, after this week? How could I, knowing the tragedy that has befallen so may? Of the thirty people killed, almost 20 were from Central Virginia. Does that change my mind about the future direction my children will take? Should it?
Without going into already catalogued detail of the gunman and his victims, or supposed errors made by school administration or handgun dealers, I want to say, loudly and unequivocally, that my children will attend Virginia Tech in the future, if it is their desire to do so. While I abhor violence in any form, I still recognize that not all people are as full of the despair that claimed the young man responsible for the deaths of so many.
My fear that this tragedy could happen again, and my own cherished children could be involved, is far outweighed by the anger that is slowly seeping over me at the way the media continues to fuel the flames of hatred and intolerance already so hot in this world. While "gun control" generally evokes strong feelings in a person, regardless of the side you might take, that knee-jerk reaction should not be the solution. Nor should a condemnation of the school or its officials take center stage during this time. Instead of finding a direction in which to point fingers, people should be united in mourning the loss of lives cut short in their prime, of lives that were full of courage and grace, and yes, even of a life that was full of anger and despair. I'm not condoning the acts committed by the young man responsible, but the loss of life, any life, really is a reason to mourn.
The students at Virginia Tech are a very special group of some of the best and brightest minds this country has to offer. Young people from all over the country strive to make it to Blacksburg, in search of an education that will often mean the difference between a decent job and merely making ends meet. In this state, however, going to Tech is more than just the thought of a good education close to their houses. It is a dream that lives in the hearts of young boys and girls, teenagers, and even adults, a dream to wear the red and orange and be a part of something that is larger than self. For some, making it to Tech is like coming home.
That's a sentiment I can understand. While I'm not a Tech alumni, I am a Virginian. Home is not just where you lay your head at night. It's a peace that invades every facet of your life, every shadow of your soul. Tech was home to many of those students. However, this week their safe walls were breached by violence and death. Should they leave and try to find a new home elsewhere, or would that be like letting evil win? Those choices are not for me to make, neither are they for you to judge.
Whether or not 'gun control' laws are made stronger, whether or not the administration undergoes censure, ridicule, or even the inevitable and sadly common lawsuits, the victims will not return. The wounds that were inflicted go deeper than the bullets that were discharged. Peace was shattered, and home was violated. But friends, hope was not lost. Even today, all over the country, and most especially down the road at Tech, people gather together and weep, mourn the loss of friends and co-workers, and look together toward a future that includes the knowledge that, although we may not understand it, there is always a Perfect Plan. Prayer vigils have sprung up across the campus, across the community, across the state, and even across the country, led by students that are not willing to pin blame on anyone, but seek only the chance to mourn and heal.
Please join me as I send my prayers to the people involved in this tragedy, to the family and friends of the people that died, to the community that is suffering the shattering of so many lives, and yes, even to the young boys and girls whose dream it has always been to attend that still great school. During this week when so many lives have been changed forever, I cling tight to my family. I cherish the fragile peace that exists within the walls of my own fortress on a hill, and I thank the Lord above that He has blessed me with this home that I have. And I pray that others will find the same solace that I have in His comforting embrace, no matter the state of their own world right now.
Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the LORD thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest. - Joshua 1:9
6223
Friday, April 13, 2007
Check THIS out!
Having a book review blog has been wonderful in so many ways. Let me explain.
- I have an excuse to read any book I want to read
- I have a reason to be on the computer, typing up a Dish on a book
- I have an excuse to read any book I want to read
- I get to run fun contests that people from all over the world enter
- I have an excuse to read any book I want to read
Are you getting the main reason I love having the review blog? YES - I get to read any book I want to read. Ok, ok, probably, knowing my wonderful husband (and some of you DO know him. So.) you know I probably don't need an excuse to read any books. But it's nice to be able to say to the kids "Shhh, mommy HAS to get this book read so I can review it. This is for WORK". Yeah, right. Things like that happen.
Perhaps one of the most surprising benefits from the blog has got to be having the opportunity to meet some wonderful authors. Last month, I got to have lunch with Lani Diane Rich in Maryland. I was so psyched, because Lani is one of my favoritest authors ever. And she's one of those cool people that always has time to answer a question from a less experienced writer. I just love her! Well, she brought her friend Sam along to the lunch, and Sam is also a writer. Sam wrote this book called SIGHT UNSEEN, and it's out in stores this very month. So, you need to get out there to the store and grab this book, and read it. Or, drop in to the book review blog and tell us how much you want to read it. You might even win yourself a copy of the book! Doesn't it just look FABulous though?
- I have an excuse to read any book I want to read
- I have a reason to be on the computer, typing up a Dish on a book
- I have an excuse to read any book I want to read
- I get to run fun contests that people from all over the world enter
- I have an excuse to read any book I want to read
Are you getting the main reason I love having the review blog? YES - I get to read any book I want to read. Ok, ok, probably, knowing my wonderful husband (and some of you DO know him. So.) you know I probably don't need an excuse to read any books. But it's nice to be able to say to the kids "Shhh, mommy HAS to get this book read so I can review it. This is for WORK". Yeah, right. Things like that happen.
Perhaps one of the most surprising benefits from the blog has got to be having the opportunity to meet some wonderful authors. Last month, I got to have lunch with Lani Diane Rich in Maryland. I was so psyched, because Lani is one of my favoritest authors ever. And she's one of those cool people that always has time to answer a question from a less experienced writer. I just love her! Well, she brought her friend Sam along to the lunch, and Sam is also a writer. Sam wrote this book called SIGHT UNSEEN, and it's out in stores this very month. So, you need to get out there to the store and grab this book, and read it. Or, drop in to the book review blog and tell us how much you want to read it. You might even win yourself a copy of the book! Doesn't it just look FABulous though?
Clues only this psychic can see
Can an art thief earn an honest living? Raven Callahan does, with the help of a rare psychic power that lets her read the emotions locked inside ancient objects. But when her partner is kidnapped and Raven is forced to steal a priceless masterpiece to save him, ESP take a backseat to quick wits, steely nerves, and the lethal skills she needs to survive.
A Killer only this cop can catch
Ex-cop Dax Maddox made just one mistake on the job, but it took a young rookie's life and cost Dax his ability to see color. Now stalking a killer brings Raven into his life - and floods his gray world with vivid and conflicting emotions: anger and lust, suspicion and awe. Are the criminals they seek one and the same? If so, Dax and Raven's growing need for each other could inspire a madman's terrifying scheme for the ultimate revenge.
Can an art thief earn an honest living? Raven Callahan does, with the help of a rare psychic power that lets her read the emotions locked inside ancient objects. But when her partner is kidnapped and Raven is forced to steal a priceless masterpiece to save him, ESP take a backseat to quick wits, steely nerves, and the lethal skills she needs to survive.
A Killer only this cop can catch
Ex-cop Dax Maddox made just one mistake on the job, but it took a young rookie's life and cost Dax his ability to see color. Now stalking a killer brings Raven into his life - and floods his gray world with vivid and conflicting emotions: anger and lust, suspicion and awe. Are the criminals they seek one and the same? If so, Dax and Raven's growing need for each other could inspire a madman's terrifying scheme for the ultimate revenge.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
When I grow up, I want to be...
I don't do this very often, but today, I feel compelled. Yes, compelled.
Many of you know that I write. I don't do it "for a living". Yet. Someday I hope to be able to say, "You can find my book on the shelf at (insert your favorite bookseller here)". One of these days, my goal is to finish writing the book that has my heart right now, and send it out there into the world to see how it does. I feel that, sometimes, I know some things that I've learned along this road I'm on, and I should share that knowing with other people. Besides, I must write. It's not something that I always want to do, but it is something that I simply must do. It's like breathing for me. It has to happen, or I flounder around, all out of sorts.
As I've gotten more serious about my writing, I've found myself seeking out authors that have a true gift. I don't limit myself to a certain genre, or a small circle of writers. I've found authors in all sorts of genres that have a way with words, a way of seemingly peering into the deepest, darkest parts of me, and extracting the tiny little kernels of my hidden self, those itsy parts that I never share with anyone. Those books go on my "Keeper" shelf, and those authors become automatic buys for me. I'll even purchase their books in hardback, something that I will rarely do for any author unless they are on a bargain table. Sometimes, if the author really touches my innermost being, I will go to great lengths to learn more about them, read all of their books (or anything else they've written), find their sites or blogs, even e-mail. A few times, I've been blessed enough to meet a few of them. Generally, that involves a road trip, and some of you know how much I love an excuse for a road trip. I've travelled to two different places in Maryland (Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich), Richmond (Susan Elizabeth Phillips), and New Jersey (various, for a conference). My longest trip was also one of my most treasured memories. I drove to Charlotte, North Carolina, to see Joshilyn Jackson. You can read about that amazing afternoon if you search my July 2006 archives. I'm not adding the link, because this isn't about that trip. I'm only mentioning it because it cemented, for me, what exactly I have to aspire to be.
I've loved both of Joshilyn's books, and I adore her blog. Out of the many authors that I consider "favorites", she has earned her spot at the very tippity top of the list. That's not to say that I don't love a select handful of others as well, as writers or as people. There are some that I simply can't imagine not having in my writing life. However, there is just something about reading one of Joshilyn's books. She has this intuitive gift, a way of exploring those secretive places that each of us has, and bringing them to light in all of their sometimes ugly glory.
She's done it again, for me. I read her blog, Faster Than Kudzu, on an almost daily basis. I hope that you've been encouraged to take a peek over there as well. I have it on good authority that it's almost as addictive as chocolate, and once you become a regular, you never want to leave. She recently wrote a beautiful post, and I've read it at least 8 times. Every single time, I've had tears running down my face. It's just that beautiful. So yeah, this whole thing has been to tell you to go over to FTK and read this post . You'll see what I mean when I say that she is the kind of writer that I hope to become.
Thanks for indulging me.
Many of you know that I write. I don't do it "for a living". Yet. Someday I hope to be able to say, "You can find my book on the shelf at (insert your favorite bookseller here)". One of these days, my goal is to finish writing the book that has my heart right now, and send it out there into the world to see how it does. I feel that, sometimes, I know some things that I've learned along this road I'm on, and I should share that knowing with other people. Besides, I must write. It's not something that I always want to do, but it is something that I simply must do. It's like breathing for me. It has to happen, or I flounder around, all out of sorts.
As I've gotten more serious about my writing, I've found myself seeking out authors that have a true gift. I don't limit myself to a certain genre, or a small circle of writers. I've found authors in all sorts of genres that have a way with words, a way of seemingly peering into the deepest, darkest parts of me, and extracting the tiny little kernels of my hidden self, those itsy parts that I never share with anyone. Those books go on my "Keeper" shelf, and those authors become automatic buys for me. I'll even purchase their books in hardback, something that I will rarely do for any author unless they are on a bargain table. Sometimes, if the author really touches my innermost being, I will go to great lengths to learn more about them, read all of their books (or anything else they've written), find their sites or blogs, even e-mail. A few times, I've been blessed enough to meet a few of them. Generally, that involves a road trip, and some of you know how much I love an excuse for a road trip. I've travelled to two different places in Maryland (Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich), Richmond (Susan Elizabeth Phillips), and New Jersey (various, for a conference). My longest trip was also one of my most treasured memories. I drove to Charlotte, North Carolina, to see Joshilyn Jackson. You can read about that amazing afternoon if you search my July 2006 archives. I'm not adding the link, because this isn't about that trip. I'm only mentioning it because it cemented, for me, what exactly I have to aspire to be.
I've loved both of Joshilyn's books, and I adore her blog. Out of the many authors that I consider "favorites", she has earned her spot at the very tippity top of the list. That's not to say that I don't love a select handful of others as well, as writers or as people. There are some that I simply can't imagine not having in my writing life. However, there is just something about reading one of Joshilyn's books. She has this intuitive gift, a way of exploring those secretive places that each of us has, and bringing them to light in all of their sometimes ugly glory.
She's done it again, for me. I read her blog, Faster Than Kudzu, on an almost daily basis. I hope that you've been encouraged to take a peek over there as well. I have it on good authority that it's almost as addictive as chocolate, and once you become a regular, you never want to leave. She recently wrote a beautiful post, and I've read it at least 8 times. Every single time, I've had tears running down my face. It's just that beautiful. So yeah, this whole thing has been to tell you to go over to FTK and read this post . You'll see what I mean when I say that she is the kind of writer that I hope to become.
Thanks for indulging me.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
A poem for you, and for me
Because I read Laura Florand's blog every chance I get (even if I don't always get around to leaving a comment), I found Amy. Amy is a wonderful Renassaince woman in New England. She's a wife, a mom, a writer, a knitter, and also a good person to have as a friend.
Right now, she's running a contest over on her blog. You're supposed to post a poem, this being National Poetry Month and all. Well, I'm all about contests, but it goes even farther. Laura mentioned, and Amy reiterated, that poetry is really very personal. There are so many poems out there, written by so many different people. Because of that, not every poem will speak to every person. Like music, you find your own rhythm in poetry, your own beat. While you may venture into the unknown and discover new artists (and yes, even new poets) there will always be a few that call to your very soul.
For me, this poem has always been one of my very favorites. It's gotten me through tough spots, it's gotten me through valleys, and it's stayed in my mind all these many years since the very first reading of it. That's got to mean something. So when someone says "Hey, what's your favorite poem?" I reply "Hope". I hope you enjoy... :)
by Emily Dickinson
Right now, she's running a contest over on her blog. You're supposed to post a poem, this being National Poetry Month and all. Well, I'm all about contests, but it goes even farther. Laura mentioned, and Amy reiterated, that poetry is really very personal. There are so many poems out there, written by so many different people. Because of that, not every poem will speak to every person. Like music, you find your own rhythm in poetry, your own beat. While you may venture into the unknown and discover new artists (and yes, even new poets) there will always be a few that call to your very soul.
For me, this poem has always been one of my very favorites. It's gotten me through tough spots, it's gotten me through valleys, and it's stayed in my mind all these many years since the very first reading of it. That's got to mean something. So when someone says "Hey, what's your favorite poem?" I reply "Hope". I hope you enjoy... :)
Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
by Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
And LIFE again.
I feel like I've been riding a roller coaster of schtuff the past few weeks. I'm wondering if it's ever going to end. But then, if it ends, I guess that means that it's OVER, right? I don't think I'm quite ready for that, so I'm just pretending to be Honey Moon, riding Black Thunder these days, hanging on for dear life, riding out the dips and the drops, waiting to hit the top of the mountain and be able to touch God again. If you have any idea what I'm talking about, good for you. All you other people - you need to READ more, man. If you want a list of decent books, let me know!
The final burial service for my friend was today. I didn't go. I would have gone. Maybe even should have gone. But seriously, his funeral service last week was rough. Way rough. It was even harder to sit in church on Sunday morning and watch his beautiful wife, struggle through her first Sunday morning church service without him. I almost didn't make it. The only thing that kept me there was seeing her strength. But let me tell you, there were times when I had to really remind myself that there is a Perfect Plan in all of this. It's hard not to question. Really. Really. Hard.
However, my reason for not going today are different. You know that I've all but gone underground the past few weeks. I can't tell you how much your love and support has meant. From the daily e-mails from some of you, to the PERFECT 'sympathy' cards (yes, it IS the perfect card, don't even think twice about it McB!), to the well placed (answer your damn phone) calls, to everything in between, you guys have been awesome. Thanks for letting me just be. I needed it.
But now I need to start getting on with things. And that means getting back to doing what I like to do. Which means helpig people that need it. So, today I spent the day at Bethesda with a friend, while she went through her first radiation treatment. The drive was long, but very fun. The waiting room was not too cold. The lunch after was wonderful. And she's doing GREAT. Thanks so much for all of your prayers about her. She reminded me, in that special way that she has, that there is still a lot of living left to do here. She's fought so hard to hang on to life, it just doesn't seem right to wallow in my sorrow any longer.
On the downside, the past few weeks have brought a few more hard knocks. My brother is going through a certain amount of turmoil in his life. Please keep him in your thoughts. His ex-girlfriend just found out she's got Lupus. Keep her in your thoughts as well. A friend at work learned that a recent mammogram reveals something, and will have to have a biopsy. Pray for her please. Another very dear friend is having some fairly serious health issues, and another friend is going through a very difficult pregnancy.
All in all, it seems like every day has brought a new set of challenges, one right after the next. I feel like I've gone 15 rounds against Tyson lately. I come to grips with one issue just to have a new one pop up the very next day. It's been exhausting, to say the least. Today is the first day in almost a week that I've even been on the computer. I literally haven't checked e-mail since the weekend, and that's saying a lot for a person that generally checks it every few minutes. So if you've sent me something in the past few weeks, please be patient as I wade through the 800 or so that have accumulated while life has been knocking around the people I love most. I've set aside some time this week to sort through stuff that I've been pushing aside, and I will try my hardest to get back on track.
In the midst of all of this, work has been keeping me busy. For a job that's supposed to be 'part time' I've been spending a ridiculous amount of time up there. Yes, I know I said I was going to quit, so stop grumbling, ok, Char? I will when I can. I want to save some cash for the long dry months of summer, when I plan to be writing my fingers to the bone in preparation for New Jersey. I have to have a story done by then.
I've got to take the kids off to church now. Tomorrow I'm running a training class at work. On Friday, it's All About Dee Day. Which means I plan on spending lots of time online, getting out a questionaire to a brilliant writer that agreed to be my FAB Pick over on the book review site, clearing off my old computer and getting everything loaded onto the Mac, and maybe even sneaking out to get a pedicure. Who knows. I may even blog again. Til then though, know that you guys are awesome, I love you all, and please keep the following people in your thoughts and prayers:
Ron, Shelley, Renee, Pat, Danny, Caroline, Sarah, Kim, Kelly, Kimber, Jessica, and me.
The final burial service for my friend was today. I didn't go. I would have gone. Maybe even should have gone. But seriously, his funeral service last week was rough. Way rough. It was even harder to sit in church on Sunday morning and watch his beautiful wife, struggle through her first Sunday morning church service without him. I almost didn't make it. The only thing that kept me there was seeing her strength. But let me tell you, there were times when I had to really remind myself that there is a Perfect Plan in all of this. It's hard not to question. Really. Really. Hard.
However, my reason for not going today are different. You know that I've all but gone underground the past few weeks. I can't tell you how much your love and support has meant. From the daily e-mails from some of you, to the PERFECT 'sympathy' cards (yes, it IS the perfect card, don't even think twice about it McB!), to the well placed (answer your damn phone) calls, to everything in between, you guys have been awesome. Thanks for letting me just be. I needed it.
But now I need to start getting on with things. And that means getting back to doing what I like to do. Which means helpig people that need it. So, today I spent the day at Bethesda with a friend, while she went through her first radiation treatment. The drive was long, but very fun. The waiting room was not too cold. The lunch after was wonderful. And she's doing GREAT. Thanks so much for all of your prayers about her. She reminded me, in that special way that she has, that there is still a lot of living left to do here. She's fought so hard to hang on to life, it just doesn't seem right to wallow in my sorrow any longer.
On the downside, the past few weeks have brought a few more hard knocks. My brother is going through a certain amount of turmoil in his life. Please keep him in your thoughts. His ex-girlfriend just found out she's got Lupus. Keep her in your thoughts as well. A friend at work learned that a recent mammogram reveals something, and will have to have a biopsy. Pray for her please. Another very dear friend is having some fairly serious health issues, and another friend is going through a very difficult pregnancy.
All in all, it seems like every day has brought a new set of challenges, one right after the next. I feel like I've gone 15 rounds against Tyson lately. I come to grips with one issue just to have a new one pop up the very next day. It's been exhausting, to say the least. Today is the first day in almost a week that I've even been on the computer. I literally haven't checked e-mail since the weekend, and that's saying a lot for a person that generally checks it every few minutes. So if you've sent me something in the past few weeks, please be patient as I wade through the 800 or so that have accumulated while life has been knocking around the people I love most. I've set aside some time this week to sort through stuff that I've been pushing aside, and I will try my hardest to get back on track.
In the midst of all of this, work has been keeping me busy. For a job that's supposed to be 'part time' I've been spending a ridiculous amount of time up there. Yes, I know I said I was going to quit, so stop grumbling, ok, Char? I will when I can. I want to save some cash for the long dry months of summer, when I plan to be writing my fingers to the bone in preparation for New Jersey. I have to have a story done by then.
I've got to take the kids off to church now. Tomorrow I'm running a training class at work. On Friday, it's All About Dee Day. Which means I plan on spending lots of time online, getting out a questionaire to a brilliant writer that agreed to be my FAB Pick over on the book review site, clearing off my old computer and getting everything loaded onto the Mac, and maybe even sneaking out to get a pedicure. Who knows. I may even blog again. Til then though, know that you guys are awesome, I love you all, and please keep the following people in your thoughts and prayers:
Ron, Shelley, Renee, Pat, Danny, Caroline, Sarah, Kim, Kelly, Kimber, Jessica, and me.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Loss
It sometimes amazes me how time has a way of changing your perspective on things. A few weeks ago, I was walking on air. Today, I feel like my heart is in pieces.
A very dear man is gone from my life today.
A friend from church went in to the hospital for a very routine surgery on Thursday. On Friday morning, he slipped into a coma. Today, we gathered at the hospital while his family said their goodbyes.
I don't have the words to express the heaviness of my heart today.
I would like to say that I understand that death happens. That sometimes it is just a person's time to go to be with the Lord. I know that's true, but when it's someone that you know, someone that you love, those words are very little comfort.
My friend leaves behind a wife that adores him, a strong oldest daughter, an amazing son, and a wonderful youngest daughter. They are all grown, but their adulthood will do little to lessen their pain. He also leaves behind many other family members, friends, co-workers, and church family. We are all in shock, and have barely begun to believe that he is really gone.
When something like this happens, you have to deal with it in your own way. Yes, there will probably be anger, and confusion, and sorrow. But there may also be joy. We know that this man is with the Lord today, and we can rejoice in that. We know that, given the choice of life here or being in Heaven, he would choose Heaven. We can rejoice in that. The sorrow comes with knowing that he will be gone from our lives, for a season. That hurts. Oh my soul, it hurts so much.
Please keep his family in your prayers. Please pray that they will have the strength to deal with his loss. Please hold tight to your own loved ones today. Give them a kiss. A hug. Tell them you love them. Don't hold back that love. Share it.
If you don't hear from me for a while, just know that I'm dealing with this in my own way. I'll be back here when I'm ready.
I miss you, my friend. I miss you so much!
A very dear man is gone from my life today.
A friend from church went in to the hospital for a very routine surgery on Thursday. On Friday morning, he slipped into a coma. Today, we gathered at the hospital while his family said their goodbyes.
I don't have the words to express the heaviness of my heart today.
I would like to say that I understand that death happens. That sometimes it is just a person's time to go to be with the Lord. I know that's true, but when it's someone that you know, someone that you love, those words are very little comfort.
My friend leaves behind a wife that adores him, a strong oldest daughter, an amazing son, and a wonderful youngest daughter. They are all grown, but their adulthood will do little to lessen their pain. He also leaves behind many other family members, friends, co-workers, and church family. We are all in shock, and have barely begun to believe that he is really gone.
When something like this happens, you have to deal with it in your own way. Yes, there will probably be anger, and confusion, and sorrow. But there may also be joy. We know that this man is with the Lord today, and we can rejoice in that. We know that, given the choice of life here or being in Heaven, he would choose Heaven. We can rejoice in that. The sorrow comes with knowing that he will be gone from our lives, for a season. That hurts. Oh my soul, it hurts so much.
Please keep his family in your prayers. Please pray that they will have the strength to deal with his loss. Please hold tight to your own loved ones today. Give them a kiss. A hug. Tell them you love them. Don't hold back that love. Share it.
If you don't hear from me for a while, just know that I'm dealing with this in my own way. I'll be back here when I'm ready.
I miss you, my friend. I miss you so much!
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Random Acts of Kindness
There are days when I have a million things on my plate, when it will take more hours than a day consists of just to complete half of my tasks, days when I've got a mission, or a list of things that MUST get done, days when I need to write.
Then there are days, you know? When I forget that the world does not, in fact, revolve around me. That this planet does not spin just for me to accomplish my goals. That other people, yes, other than me, are important. Even as important as me. Hard to imagine, I know, but it's true.
Guess which kind of day I had?
Yeah, I got slapped with a big ol' dose of reality today. I was reminded, in a rather obvious way, that my purpose here on earth is really NOT to accomplish MY goals. Sheesh. Sometimes, I think it would be much easier to be a Christian if I could just manage to get around that whole 'strive to be like Christ' part of it. Because Christ? He was a pretty impressive guy. And trying to be like him? Yeah, it ain't easy. Not even close.
What am I babbling about? Well, I'll explain.
Some of you know my husband. Some of you have only read about him. For those that don't actually know him, I can only hope that I have led you to understand that he is an incredible man. Really, he's quite possibly the very best man that I've ever met. The only other man in my entire life that can even hold a candle to my husband is my Papa, my grandfather, and as I don't actually remember ever meeting him (he was just always there, you know?) that leaves my man as the very best of the best. He does things like send me e-mails from the train at 5am, knowing that I generally check e-mail before I start writing in the mornings, just to say "You're beautiful", even though I look nothing even close to beautiful when I'm reading those e-mails. And he knows it. He'll bring me flowers. On a Tuesday. That isn't my birthday. Or anniversary. Or anything other than a Tuesday. Just because he says they were pretty and made him think of me. He always makes his first call of the day in the mornings, and before anything else, he asks "Are you writing yet? I wanted to call before you started writing." Because he knows how hard it is for me to get back into a scene once I've been interrupted by the phone. He travels two hours each way to work, so we make enough that I don't really have to work, and still doesn't complain when my part-time sanity job means I'm not home every night. And those are just the things he does for me.
For other people? Yeah, he's just as wonderful. At least once a week, he spends his lunch money buying food for a homeless person in DC. He always stops at accidents. He has, literally, given the shirt off his back to someone that needed it. If he has something and someone else is in need, he gives what he has. That's just the kind of man he is. The very best kind.
Sometimes, it's really hard being married to someone so good. I mean, this man goes without lunch so homeless people can eat. He donates money to just about anyone with a cause. He's kind, and thoughtful, and caring. How can you complain about him running out of lunch money early, knowing that he gave it away to someone that was hungry? And he witnesses to people about the Lord in a way that I've never been able to do. Really, he's out there, every day, living the Gospel. Showing love, and patience, and honesty, and kindness. That's a lot to deal with on a daily basis. If I didn't know that he was human, it would be scary. No, he's not perfect. He has his flaws, I know. But still, in the big scheme of things, he's pretty dern great.
Today, I saw him in action again. We're in the middle of our annual Missions conference at church. Missionaries have been there all week long, preaching and sharing and hoping for support and prayer. I went to church early to help set up for the banquet, he stayed home a bit longer to finish homework. On his way to church with 3 of the kids, he saw a man walking along the side of the road. He dropped the kids off at church and went back for the man. Yes, he even picks up hitchhikers. When I asked him about this, he explained that he doesn't do it all the time, only after he prays, and never with kids in the car. Kind, but not stupid, ok?
So he picks up the hitchhiker and brings him to church. There's a banquet, so the man gets fed. Then my husband gave him a Bible, and invited him to stay for the sermon. He stayed. Then the guy took a shower at the church. This is where the story takes an almost unusual turn though. See, hubby had a date with the boys to go to the movies. Plans had been made for weeks, tickets already bought, boys already hyped. So how to get the hitchhiker to where he needed to be was the new problem. He wasn't going all that far, just a little over a hundred miles up the road, to Frederick, MD. Do you see where this is going?
I got to do the deed. Me. I got to finish what my husband started. I drove the man where he needed to go. Why? What on earth would possess me to allow a stranger in my van and truck him 100+ miles up the road? Did I lose my mind?
Not quite. Actually, I think I found my heart.
Tonight, the missionary said that part of our job as a Christian is to "go". He didn't say we had to go to Africa, or Brazil, or Crete. He didn't say we had to leave our country, or even our state. He just said our job was to "go", to take the Word to the world, to people that need it. To find a way to make a difference.
Well, I'm not a preacher. I'm not able to go to the Congo and reach tribal peoples. I can't start a church overseas. But tonight? Yeah, I could "go". It took some time, and some gas, and a bit of faith, but tonight? I got to "go". It wasn't that far. I know that. I drove farther for a booksigning event recently (though, admittedly, not much farther). But it was far enough. It made a difference, to that man and his children that he was going to see. It made a difference.
My husband's ability to see a need in a man on the side of the road opened up a door for me to take a step closer towards that whole 'trying to be like Jesus' thing. I got to be the final step in his journey. Will that man read the Bible? I don't know. Did the sermon he heard mean anything to him? I have no idea. Will he make a change in his life? Not a clue. But I took a chance, put my faith to the test, and did what I know I was supposed to do. I went.
One random act of kindness (offering a meal to a hitchhiker) resulted in my heart being expanded. Did my husband pick that man up because he knew I needed to get re-focussed? I doubt it. But that's what happened.
Random Acts of Kindness. You never know where they will lead. You never know who they will help. You can never tell what will happen. But if you're not careful, you may be the one that really gets the blessing.
Random acts of kindness. Have you been part of one lately?
Try it.
The life you change just might be your own.
Then there are days, you know? When I forget that the world does not, in fact, revolve around me. That this planet does not spin just for me to accomplish my goals. That other people, yes, other than me, are important. Even as important as me. Hard to imagine, I know, but it's true.
Guess which kind of day I had?
Yeah, I got slapped with a big ol' dose of reality today. I was reminded, in a rather obvious way, that my purpose here on earth is really NOT to accomplish MY goals. Sheesh. Sometimes, I think it would be much easier to be a Christian if I could just manage to get around that whole 'strive to be like Christ' part of it. Because Christ? He was a pretty impressive guy. And trying to be like him? Yeah, it ain't easy. Not even close.
What am I babbling about? Well, I'll explain.
Some of you know my husband. Some of you have only read about him. For those that don't actually know him, I can only hope that I have led you to understand that he is an incredible man. Really, he's quite possibly the very best man that I've ever met. The only other man in my entire life that can even hold a candle to my husband is my Papa, my grandfather, and as I don't actually remember ever meeting him (he was just always there, you know?) that leaves my man as the very best of the best. He does things like send me e-mails from the train at 5am, knowing that I generally check e-mail before I start writing in the mornings, just to say "You're beautiful", even though I look nothing even close to beautiful when I'm reading those e-mails. And he knows it. He'll bring me flowers. On a Tuesday. That isn't my birthday. Or anniversary. Or anything other than a Tuesday. Just because he says they were pretty and made him think of me. He always makes his first call of the day in the mornings, and before anything else, he asks "Are you writing yet? I wanted to call before you started writing." Because he knows how hard it is for me to get back into a scene once I've been interrupted by the phone. He travels two hours each way to work, so we make enough that I don't really have to work, and still doesn't complain when my part-time sanity job means I'm not home every night. And those are just the things he does for me.
For other people? Yeah, he's just as wonderful. At least once a week, he spends his lunch money buying food for a homeless person in DC. He always stops at accidents. He has, literally, given the shirt off his back to someone that needed it. If he has something and someone else is in need, he gives what he has. That's just the kind of man he is. The very best kind.
Sometimes, it's really hard being married to someone so good. I mean, this man goes without lunch so homeless people can eat. He donates money to just about anyone with a cause. He's kind, and thoughtful, and caring. How can you complain about him running out of lunch money early, knowing that he gave it away to someone that was hungry? And he witnesses to people about the Lord in a way that I've never been able to do. Really, he's out there, every day, living the Gospel. Showing love, and patience, and honesty, and kindness. That's a lot to deal with on a daily basis. If I didn't know that he was human, it would be scary. No, he's not perfect. He has his flaws, I know. But still, in the big scheme of things, he's pretty dern great.
Today, I saw him in action again. We're in the middle of our annual Missions conference at church. Missionaries have been there all week long, preaching and sharing and hoping for support and prayer. I went to church early to help set up for the banquet, he stayed home a bit longer to finish homework. On his way to church with 3 of the kids, he saw a man walking along the side of the road. He dropped the kids off at church and went back for the man. Yes, he even picks up hitchhikers. When I asked him about this, he explained that he doesn't do it all the time, only after he prays, and never with kids in the car. Kind, but not stupid, ok?
So he picks up the hitchhiker and brings him to church. There's a banquet, so the man gets fed. Then my husband gave him a Bible, and invited him to stay for the sermon. He stayed. Then the guy took a shower at the church. This is where the story takes an almost unusual turn though. See, hubby had a date with the boys to go to the movies. Plans had been made for weeks, tickets already bought, boys already hyped. So how to get the hitchhiker to where he needed to be was the new problem. He wasn't going all that far, just a little over a hundred miles up the road, to Frederick, MD. Do you see where this is going?
I got to do the deed. Me. I got to finish what my husband started. I drove the man where he needed to go. Why? What on earth would possess me to allow a stranger in my van and truck him 100+ miles up the road? Did I lose my mind?
Not quite. Actually, I think I found my heart.
Tonight, the missionary said that part of our job as a Christian is to "go". He didn't say we had to go to Africa, or Brazil, or Crete. He didn't say we had to leave our country, or even our state. He just said our job was to "go", to take the Word to the world, to people that need it. To find a way to make a difference.
Well, I'm not a preacher. I'm not able to go to the Congo and reach tribal peoples. I can't start a church overseas. But tonight? Yeah, I could "go". It took some time, and some gas, and a bit of faith, but tonight? I got to "go". It wasn't that far. I know that. I drove farther for a booksigning event recently (though, admittedly, not much farther). But it was far enough. It made a difference, to that man and his children that he was going to see. It made a difference.
My husband's ability to see a need in a man on the side of the road opened up a door for me to take a step closer towards that whole 'trying to be like Jesus' thing. I got to be the final step in his journey. Will that man read the Bible? I don't know. Did the sermon he heard mean anything to him? I have no idea. Will he make a change in his life? Not a clue. But I took a chance, put my faith to the test, and did what I know I was supposed to do. I went.
One random act of kindness (offering a meal to a hitchhiker) resulted in my heart being expanded. Did my husband pick that man up because he knew I needed to get re-focussed? I doubt it. But that's what happened.
Random Acts of Kindness. You never know where they will lead. You never know who they will help. You can never tell what will happen. But if you're not careful, you may be the one that really gets the blessing.
Random acts of kindness. Have you been part of one lately?
Try it.
The life you change just might be your own.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Life.
Walking on air. Breathing sunshine. Sleeping on a cloud. Tap dancing in the stars. Floating through space. That's how I feel right now.
I got to witness another miracle early this morning, and I'm still high on life. I've got tears coursing down my cheeks, I can hardly see, my heart feels like it's beating an African drum rhythm in my chest. Yes, LIFE is good! It's beautiful, really.
I have some friends that have had some pretty rough days lately. Gone through losses. Had heartache happen. Felt like their very souls were stomped on. And, me being who I am, I've felt those things right along with them.
But you know, dawn always follows the darkest night. That's a lesson I re-learned recently, and I even blogged about it. But, as with most lessons, sometimes it takes me a bit to remember it when I need it most.
I got to witness a birth this morning. That explains my euphoria, doesn't it? Have you ever been to a birth, besides the day YOU made an appearance in the world? And I have to say here, if you're thinking of when you gave birth to your children, that doesn't count either. Have you ever been in the room, been standing next to, or helping, a woman bring life into this world? Have you ever been able to hold her hand through a contraction, remind her to breathe, gently push the hair from her eyes, help her hold her legs when it came time to push, whisper encouragement into her ear, have her so focussed on you and your voice that you actually feel like you are the only link between this world and the one where the pain is taking over? Have you ever been there to see that tiny little head emerge, see that sweet little body slip out into those waiting arms, watch the face of the momma as she glimpses that baby for the very first time?
It. Is. Something.
I cant describe it. I am too overwhelmed, still, 10 hours later, to even attempt to be truly coherent.
My friend gave birth shortly after midnight this morning. Her husband was there to help her. So was I. She is an AMAZING woman, and she did an INCREDIBLE thing. She brought her baby into the world with no drugs, no intervention, only her man at her side, and my voice reminding her that it would be over soon. I feel honored that I got to share such a miracle with their family. I feel blown away to have seen, yet again, the miracle of birth. I think of her strength, and courage, and determination, and I am in awe. Today, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.
Today, I was given a reminder that LIFE, in all of its wonderful glory, has a way of soothing the troubles and pains of this mean, cruel world. Today, I woke from the darkness of the night and saw a beautiful, bright dawn.
Thank you.
I got to witness another miracle early this morning, and I'm still high on life. I've got tears coursing down my cheeks, I can hardly see, my heart feels like it's beating an African drum rhythm in my chest. Yes, LIFE is good! It's beautiful, really.
I have some friends that have had some pretty rough days lately. Gone through losses. Had heartache happen. Felt like their very souls were stomped on. And, me being who I am, I've felt those things right along with them.
But you know, dawn always follows the darkest night. That's a lesson I re-learned recently, and I even blogged about it. But, as with most lessons, sometimes it takes me a bit to remember it when I need it most.
I got to witness a birth this morning. That explains my euphoria, doesn't it? Have you ever been to a birth, besides the day YOU made an appearance in the world? And I have to say here, if you're thinking of when you gave birth to your children, that doesn't count either. Have you ever been in the room, been standing next to, or helping, a woman bring life into this world? Have you ever been able to hold her hand through a contraction, remind her to breathe, gently push the hair from her eyes, help her hold her legs when it came time to push, whisper encouragement into her ear, have her so focussed on you and your voice that you actually feel like you are the only link between this world and the one where the pain is taking over? Have you ever been there to see that tiny little head emerge, see that sweet little body slip out into those waiting arms, watch the face of the momma as she glimpses that baby for the very first time?
It. Is. Something.
I cant describe it. I am too overwhelmed, still, 10 hours later, to even attempt to be truly coherent.
My friend gave birth shortly after midnight this morning. Her husband was there to help her. So was I. She is an AMAZING woman, and she did an INCREDIBLE thing. She brought her baby into the world with no drugs, no intervention, only her man at her side, and my voice reminding her that it would be over soon. I feel honored that I got to share such a miracle with their family. I feel blown away to have seen, yet again, the miracle of birth. I think of her strength, and courage, and determination, and I am in awe. Today, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.
Today, I was given a reminder that LIFE, in all of its wonderful glory, has a way of soothing the troubles and pains of this mean, cruel world. Today, I woke from the darkness of the night and saw a beautiful, bright dawn.
Thank you.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
It's all about Lani
and McB, and RSS, and Samantha, and Misty, and Patricia, and Elaine, and... me! (of course)
Oh my oh my. I had the greatest Saturday in a very long time. I got to do one of my favorite things - go to a booksigning, with some of my favorite people - CherryBombs. And it was so much more than I could have ever imagined! I won't go into minute-by-minute detail, but I do want to give you the highlights. Be prepared to turn green.
RSS picked me up and drove me to McBs house. McB climbed in the car and we all headed off to Turn The Page, the bookstore of Nora Roberts in Boonsboro, MD. Nora was hosting a booksigning, and there were two authors that I wanted to see. This is where I tell you that I wouldn't recognize Nora Roberts if she came up and introduced herself to me. I haven't read anything by her since she was writing for Silhouette, oh so many years ago. It's not that I don't like her. It's that I'm really scared to read her books. See, if I like an author, then I really must read everything they've ever written. I mean EVERYTHING. This has caused me to pay way too much money for very old books on e-bay. It has caused me to lose endless sleep finishing up backlists. It has caused angst when I couldn't find that one book (which shall not be named!) for close to a year. And let me tell you something - Nora has a HUGE backlist. And I just can't afford it. Yes, I know I could go to the library, but I just don't do that, ok? Because once I bring a book into my home, I have a hard time letting it leave. So Nora? Yeah, I'm positive she's wonderful. I've read her older stuff and loved it. But I'm just not sure I have the time (or the money!) to read her now. Not that I have a choice, because I have friends that love me. But that's another part of the story. I was talking about her guests.
Elaine Fox was one of the first writers that I ever "reviewed", and I had to meet her. I got lucky and also met her mom, sister and daughter. I think it must be genetic, because all of them are just beautiful. I got books signed, and they will be used as a prize next week over on the review blog.
But the main reason I was there was Lani. Lani Diane Rich is my FAB Pick over on the review blog this month. She's written a book that will be released on Tuesday. The book is called The Fortune Quilt, and I'm going to share the BCC with you here:
Carly McKay's life is going just fine until she produces a television piece on psychic quilt maker Brandywine Seaver and receives a quilt with an enigmatic reading telling her that everything is about to change. Carly blows off the reading until it comes true. Her boss runs off with all the station's assets, leaving her jobless; her best friend, Christopher, proclaims his (unrequited) love for her, leaving her friendless; and her mother, who deserted he family seventeen years ago, returns, sending Carly into a serious tilt.
Convinced it's the quilt's fault, Carly races down to the small artists' community of Bilby, Arizona, to confront its maker, and ends up with an unexpected friend in Brandy - and in Will, the laid-back painter who rents the cabin next door. With quirky new buddies and no more deadlines, Carly starts to enjoy her reimagined life, until her old one comes calling. Now Carly has to decide what parts of each world she wants to patchwork in.. and how much she's willing to leave to fate.
Doesn't that sound lovely? Well, I got to read the book last month, and I can assure you that the book is really great. And so is Lani.
She let us CherryBombs hang out with her after the signing. We actually got to have lunch with her and her friend, the charming Samantha Graves. Plus, Misty Simon was also there. If you don't know about Misty yet, check out her site. She's hysterical. And Samantha? Oh my, she's just lovely. She's got a new book coming out next month, and I know I'll be reviewing it.
As usual though, I was overwhelmed with how kind and generous book people are. The very talented and totally classy Patricia Gaffney was kind enough to let me drag her outside to meet the other CBs. She even let us take pics with her. Patricia also has a new book coming out, in August. I can't wait for that release!
I won't tell you all that we discussed while eating some of the best deli sandwiches in Maryland. But I will tell you that there was much laughter. Many smiles. Lots of snorts. Nods of agreement. And one totally priceless look of astonishment that I will remember for the rest of my days.
All in all, it was one of the best afternoons I can recall ever having. The only thing that could have made it better is if my friend Kim had been able to join us. I hear she's saving up all of her free time for New Jersey though, so I won't complain.
Be sure to check out the review blog for your chance to win some of Lani's books this week.
Thanks Lani, Misty, Samantha, Patricia, and Elaine, for showing us the very best that the romance genre has to offer.
And of course- thanks to McB and RSS for yet another wonderful day. You guys are the greatest!!
Oh my oh my. I had the greatest Saturday in a very long time. I got to do one of my favorite things - go to a booksigning, with some of my favorite people - CherryBombs. And it was so much more than I could have ever imagined! I won't go into minute-by-minute detail, but I do want to give you the highlights. Be prepared to turn green.
RSS picked me up and drove me to McBs house. McB climbed in the car and we all headed off to Turn The Page, the bookstore of Nora Roberts in Boonsboro, MD. Nora was hosting a booksigning, and there were two authors that I wanted to see. This is where I tell you that I wouldn't recognize Nora Roberts if she came up and introduced herself to me. I haven't read anything by her since she was writing for Silhouette, oh so many years ago. It's not that I don't like her. It's that I'm really scared to read her books. See, if I like an author, then I really must read everything they've ever written. I mean EVERYTHING. This has caused me to pay way too much money for very old books on e-bay. It has caused me to lose endless sleep finishing up backlists. It has caused angst when I couldn't find that one book (which shall not be named!) for close to a year. And let me tell you something - Nora has a HUGE backlist. And I just can't afford it. Yes, I know I could go to the library, but I just don't do that, ok? Because once I bring a book into my home, I have a hard time letting it leave. So Nora? Yeah, I'm positive she's wonderful. I've read her older stuff and loved it. But I'm just not sure I have the time (or the money!) to read her now. Not that I have a choice, because I have friends that love me. But that's another part of the story. I was talking about her guests.
Elaine Fox was one of the first writers that I ever "reviewed", and I had to meet her. I got lucky and also met her mom, sister and daughter. I think it must be genetic, because all of them are just beautiful. I got books signed, and they will be used as a prize next week over on the review blog.
But the main reason I was there was Lani. Lani Diane Rich is my FAB Pick over on the review blog this month. She's written a book that will be released on Tuesday. The book is called The Fortune Quilt, and I'm going to share the BCC with you here:
Carly McKay's life is going just fine until she produces a television piece on psychic quilt maker Brandywine Seaver and receives a quilt with an enigmatic reading telling her that everything is about to change. Carly blows off the reading until it comes true. Her boss runs off with all the station's assets, leaving her jobless; her best friend, Christopher, proclaims his (unrequited) love for her, leaving her friendless; and her mother, who deserted he family seventeen years ago, returns, sending Carly into a serious tilt.Convinced it's the quilt's fault, Carly races down to the small artists' community of Bilby, Arizona, to confront its maker, and ends up with an unexpected friend in Brandy - and in Will, the laid-back painter who rents the cabin next door. With quirky new buddies and no more deadlines, Carly starts to enjoy her reimagined life, until her old one comes calling. Now Carly has to decide what parts of each world she wants to patchwork in.. and how much she's willing to leave to fate.
Doesn't that sound lovely? Well, I got to read the book last month, and I can assure you that the book is really great. And so is Lani.
She let us CherryBombs hang out with her after the signing. We actually got to have lunch with her and her friend, the charming Samantha Graves. Plus, Misty Simon was also there. If you don't know about Misty yet, check out her site. She's hysterical. And Samantha? Oh my, she's just lovely. She's got a new book coming out next month, and I know I'll be reviewing it.
As usual though, I was overwhelmed with how kind and generous book people are. The very talented and totally classy Patricia Gaffney was kind enough to let me drag her outside to meet the other CBs. She even let us take pics with her. Patricia also has a new book coming out, in August. I can't wait for that release!
I won't tell you all that we discussed while eating some of the best deli sandwiches in Maryland. But I will tell you that there was much laughter. Many smiles. Lots of snorts. Nods of agreement. And one totally priceless look of astonishment that I will remember for the rest of my days.
All in all, it was one of the best afternoons I can recall ever having. The only thing that could have made it better is if my friend Kim had been able to join us. I hear she's saving up all of her free time for New Jersey though, so I won't complain.
Be sure to check out the review blog for your chance to win some of Lani's books this week.
Thanks Lani, Misty, Samantha, Patricia, and Elaine, for showing us the very best that the romance genre has to offer.
And of course- thanks to McB and RSS for yet another wonderful day. You guys are the greatest!!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
The many faces of dee
I've had the idea for this post rolling around in my head for quite a while, I just haven't had the courage to actually write it. It started out as a conversation with some friends, where peole were talking about someone being "two-faced". This whole idea really intrigued me, as I'm not sure what it really means. Yes, I understand the concept of having two faces. I get that. But reallly, who can honestly say that they do not have at least two different faces? Show me a person with only one face and I'll point out that you're talking about a patient on a coma ward.
I'm not trying to put anyone down here. I'm just being honest. It fascinates me to hear people say things like "I'm the same way here that I am there!" To that I say "Yeah. Right. And pigs just flew out of my ..." Well, you get the picture.'
I think it's part of human nature to be multi-faced. It's a survival instinct, in many cases. Not long after I started this blog, I had a post that talked about all of the things that I am. You can read about it here. http://deeceetalks.blogspot.com/2006/05/all-about-me_10.html (Sorry, I'd love to do the little link thing, but for some reason, Blogger doesn't give me that option anymore since I started using Safari.) In that post, I talk about the different roles that I have in my life, as a mom, a wife, a reader, a writer, and all sorts of other "faces" that I have. I guess that post might have really been the beginning of this one.
Anyhow, it's been on my mind so often lately, that I just decided to talk about it here. Plus, the idea of separating the different parts of my life keeps popping up, so again, on my mind. As a matter of fact, it's been on my mind so much, for so long, that the idea has actually worked it's way into my WIP. In the beach story, the main character deals with this unintentionally. She has 3 friends that are all main parts of her life, but very different, very distinct parts, and they've never intersected. When they all come together, she realizes the different roles she plays to each of these people. She fulfills a different function to each of them, almost becoming a different person, without even realizing she's doing it. They even call her different variations of her name. I thought it was pretty cool.
Then I started thinking about my own life. That whole "Life imitates art" thing? Totally me. But in reverse. Because that's how it is at my house. My husband, he calls me one name. My kids they call me mom. My friends call me a variation of my birth name, dpending on when they came into my life, and what I was calling myself at the time. My writing friends call me something else. Church friends call me "Mrs.", and work friends use my given name, or a nickname. I've got quite a few nicknames, and I'll answer to just about any variation of my given or middle name.
Why? Do I think that I need to keep all of these different parts of my life distinct? Do I not want them to intersect? I think it goes deeper than that. When I'm at home with my kids, Mom is the only name I recognize. At work, my name is on my uniform, and "Mom" is just not me. With writing friends, I love the freedom of "dee"; it's short, to the point, basic, but still fun, and that's how I want to be with those people.
My character in my book has a major ah-ha moment when she realizes what she's been doing, and how hurtful it is to her, because she really caters to each of these people and has molded herself into the person that they expect her to be, instead of staying true to herself. In the end, there is a scene where she tells them what her name is, and explains that this is the only thing she wants to be called anymore. She effectively puts a stop to having to be so many people to so many people.
That is NOT a case of "art imitates life" though. Because, unlike my character, I have a pretty firm grasp on who I am. While my name may sometimes change depending on my location or crowd, my basic being remains the same. Yes, I am more forceful when in my Mommy personna, and more affectionate when in Wife mode. But basically, I've got just one face.
It just depends on what name you use for me as to what my particuilar expression might be, that's all.
I'm not trying to put anyone down here. I'm just being honest. It fascinates me to hear people say things like "I'm the same way here that I am there!" To that I say "Yeah. Right. And pigs just flew out of my ..." Well, you get the picture.'
I think it's part of human nature to be multi-faced. It's a survival instinct, in many cases. Not long after I started this blog, I had a post that talked about all of the things that I am. You can read about it here. http://deeceetalks.blogspot.com/2006/05/all-about-me_10.html (Sorry, I'd love to do the little link thing, but for some reason, Blogger doesn't give me that option anymore since I started using Safari.) In that post, I talk about the different roles that I have in my life, as a mom, a wife, a reader, a writer, and all sorts of other "faces" that I have. I guess that post might have really been the beginning of this one.
Anyhow, it's been on my mind so often lately, that I just decided to talk about it here. Plus, the idea of separating the different parts of my life keeps popping up, so again, on my mind. As a matter of fact, it's been on my mind so much, for so long, that the idea has actually worked it's way into my WIP. In the beach story, the main character deals with this unintentionally. She has 3 friends that are all main parts of her life, but very different, very distinct parts, and they've never intersected. When they all come together, she realizes the different roles she plays to each of these people. She fulfills a different function to each of them, almost becoming a different person, without even realizing she's doing it. They even call her different variations of her name. I thought it was pretty cool.
Then I started thinking about my own life. That whole "Life imitates art" thing? Totally me. But in reverse. Because that's how it is at my house. My husband, he calls me one name. My kids they call me mom. My friends call me a variation of my birth name, dpending on when they came into my life, and what I was calling myself at the time. My writing friends call me something else. Church friends call me "Mrs.", and work friends use my given name, or a nickname. I've got quite a few nicknames, and I'll answer to just about any variation of my given or middle name.
Why? Do I think that I need to keep all of these different parts of my life distinct? Do I not want them to intersect? I think it goes deeper than that. When I'm at home with my kids, Mom is the only name I recognize. At work, my name is on my uniform, and "Mom" is just not me. With writing friends, I love the freedom of "dee"; it's short, to the point, basic, but still fun, and that's how I want to be with those people.
My character in my book has a major ah-ha moment when she realizes what she's been doing, and how hurtful it is to her, because she really caters to each of these people and has molded herself into the person that they expect her to be, instead of staying true to herself. In the end, there is a scene where she tells them what her name is, and explains that this is the only thing she wants to be called anymore. She effectively puts a stop to having to be so many people to so many people.
That is NOT a case of "art imitates life" though. Because, unlike my character, I have a pretty firm grasp on who I am. While my name may sometimes change depending on my location or crowd, my basic being remains the same. Yes, I am more forceful when in my Mommy personna, and more affectionate when in Wife mode. But basically, I've got just one face.
It just depends on what name you use for me as to what my particuilar expression might be, that's all.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
All quiet on the home front
Well, except for all that screaming today!
No, I wasn't yelling at the kids. I was yelling FOR the kids. There's a difference.
My oldest girl child was participating in the AWANA Bible Quiz in Richmond today, as part of a team. Our church had two teams competing in the high school age bracket and one team in the junior high bracket. Our junior high team came in SECOND place. Our high school teams took SECOND AND FIRST places. Can you believe that? Well, knowing how much those kids studied, I certainly can!
It was just one of those really proud parent moments for us today. Our daughter is both incredibly outgoing and amazingly shy, at the same time. While she's exuberant and in-your-face around friends and family, she can seem more like a turtle with people she doesn't know. In past years, she's been on the Bible Quiz team, yet rarely answered any questions. Today, we watched our beautiful young woman blossom right there on stage. She hesitantly took the microphone to answer a question, took a deep breath, then correctly answered the question with grace and poise. I had tears in my eyes when she sat down.
It wasn't just knowing that she got the correct answer though. It was the fact that she actually put herself out there, she stood up on that stage in front of those people and used her voice, spoke those words with confidence, remembered to say "Sir" at the end of her answer, and even managed a small smile upon learning she got it right. Three years ago, it was hard to watch her, knowing how hard she'd studied, but also knowing she was too nervous to answer anything. Today, it was like watching a beautiful sunset, that perfect balance of brilliance and peace that steals over your heart, catches your breth, and quiets your soul.
I've watched her grow a lot in these last 6 months. I know, it happens, right? They grow up, don't they? I KNOW THIS. Yet still, seeing her today, standing firm, holding that mic, it made my heart swell. I again caught a glimpse of the woman that she is becoming.
Even better than that was after the quiz, when they announced the winners. Her team took SECOND place, only a few points behind the other team. But the real test came when our youngest two girls got so excited about the win that they wanted to congratulate her. Normally one to insist on personal space and avoid physical contact from her family members, when they stood in front of where she was sitting, she grabbed them and pulled them close, held on to them for a moment, even smiled at them. Even more than her using her voice on stage today, this showed me how much she is maturing. She's learning to show the love that I know is in her heart, even when her friends are watching. She's starting to realize that she's her very own person, and that person is someone to be proud of!
And of course, the rest of the parents were just as proud of our teams. In this day and age, many folks are lucky if their kids will even attend church grudgingly. Our kids didn't have to participate. They knew it would be tough. They knew that they'd have to memorize dozens of verses, learn tons of facts, and spend an endless amount of time studying God's Word. Still, they committed themselves to the task. Today, they exemplified the AWANA key verse, 2 Timothy 2:15, which says "Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth."
Truly, there is no better example of Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed than that!
Friday, February 02, 2007
La Chandeleur in Virginia...
OR...Why Laura Florand should send me more truffles!
Ever have to do something just because you know you should? Does that ever include an enormous amount of butter, warm fruit, and a stove? Interested in what I did this morning? Well, you should be... :)
I spent the morning making crepes with my family. Don't believe me? Check out those pics! First is Jo, in mid-flip. Next is Maggie, with a look of total concentration on her face. Then is Shane, plate in hand. Everyone tried the flip, except the too-cool-to-flip teenager. There are some things that she just won't consent to do, even for French food. Flipping a crepe to be captured on my camera-phone, to be posted on my blog? Yeah, that's one of those things.
Why were we all flipping crepes? Well, my friend Laura suggested, right here on her blog, that it was a very tasty alternative to Groundhog's Day. And since Laura even shared her crepe recipe, and told us how to do "the Flip", what could we do but try it? Note: If you click over there for the recipe, be sure to check out the comments. I made it the way it says, and the crepes came out fine. But then she corrected it to make it only 1 cup liquid. Guess what? It worked fine the other way too. So, your choice!
We mixed and swished and flipped and ate for a few hours this morning. All of the kids tried the flip, more than once. Maggie was the first successful flipper. Michael had a perfect flip, then promptly ruined it by trying to show off by flipping it onto his plate. My dog, Hershey, loved him for that!
I don't have pics of everyone at the flip, because I was having so much fun watching the kids that I forgot to properly capture the moment on film. But those looks! Don't you just love that look on Maggie's face? She is so serious, so sure that her crepe is going to flip up and over, and land perfectly back in the pan, she all but wills it to happen. Laura suggested things like chocolate for toppings, but we just went basic. I like crepes, and they are a traditional early summer treat for us, usually after a day at the berry farm. So we stuck to what we like, and had blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, and an enormous tub of cool whip. Yummy!
Thanks so much, Laura, for the suggestion! If the cheers and "this was way cooler than watching the groundhog" comments are any indication, we'll be flipping crepes on February 2 for years to come.
Another note: Check out this link here for an explanation of why we flipped crepes today. Laura explains it on her blog, of course, but the link goes into more history.
Bon apetite!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Hard days and nights
No, not a play on that old Beattles song. Yes, I think they are way cool, but really, I don't want that song stuck in your head for days. What I'm talking about is how hard my days and nights have been lately. Geez, I feel like I've been whining a lot in my blog, and I don't mean to, but I guess I've been taking on too much. Again.
The other day was an anniversary of sorts. I'm a doula in my 'spare time'. For those that don't know what that means, I'm basically a labor and delivery assistant. I've done this for years, for friends and family. I even started to do it professionally. My very first 'official' client was an incredible woman, having her first child. When the big day came, I spent over 20 hours with her, helping her labor. She ended up having a C-section, and the baby didn't make it. It was 'just one of those things'. To have a child not make it, in this day and age of medical technology, was horrific. Even knowing that I wasn't responsible, I still felt that there should have been something that I could have done. This woman trusted me to help her bring her child into the world, and I feel like I failed her.
No, she never blamed me. On the contrary. We became friends. I was at the birth of her second child, an amazingly beautiful daughter. She recently added another daughter to her family. Both of her girls are totally beautiful, and their pictures hold places of honor on my desk. I doubt their momma knows how much I treasure them.
But I take anniversaries hard, as many of you know. My mom's death knocked me for a loop, and it still does. Five years later, and you were akll witness to the mess that was me at Christmas. I get that way on her borthday as well.
Maybe that's why the past few days have been so difficult. I knew the anniversary was coming, I knew it in the back of my head. When I went shopping with my little girl the other day, we got flowers to put on the babies grave. It would have been the baby's birthday. When I saw that headstone, covered with snow, it all came rushing back to me.
I'm not the momma that lost my baby, but that passing still has a very deep impact on my life. I rejoice in their growing and very beautiful family, but I still mourn the child that is gone.
Why share this? Well, it's been on my mind a lot this week. And it was brought even closer to home when a new friend lost a family member. I was reminded again of losing my mom, and how I dealt with it. I was reminded of the loss of that baby, and how they dealt with it.
I talk about my mom every day. Every single day. I tell my kids about her, silly stories of growing up, things she liked, the way she sounded. To my kids, even the ones to young to really remember her, she is more than just someone that died five years ago. She's still "KK", and they talk about her almost as often as I do. We share things about her with each other. Even the younger two have 'memories' of her, that have been given to them by me and the older children.
And my friend that lost her baby? She talks about him to her younger ones too. On each of their birth announcements, the baby that was lost was mentioned as their 'special angel'. Those girls will grow up knowing that there was someone before them, and that person was real, and that person lived, and that person was loved.
What a legacy to my mom. What a legacy to that baby. I am so thankful that a friend told me to talk about my mom to my kids, so they wouldn't forget her. It has kept her alive in my heart and alive in their hearts. I am thankful that I passed that on to my friend that lost her baby, so she can keep that baby alive in the hearts of her other children.
Yes, I think that we have to move on, and to 'get over' a death, to learn to accept it, to learn to grieve. But I do not think there is ever a time when we should be expected to forget a loved one that has left us. I still grieve my mom. I cry sometimes out of the blue, when I see a bright bouquet of daisies (her favorite flower, and my only tattoo), when someone talks about Paris (it was her dream to go there, and she saved all 5 postcards that I sent her from there), when I hear a Conway Twitty song on the radio (she just loved him!). I've learned it's ok to cry. It teaches my children that the feelings of loss take time to heal. But after my tears, I can smile, at the beauty of those daisies, or the memories of her face when I brought her home a small Eifel Tower, or the sound of Conway's gravelly voice on the radio. That's something else my children have learned - smiles come after tears. And that's ok.
Because sometimes you have to go through the rain in order to see the rainbow.
Sometimes, there are hard days and nights. But the morning always follows the darkest night.
Always.
The other day was an anniversary of sorts. I'm a doula in my 'spare time'. For those that don't know what that means, I'm basically a labor and delivery assistant. I've done this for years, for friends and family. I even started to do it professionally. My very first 'official' client was an incredible woman, having her first child. When the big day came, I spent over 20 hours with her, helping her labor. She ended up having a C-section, and the baby didn't make it. It was 'just one of those things'. To have a child not make it, in this day and age of medical technology, was horrific. Even knowing that I wasn't responsible, I still felt that there should have been something that I could have done. This woman trusted me to help her bring her child into the world, and I feel like I failed her.
No, she never blamed me. On the contrary. We became friends. I was at the birth of her second child, an amazingly beautiful daughter. She recently added another daughter to her family. Both of her girls are totally beautiful, and their pictures hold places of honor on my desk. I doubt their momma knows how much I treasure them.
But I take anniversaries hard, as many of you know. My mom's death knocked me for a loop, and it still does. Five years later, and you were akll witness to the mess that was me at Christmas. I get that way on her borthday as well.
Maybe that's why the past few days have been so difficult. I knew the anniversary was coming, I knew it in the back of my head. When I went shopping with my little girl the other day, we got flowers to put on the babies grave. It would have been the baby's birthday. When I saw that headstone, covered with snow, it all came rushing back to me.
I'm not the momma that lost my baby, but that passing still has a very deep impact on my life. I rejoice in their growing and very beautiful family, but I still mourn the child that is gone.
Why share this? Well, it's been on my mind a lot this week. And it was brought even closer to home when a new friend lost a family member. I was reminded again of losing my mom, and how I dealt with it. I was reminded of the loss of that baby, and how they dealt with it.
I talk about my mom every day. Every single day. I tell my kids about her, silly stories of growing up, things she liked, the way she sounded. To my kids, even the ones to young to really remember her, she is more than just someone that died five years ago. She's still "KK", and they talk about her almost as often as I do. We share things about her with each other. Even the younger two have 'memories' of her, that have been given to them by me and the older children.
And my friend that lost her baby? She talks about him to her younger ones too. On each of their birth announcements, the baby that was lost was mentioned as their 'special angel'. Those girls will grow up knowing that there was someone before them, and that person was real, and that person lived, and that person was loved.
What a legacy to my mom. What a legacy to that baby. I am so thankful that a friend told me to talk about my mom to my kids, so they wouldn't forget her. It has kept her alive in my heart and alive in their hearts. I am thankful that I passed that on to my friend that lost her baby, so she can keep that baby alive in the hearts of her other children.
Yes, I think that we have to move on, and to 'get over' a death, to learn to accept it, to learn to grieve. But I do not think there is ever a time when we should be expected to forget a loved one that has left us. I still grieve my mom. I cry sometimes out of the blue, when I see a bright bouquet of daisies (her favorite flower, and my only tattoo), when someone talks about Paris (it was her dream to go there, and she saved all 5 postcards that I sent her from there), when I hear a Conway Twitty song on the radio (she just loved him!). I've learned it's ok to cry. It teaches my children that the feelings of loss take time to heal. But after my tears, I can smile, at the beauty of those daisies, or the memories of her face when I brought her home a small Eifel Tower, or the sound of Conway's gravelly voice on the radio. That's something else my children have learned - smiles come after tears. And that's ok.
Because sometimes you have to go through the rain in order to see the rainbow.
Sometimes, there are hard days and nights. But the morning always follows the darkest night.
Always.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Ahem. Time for a new post, huh?
Well, I have nothing to say. No, really, I mean it. I am out of words. Sorry.
Why has it been so long since I've blogged? I don't know. Really I don't. I just haven't had anything to say.
I've been working, way more than I want to work. We have a training coordinator and 4 trainers at the restaurant. Well, we had 4 trainers. One of them quit. One of them was on vacation. One of them has a lot of personal issues. And the coordinator was gone for a week. So yeah, that left ME working, more than I'm used to working. I know, I know, many of you have full time jobs and you still manage to blog. But I'm not you. I'm not used to being out of my home so much. I'm not used to coming home so tired, and being so frazzled. This job is supposed to be mindless. It's just biscuits and gravy. Ok, it's also chicken-n-dumplins, and meatloaf. But really, just biscuits-n-gravy. Not brain surgery. Not taxes. But I feel like I've had a lobotomy and been well and truly taxed. Ugh.
I haven't been writing. Not here. Not on my book. Not on anything. I feel all of this stuff, stored up inside of me. I want to let it out. I need to let it out. But I can't make the time to do it. I'm just too tired. And that makes me sad. And mad.
I have some friends that are going through some shtuff. Yeah. Bad things are a-happenin' in their home. Not baad, like brawls and diseases and deaths, but still, bad enough. They are sad, and mad, and sick of being together. This makes me sad. So I've been trying to spend lots of time with them, trying to remind them why they got married, trying to get them to feel the love, instead of all of the petty stuff that they've been feeling.
I miss my Grams. I miss my brother. They are out in Oklahoma and New Orleans, of course. Not here. Nowhere close to here. Very far away. It's been over a year since I've seen my Grams. It's been over a year since I've seen my brother. That's just way too long. So, I've made plans to change that. I'm taking that beautiful daughter that you all saw for weeks on a road trip next month. We're heading down to the Big Easy, for Mardi Gras, to visit the lil' bro. I'm leaving her there for a while. While she's gone, I'll be off work. Then, in May, I'm taking the whole fam out to see Grams.
I haven't heard back about that job I mentioned. This makes me sad. But still, if there is one job that has nothing to do with the food biz, then there are more, right? I'm clinging to this thought right now, as my feet throb out their angst at being beneath my winter-bloated body for way too many hours today. I really want to be out of the slinging-hash(browns) business forever. Maybe, if I can ever finish the book, I can get it sold and won't have to be a waitress anymore. Now, please don't start bursting my bubble by telling me how many people dream of the very same thing and it never happens. I just don't want to hear you. Wanna know why? Because frankly - I don't care. I'm going to beat the odds. I'm going to finish the damn book. Then I'm going to finish the other one. Then the other one. Then I'm going to sell one of them. Then the others. Then I won't ever have to ask, "Would you care to try some coca-cola cake today?" ever again. Ever. Don't even DARE tell me it won't happen, because if you do, I'll just stick my tongue out at you and put my fingers in my ears, and roll my eyes, until you mutter "So childish!" under your breath and click right off of my blog.
That's what I'm feeling. That's where I've been. That's what I'm going to do.
Any questions?
Nah. Didn't think so.
Why has it been so long since I've blogged? I don't know. Really I don't. I just haven't had anything to say.
I've been working, way more than I want to work. We have a training coordinator and 4 trainers at the restaurant. Well, we had 4 trainers. One of them quit. One of them was on vacation. One of them has a lot of personal issues. And the coordinator was gone for a week. So yeah, that left ME working, more than I'm used to working. I know, I know, many of you have full time jobs and you still manage to blog. But I'm not you. I'm not used to being out of my home so much. I'm not used to coming home so tired, and being so frazzled. This job is supposed to be mindless. It's just biscuits and gravy. Ok, it's also chicken-n-dumplins, and meatloaf. But really, just biscuits-n-gravy. Not brain surgery. Not taxes. But I feel like I've had a lobotomy and been well and truly taxed. Ugh.
I haven't been writing. Not here. Not on my book. Not on anything. I feel all of this stuff, stored up inside of me. I want to let it out. I need to let it out. But I can't make the time to do it. I'm just too tired. And that makes me sad. And mad.
I have some friends that are going through some shtuff. Yeah. Bad things are a-happenin' in their home. Not baad, like brawls and diseases and deaths, but still, bad enough. They are sad, and mad, and sick of being together. This makes me sad. So I've been trying to spend lots of time with them, trying to remind them why they got married, trying to get them to feel the love, instead of all of the petty stuff that they've been feeling.
I miss my Grams. I miss my brother. They are out in Oklahoma and New Orleans, of course. Not here. Nowhere close to here. Very far away. It's been over a year since I've seen my Grams. It's been over a year since I've seen my brother. That's just way too long. So, I've made plans to change that. I'm taking that beautiful daughter that you all saw for weeks on a road trip next month. We're heading down to the Big Easy, for Mardi Gras, to visit the lil' bro. I'm leaving her there for a while. While she's gone, I'll be off work. Then, in May, I'm taking the whole fam out to see Grams.
I haven't heard back about that job I mentioned. This makes me sad. But still, if there is one job that has nothing to do with the food biz, then there are more, right? I'm clinging to this thought right now, as my feet throb out their angst at being beneath my winter-bloated body for way too many hours today. I really want to be out of the slinging-hash(browns) business forever. Maybe, if I can ever finish the book, I can get it sold and won't have to be a waitress anymore. Now, please don't start bursting my bubble by telling me how many people dream of the very same thing and it never happens. I just don't want to hear you. Wanna know why? Because frankly - I don't care. I'm going to beat the odds. I'm going to finish the damn book. Then I'm going to finish the other one. Then the other one. Then I'm going to sell one of them. Then the others. Then I won't ever have to ask, "Would you care to try some coca-cola cake today?" ever again. Ever. Don't even DARE tell me it won't happen, because if you do, I'll just stick my tongue out at you and put my fingers in my ears, and roll my eyes, until you mutter "So childish!" under your breath and click right off of my blog.
That's what I'm feeling. That's where I've been. That's what I'm going to do.
Any questions?
Nah. Didn't think so.
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