I awoke having a slight panic attack. Another dream about the dead. When I dream about the dead they are always still alive and just do not want to be part of my life. This time it was my father. I instinctively know to wake Meredith so I can have her calming words.
I guess I was so confused about everything that she felt the need to put me in the proper place and time. Much the way I have to remind my Mom we are in Austin, Texas.
Meredith asked me who the vice president is. My answers were : Mitt Romney, Al Gore and Tippy Hedren.
She coaxes an answer out of me, "Jooeee"
"BIDEN!"
She quietly gets up to make me some coffee.
Fully awake, I am more curious where I got Tippy Hedren from, than the fact that I could not get the answer right on the first, second, or third time.
I had to look her up on the internet.
The Birds. She is also the mother to Melanie Griffith. I did not know that.
Is this how my mom thinks all day long? In a constant state of perturbation? Almost like a kid with severe ADD, grasping at meanings and words.
Last night the three of us, Mer, Myself, and of course my mother, sat out front on the porch. I had been humming Beatles song, but for the life of me could not think of the lyrics. I asked Meredith. She looked it up and once the song began to play all three of us knew the lyrics completely.
This song is stuck in my head, but I now have the words to go along with the tune.
Everyone has deep seeded fears that we live with, some of us admit them and are aware of them, some of us try to pray the little demons away, some of us do not know they have taken over.
My deepest fear used to be, and still is to an extent, that I will go blind. Photographs and faces mean so much to me. I see things in a way I do not think many people do.
I am not boasting, I have simply been told on many occasions that people like the way I am able to see things, find beauty in the grotesque, or grotesque in the beauty. My phone is always with me and I take pictures daily.
I keep a diary of one photograph for each day, and I have been doing this for over 4 years now. Sometimes when I go back a few years to a certain date I can tell you exactly what that day was like, even if it is a photograph of a tree.
I can not, however, recall Vice Presidents names, faces of people I went to high school with, or lyrics to a song until I hear it.
I vowed last night to play more music.
I have been making a musical playlist of songs that my Mom knows so she can sing along. Most of the songs hold memories for me as well, as they incorporate my own childhood. I am digging deeper in to the music of her youth, however so far her early 30's seem to be the ones she knows the best.
I am not sure I could think of important songs from my early 30's. I would have to look it up, again.
Amid the flurry of my dream where I confronted my Father for still being alive, I was helping my friend paint her kitchen slate grey. I did not have the heart to tell her that her chosen color was no longer in fashion.
Fashion, like memories, and Vice Presidents are so fleeting, so let her paint it whatever she wants.
Mom is not awake yet, and I am enjoying the respite of my repetitive days. Will today be a good day or bad day? Much of that depends on me, and I depend on Meredith.
If the day is bad or good, I do know that tonight we will sit out front and sing some songs that we all know the lyrics to once the chords begin.
I asked my youngest daughter if she has a song that she knows she will love for life. She had to think for a moment and finally said, "Not really." I told her I had found "my song" when I was 15 and I love it today as much as I did the first day I heard it. I do not need a lyrical prompt, I just know it. I have cried to it, laughed to it, mocked it, played it for other people, and made sure I always had it play within reach.
My family, meaning my mother, father and brothers have a song. Let it Be.
My family, meaning myself and my children have a song, Aint no Mountain High Enough.
I have songs for each one of my children.
Meredith and I have many songs.
If I play music while writing, it influences what I write about, so usually I write to the sound of silence. Literally.
I am not worried that I did not know the Vice President, I am not worried that I could not recall the lyrics to the song last night, I am not worried when I do not know where my keys are. These things are the little annoyances we all live with.
I worry that I may enter a fugue state and not return. I am fascinated that the word fugue also relates to music.
If you look it up, the first meaning usually is musically related, the second is a mental disorder (according to the DSMV). But both are linked. We are taken away by music and for a few brief moments, we wander around inside our heads recalling moments, creating moments, living.
The turn of phrase, "That is music to my ears." is used in the most common ways.
What about, "That is music to my soul."?
People speak in lyrics all the time and do not realize it, I will be listening and if they happen to say something that is part of a song, I sing the rest of the verse to myself. If I am with Meredith I say it out loud, and she instinctively knows which word to pick and choose another song with that word, then I must find a song with that word. This goes on until one of us runs out of songs.
I love doing music memory with my mother. She may not recall my name, but she smiles and laughs when we sing Stand By Me as I dance the silly motions of Ben E. King.
She claps her hands when the notes finally find their way to that part of her brain that still lights up and screams, "I KNOW THIS!"
I do not play music all day, as I am afraid not everyone wants to hear the soundtrack to RENT a thousand times, or the horrible rap songs that just make me laugh.
I will try to make music as important to me as my photos.
(If I ever lose my eyes
If my colors all run dry
yes, if I ever lose my eyes
Ooh I won't have to cry no more.)
Monday, July 6, 2015
Monday, June 29, 2015
Hold On Tight
As we cross the parking lot I naturally reach back for her hand. Her slowness is slightly irritating as I want to rush through the store and get back out again, so we can go home. It is almost time for her to eat.
We arrive home and I do not even bother asking what she would like to eat, I put o her favorite TV show and tell her I will be right back.
I make a sandwich as fast as I can and present it to her.
"Is this for me?"
"It's all yours,"
I sit next to her and watch the show. I have seen this episode a thousand times, and my mind just drifts away to other thoughts...Will it be an easy night? Will she go to bed early so I can relax a little? I have laundry to do. I better check her room.
"Get that away from me."
She is talking about the cat, or the dog, either way, I do as she asks and remove the offending animal.
At night we sit outside and talk until it is bedtime. Bedtime involves taking her to the bathroom, if she has had an accident I calm her down and tell her not to worry, I have it under control.
We go to her room and make sure the night light is on first. Then I help her change in to what she calls her "night night shirt."
The bed is big for her and she seems so small in it.
When did she get so small?
She cleans the bottom of her feet as she always does and when she is in bed she positions the blankets so that her feet stick out.
Funny, I do the same thing.
She asks a lot of questions. She asks them over and over again. I can almost predict how the day will be by the first thing she says in the morning.
Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and finds me and asks me to come lay down with her. Or she wakes up too early and I put her back in bed and lay down with her and try to get another hour or two of sleep in.
Her skin needs lotion every day. I try to remember this and gently massage lotion into her frail skin.
She dresses herself in the morning and I find this a great success.
We look for the same objects of security every day. Sometimes we look more than once. Sometimes I lose my patience.
She isn't reading so no books distract her. Conversation distracts and confuses her at the same time.
She laughs, she is silly and funny.
She used a nail brush on her hair and loved it. It is now her hair brush.
What ever works.
I know in my heart that she is meant to be here, she is meant to be with me always.
I know I will tame my patience and hire someone when I need a break.
My kayak remains dry and it is about mid summer. I miss the lake. I miss my previous life.
Still I would not let go of her for anything.
I ushered five children in to this world and out on their own, certainly I can spend a few years ushering one out.
I will not let go of her hand.
I will answer her questions.
I will lay down with her at night and stroke her hair, as she did for me many years ago.
She is my Mom.
Now it is my turn.
We arrive home and I do not even bother asking what she would like to eat, I put o her favorite TV show and tell her I will be right back.
I make a sandwich as fast as I can and present it to her.
"Is this for me?"
"It's all yours,"
I sit next to her and watch the show. I have seen this episode a thousand times, and my mind just drifts away to other thoughts...Will it be an easy night? Will she go to bed early so I can relax a little? I have laundry to do. I better check her room.
"Get that away from me."
She is talking about the cat, or the dog, either way, I do as she asks and remove the offending animal.
At night we sit outside and talk until it is bedtime. Bedtime involves taking her to the bathroom, if she has had an accident I calm her down and tell her not to worry, I have it under control.
We go to her room and make sure the night light is on first. Then I help her change in to what she calls her "night night shirt."
The bed is big for her and she seems so small in it.
When did she get so small?
She cleans the bottom of her feet as she always does and when she is in bed she positions the blankets so that her feet stick out.
Funny, I do the same thing.
She asks a lot of questions. She asks them over and over again. I can almost predict how the day will be by the first thing she says in the morning.
Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and finds me and asks me to come lay down with her. Or she wakes up too early and I put her back in bed and lay down with her and try to get another hour or two of sleep in.
Her skin needs lotion every day. I try to remember this and gently massage lotion into her frail skin.
She dresses herself in the morning and I find this a great success.
We look for the same objects of security every day. Sometimes we look more than once. Sometimes I lose my patience.
She isn't reading so no books distract her. Conversation distracts and confuses her at the same time.
She laughs, she is silly and funny.
She used a nail brush on her hair and loved it. It is now her hair brush.
What ever works.
I know in my heart that she is meant to be here, she is meant to be with me always.
I know I will tame my patience and hire someone when I need a break.
My kayak remains dry and it is about mid summer. I miss the lake. I miss my previous life.
Still I would not let go of her for anything.
I ushered five children in to this world and out on their own, certainly I can spend a few years ushering one out.
I will not let go of her hand.
I will answer her questions.
I will lay down with her at night and stroke her hair, as she did for me many years ago.
She is my Mom.
Now it is my turn.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Sing, Sing a Song
Last night I pondered what my readers think of me. Truth is, I do not always write for the readers, I write because it is what I do, who I am. I write for me, and throw it out into the world.
In the past my writing has caused some familial controversy; I have pissed off family members without meaning to, or even thinking about what their reaction would be. Being a writer of my kind, I often expose other people. There are times when I can be crass or blunt and hurt someone's feelings, again not intentionally.
I also realized that my writing makes people cry. While I am happy that I have moved someone to tears with my words, I am also sad that I have passed on my sadness.
Writing to me is akin to the good Catholic going to the confessional. Instead of telling one person all my woes and sins, I choose to do it in a public forum.
While thinking about my words from a stranger's perspective, I discovered that my life may seem bleak more often than not. This really is not the case.
I have tried to be a pessimist, but it just does not stick. No matter how much I grieve or feel various pains, I believe in my life and try my damndest to enjoy it.
Having said that, I would like to share some more intimate things about myself.
I am a complete spazz. Recently I was in Atlanta staying with my brother and sister in law. In the matter of three days I managed to break a candle; spill my soda not once or twice, but three times; back my brother's car into a tree; and, finally, while enjoying sitting outside by the fire pit, I fell to the ground as the camping chair gave way and I landed legs up and ass down.
Hearing my sister in law laugh was awesome! She has a great laugh that is infectious and all I could do was laugh along (which did nothing to help me get up and out of the broken chair).
I am equally a dork at home. I make jokes that only I seem to get and laugh at. Explaining the jokes just makes it worse and makes me laugh harder.
In an effort to lose weight I have taken to running from one side of my house to the other, which has resulted in my pants falling down and me tripping over my pug (though that last may just be another part of the ongoing plot my pug has to kill me).
I accidentally in half-sleep sprayed my lady parts with hair spray instead of the lady parts spray.
I would have said vagina, but I am thinking of my readers who may still cringe at that word.
Oh, and to those readers, get over it. VAGINA.
The hairspray was super hold. I was, in effect, painfully glued shut and no, I did not take the opportunity to try any new styles.
Love is awesome, love of family, love children, love of people here and gone. Love and laughter combined are even more amazing.
If you see me in person, you will probably see me carrying a cup of diet coke -- you should probably stay a few feet away as I am probably going to spill it at some point.
If you see me in a downward dog yoga position, please call for help because I do not do yoga and I am not doing that on purpose.
I would say I should stay away from scissors, but cutting hair is one of the tasks where I excel. I do not hesitate to say I am a fantastic hairstylist, but I wear my own hair in the same way I did in 1982.
If I try to play pool, I will hit myself and others around me with the cue, but I will never hit the actual ball.
I cannot carry a tune, but I will sing loud and proud as if I can, more often singing the wrong lyrics without a care. Madonna should have been more clear with her lyrics, because I will forever sing, "last night I dreamt of some bagels."
There will always be sorrow and sadness, there will always be losses, and I will continue to explore my feelings on them.
I am not one dimensional, I do not fit into any one box.
I may not wish on the morning star, but I do believe one day we will all find the rainbow connection.
And yes, you may end up being a person who inspires me to write, I may out you in some form, but never more than I am willing to out myself.
Lastly, to remove hairspray from unwanted places soap and water will work just fine!
In the past my writing has caused some familial controversy; I have pissed off family members without meaning to, or even thinking about what their reaction would be. Being a writer of my kind, I often expose other people. There are times when I can be crass or blunt and hurt someone's feelings, again not intentionally.
I also realized that my writing makes people cry. While I am happy that I have moved someone to tears with my words, I am also sad that I have passed on my sadness.
Writing to me is akin to the good Catholic going to the confessional. Instead of telling one person all my woes and sins, I choose to do it in a public forum.
While thinking about my words from a stranger's perspective, I discovered that my life may seem bleak more often than not. This really is not the case.
I have tried to be a pessimist, but it just does not stick. No matter how much I grieve or feel various pains, I believe in my life and try my damndest to enjoy it.
Having said that, I would like to share some more intimate things about myself.
I am a complete spazz. Recently I was in Atlanta staying with my brother and sister in law. In the matter of three days I managed to break a candle; spill my soda not once or twice, but three times; back my brother's car into a tree; and, finally, while enjoying sitting outside by the fire pit, I fell to the ground as the camping chair gave way and I landed legs up and ass down.
Hearing my sister in law laugh was awesome! She has a great laugh that is infectious and all I could do was laugh along (which did nothing to help me get up and out of the broken chair).
I am equally a dork at home. I make jokes that only I seem to get and laugh at. Explaining the jokes just makes it worse and makes me laugh harder.
In an effort to lose weight I have taken to running from one side of my house to the other, which has resulted in my pants falling down and me tripping over my pug (though that last may just be another part of the ongoing plot my pug has to kill me).
I accidentally in half-sleep sprayed my lady parts with hair spray instead of the lady parts spray.
I would have said vagina, but I am thinking of my readers who may still cringe at that word.
Oh, and to those readers, get over it. VAGINA.
The hairspray was super hold. I was, in effect, painfully glued shut and no, I did not take the opportunity to try any new styles.
Love is awesome, love of family, love children, love of people here and gone. Love and laughter combined are even more amazing.
If you see me in person, you will probably see me carrying a cup of diet coke -- you should probably stay a few feet away as I am probably going to spill it at some point.
If you see me in a downward dog yoga position, please call for help because I do not do yoga and I am not doing that on purpose.
I would say I should stay away from scissors, but cutting hair is one of the tasks where I excel. I do not hesitate to say I am a fantastic hairstylist, but I wear my own hair in the same way I did in 1982.
If I try to play pool, I will hit myself and others around me with the cue, but I will never hit the actual ball.
I cannot carry a tune, but I will sing loud and proud as if I can, more often singing the wrong lyrics without a care. Madonna should have been more clear with her lyrics, because I will forever sing, "last night I dreamt of some bagels."
There will always be sorrow and sadness, there will always be losses, and I will continue to explore my feelings on them.
I am not one dimensional, I do not fit into any one box.
I may not wish on the morning star, but I do believe one day we will all find the rainbow connection.
And yes, you may end up being a person who inspires me to write, I may out you in some form, but never more than I am willing to out myself.
Lastly, to remove hairspray from unwanted places soap and water will work just fine!
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Dying to Live
"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven out of hell, a hell of heaven..." - John Milton, Paradise Lost
I have no idea if there is a heaven. I have no idea if there is a hell.
I find it hard to imagine golden streets and a heavenly host of angels; frankly heaven can sound kind of boring.
I also find it difficult to believe there is a fiery pit and a ruler with a spiked tail constantly punishing us.
I think we punish ourselves more than any devil could do.
I think we can find more joy than any gold street could carry. Hold a newborn, laugh with your best friend until you can barely breathe, take a lover who knows you, watch a sunset and don't capture it with a camera, just watch it. Feel the wind on your face, toes in the sand, a hug. All of those things and so many more bring a heavenly feeling.
Hell is a panic attack in a public place, the loss of someone you love, the physical limitations of our bodies as we age, the mental torture we put ourselves through.
There is a special hell for people who have stay behind and watch our loved ones go. Sometimes death will be quick, other times it will drag out and we will watch the suffering not being able to do anything about it.
I have encountered a new hell. Watching someone disappear, slowly, a little more each day.
One day she will not know me. For now she does, but she has lost all our times together. My best friend, the woman I aspired to be more than anyone, I am now terrified of turning into. My Mother.
Her brain is being erased in a cruel and unknowing way. She smiles and nods and tends to laugh to make us think she knows what is going on. But she doesn't.
She no longer recalls our secrets, our inside jokes, the trips we took together, the times I would sit and watch her clean out her purse letting me keep all the change that fell out. She has lost the way we related to each other.
Where is she going? I want to know. I want to be able to visit her there and see her again. I want to introduce her to my love, who never met the real mom I had.
Her hair is white, her skin is porcelain as it has always been. A stark contrast to my own. She is already looking like she is fading away.
Is she in hell or is this hell just for all of us that have loved her?
I feel like a petulant child who wants her mommy back. It is true. I want her back and she is not even finished with her journey of going away.
One day she will look at me and smile because she feels that is the right response, but the truth will be that I will know the smile is fake and she does not know me anymore.
One of the most colorful women I have ever known is fading into shades of pale.
I search for the good in all this, I dig, I ponder. I have no answers. I see no meaning. Only cruelty.
I sat and watched the sunset tonight with my love. We watched the sky change colors, we felt the breezes, and held hands.
Wherever my mom goes, I know that she can still look at a sunset and appreciate it. She will forget it, but for one instant, just one, she will be there in that moment.
I will sit with her and hold her hand for as long as she will let me.
This life we each live is so often wasted. I know I am guilty of not living, of not feeling alive, of living in the past or living with the dead.
I want to live in the moments with my mother, the small moments she has left.
Will this happen to me? Will I become what I always wanted? Just like my mother?
If so, I hope that my children come and sit and hold my hand and try to find me.
"You know I am dying to live until I am ready to die." - Johnny Lang
I have no idea if there is a heaven. I have no idea if there is a hell.
I find it hard to imagine golden streets and a heavenly host of angels; frankly heaven can sound kind of boring.
I also find it difficult to believe there is a fiery pit and a ruler with a spiked tail constantly punishing us.
I think we punish ourselves more than any devil could do.
I think we can find more joy than any gold street could carry. Hold a newborn, laugh with your best friend until you can barely breathe, take a lover who knows you, watch a sunset and don't capture it with a camera, just watch it. Feel the wind on your face, toes in the sand, a hug. All of those things and so many more bring a heavenly feeling.
Hell is a panic attack in a public place, the loss of someone you love, the physical limitations of our bodies as we age, the mental torture we put ourselves through.
There is a special hell for people who have stay behind and watch our loved ones go. Sometimes death will be quick, other times it will drag out and we will watch the suffering not being able to do anything about it.
I have encountered a new hell. Watching someone disappear, slowly, a little more each day.
One day she will not know me. For now she does, but she has lost all our times together. My best friend, the woman I aspired to be more than anyone, I am now terrified of turning into. My Mother.
Her brain is being erased in a cruel and unknowing way. She smiles and nods and tends to laugh to make us think she knows what is going on. But she doesn't.
She no longer recalls our secrets, our inside jokes, the trips we took together, the times I would sit and watch her clean out her purse letting me keep all the change that fell out. She has lost the way we related to each other.
Where is she going? I want to know. I want to be able to visit her there and see her again. I want to introduce her to my love, who never met the real mom I had.
Her hair is white, her skin is porcelain as it has always been. A stark contrast to my own. She is already looking like she is fading away.
Is she in hell or is this hell just for all of us that have loved her?
I feel like a petulant child who wants her mommy back. It is true. I want her back and she is not even finished with her journey of going away.
One day she will look at me and smile because she feels that is the right response, but the truth will be that I will know the smile is fake and she does not know me anymore.
One of the most colorful women I have ever known is fading into shades of pale.
I search for the good in all this, I dig, I ponder. I have no answers. I see no meaning. Only cruelty.
I sat and watched the sunset tonight with my love. We watched the sky change colors, we felt the breezes, and held hands.
Wherever my mom goes, I know that she can still look at a sunset and appreciate it. She will forget it, but for one instant, just one, she will be there in that moment.
I will sit with her and hold her hand for as long as she will let me.
This life we each live is so often wasted. I know I am guilty of not living, of not feeling alive, of living in the past or living with the dead.
I want to live in the moments with my mother, the small moments she has left.
Will this happen to me? Will I become what I always wanted? Just like my mother?
If so, I hope that my children come and sit and hold my hand and try to find me.
"You know I am dying to live until I am ready to die." - Johnny Lang
Friday, February 13, 2015
Are You Sure That Was Me?
Sitting in Atlanta at an Italian restaurant last night I was well reminded of why I adore my family.
Family has many aspects, but ultimately we are all connected. This family consisted of my two brothers, their wives and my youngest daughter.
Having not grown up with sisters I do not have the memories of some of my friends. Our fights, when we did fight, were hard core. Often ended with me being hurt and probably tattling to our mother in some form.
We sat over bottles of wine, and food my daughter has not seen (being a true Texan that she is). The Jersey in me came out.
Tales were told that more often than not ended with one of us saying, "Oh my God I did do that!"
It was almost a race of who did the worst thing. My eldest brother held back, being the most reserved of the three of us, so my other brother and I took up the slack and told his stories for him. I looked over and saw him laughing behind his antipasto.
Yeah, we were all young once, we were all kids. We are held together by memories of old girlfriends and boyfriends, a few car crashes, a lot of parties, and general good times. In our small town we grew up in our family was known. I am not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but it is fact.
I looked at my brother and his grey hair and he is still the lady killer he once was. My other brother with no grey hair and his wife are the picture of suburban living and health.
They in turn made me take a look at myself. I was grilled on the way home why I do not, to this day, like to go out to eat. When the reason turned out to be a bad mushroom trip from 30 years ago my daughter piped up, "That is why you don't like to go out to eat?!"
We punish ourselves more than anyone else will ever punish us. Some of it remains, and lingers into our personality and just becomes part of us that we navigate. When my brother showed light on it, I had to laugh because it does seem rather silly, but I am so used to it now, it is just part of who I am.
I love it when I find out my own children get together and go out, or stay in. I do not have to be therm just knowing about it makes me happy. Now I know why.
They are family. They belong to a certain group, raised by me, and have shared experiences that I may or may not know about. And that is the way it should be.
Someday I may not recall all these memories that were tossed around last night like the buttery rolls. I hope my youngest was listening so she can retell them. I have the fortune of once being very close to our mother and hearing her stories that she did not want "the boys", my brothers to know. They are old enough to handle them now, and I am old enough that I better tell them to someone before I forget.
My mom would have loved to have been there at dinner with us. But would we have been so open and honest if she was there? Absolutely. That was how we were raised. Very few secrets existed in our family, and if they did they were huge secrets worthy of being kept.
Last night I sat at the table and took it all in. How we have all survived our adventures, and misadventures.
Last night I confessed to my daughter a few things, without a lot of choice. Every parent must decide to let their children know more than just the parental side of them or not. I have never really been one to abide by the strict parental role. I love my children and want them to know me, and yes this comes with a past.
I also want my children to take some risks and create their own pasts.
One day I hope all five of my babies are sitting around a table sharing, wine, or margaritas and laughing over the shit they did when they were younger.
For now, they are younger.
For now, I get to enjoy the feeling of being with my family, my family of siblings. It is one of the greatest feelings in the world to sit and laugh and know you are loved because of and in spite of my history.
Because with my family, we share the same history. Only the view points change.
Pour the wine, tell the stories, embrace the family, close and extended.
You may regret some of your actions of your youth, but one day it may just end up a funny story that is part of a bond.
Family has many aspects, but ultimately we are all connected. This family consisted of my two brothers, their wives and my youngest daughter.
Having not grown up with sisters I do not have the memories of some of my friends. Our fights, when we did fight, were hard core. Often ended with me being hurt and probably tattling to our mother in some form.
We sat over bottles of wine, and food my daughter has not seen (being a true Texan that she is). The Jersey in me came out.
Tales were told that more often than not ended with one of us saying, "Oh my God I did do that!"
It was almost a race of who did the worst thing. My eldest brother held back, being the most reserved of the three of us, so my other brother and I took up the slack and told his stories for him. I looked over and saw him laughing behind his antipasto.
Yeah, we were all young once, we were all kids. We are held together by memories of old girlfriends and boyfriends, a few car crashes, a lot of parties, and general good times. In our small town we grew up in our family was known. I am not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but it is fact.
I looked at my brother and his grey hair and he is still the lady killer he once was. My other brother with no grey hair and his wife are the picture of suburban living and health.
They in turn made me take a look at myself. I was grilled on the way home why I do not, to this day, like to go out to eat. When the reason turned out to be a bad mushroom trip from 30 years ago my daughter piped up, "That is why you don't like to go out to eat?!"
We punish ourselves more than anyone else will ever punish us. Some of it remains, and lingers into our personality and just becomes part of us that we navigate. When my brother showed light on it, I had to laugh because it does seem rather silly, but I am so used to it now, it is just part of who I am.
I love it when I find out my own children get together and go out, or stay in. I do not have to be therm just knowing about it makes me happy. Now I know why.
They are family. They belong to a certain group, raised by me, and have shared experiences that I may or may not know about. And that is the way it should be.
Someday I may not recall all these memories that were tossed around last night like the buttery rolls. I hope my youngest was listening so she can retell them. I have the fortune of once being very close to our mother and hearing her stories that she did not want "the boys", my brothers to know. They are old enough to handle them now, and I am old enough that I better tell them to someone before I forget.
My mom would have loved to have been there at dinner with us. But would we have been so open and honest if she was there? Absolutely. That was how we were raised. Very few secrets existed in our family, and if they did they were huge secrets worthy of being kept.
Last night I sat at the table and took it all in. How we have all survived our adventures, and misadventures.
Last night I confessed to my daughter a few things, without a lot of choice. Every parent must decide to let their children know more than just the parental side of them or not. I have never really been one to abide by the strict parental role. I love my children and want them to know me, and yes this comes with a past.
I also want my children to take some risks and create their own pasts.
One day I hope all five of my babies are sitting around a table sharing, wine, or margaritas and laughing over the shit they did when they were younger.
For now, they are younger.
For now, I get to enjoy the feeling of being with my family, my family of siblings. It is one of the greatest feelings in the world to sit and laugh and know you are loved because of and in spite of my history.
Because with my family, we share the same history. Only the view points change.
Pour the wine, tell the stories, embrace the family, close and extended.
You may regret some of your actions of your youth, but one day it may just end up a funny story that is part of a bond.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Oh Captain, my Captain
There are times when I have idea in my head that are bursting to make it to print.
Sometimes I ponder them, edit them, worry about reactions of my readers, and discard them before they even come to fruition.
I thought of this as a kind of abortion, until I realized it is more of a suicide. I kill characters that reside in my head either because they no longer served a function, or to make room for new ones.
This line of thought lead me to want to talk about the actual act of suicide. You can imagine the self editing, and multiple abortions of that idea.
It is time now, with humility that I want to talk about it.
Maybe because I am watching a movie with a famous actor who killed himself not too long ago. I read people's posts of heartache, disbelief, and many who called him a coward.
I kept my mouth shut, at least in the public forum.
If you have read this far then here is my disclaimer: These opinions are mine. I do not expect to change anyone's views or beliefs, I merely have to get these thoughts out there so that I might forget about it for a while.
The actor is best when he/she is so convincing you can not see them any other way than you do at the very moment you are watching them. If they convince you something is funny and you laugh, then the actor has done his job.
When this actor decided his time here was done, I was very affected. I was going through a dark night of the soul and was not strong in thought or faith of ever escaping it. He made me feel weak. Yes weak.
He had the strength to decide it was time to end his pain, whatever that pain may have been. I don't know. I was not friends with him, never met him, never would.
But I know he was in pain.
A pain I swear I could wish no one would ever feel. A pain so terrible that some people take razor blades and make small cuts to feel something other than what is bouncing around in their heads.
St. John of the Cross writes of his Dark night of the soul. A carrying of spirit from this realm to (what he believed) the place with God.
People write poetry, songs, symphonies, plays, and a plethora of books on depression, or alcoholism, or just unhappiness.
For every person who takes a risk to put their heart out in the public, I am inspired. I grow strength from people, perfect strangers.
But this actor made me feel weak. He did the one thing that no matter how low I have been I know I could not do. Instead I reached out for someone. I cried, I slept, I cried. My days followed like this for almost six months.
I cried when I woke up simply because I did wake up.
I rarely showered, and even more rarely did I leave the house. I stayed in my nest with my love taking care of me and letting me feel the horrible feelings I had. She wished she could take them from me.
She couldn't. I was the one who had to take the first steps. I had done it before and chose to do it again. I chose life.
The actor chose death. I respect him for that. Yes he will be missed and loved, but he was in no way a coward. We will all be missed and loved one day, that is what matters more.
I am not saying all people who are depressed, bullied, sick, or sick of being sick should choose to end their life. No. Exhaust everything you can, call on every person. You will pleasantly surprised at who will come to your aid and sadly disappointed at those who you thought would and didn't.
Try. Try everything you can think of first.
Do I know if this actor tried everything he could think of? Obviously not. No one does. But he knew when it was too much. I can not call that being a coward. It was probably the most desperate and scary and ultimately brave thing he could do for himself and those he loved.
I leave you with St. John of the Cross:
"I remained, lost in oblivion;
My face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself,
Leaving my cares forgotten among the
lilies."
Sometimes I ponder them, edit them, worry about reactions of my readers, and discard them before they even come to fruition.
I thought of this as a kind of abortion, until I realized it is more of a suicide. I kill characters that reside in my head either because they no longer served a function, or to make room for new ones.
This line of thought lead me to want to talk about the actual act of suicide. You can imagine the self editing, and multiple abortions of that idea.
It is time now, with humility that I want to talk about it.
Maybe because I am watching a movie with a famous actor who killed himself not too long ago. I read people's posts of heartache, disbelief, and many who called him a coward.
I kept my mouth shut, at least in the public forum.
If you have read this far then here is my disclaimer: These opinions are mine. I do not expect to change anyone's views or beliefs, I merely have to get these thoughts out there so that I might forget about it for a while.
The actor is best when he/she is so convincing you can not see them any other way than you do at the very moment you are watching them. If they convince you something is funny and you laugh, then the actor has done his job.
When this actor decided his time here was done, I was very affected. I was going through a dark night of the soul and was not strong in thought or faith of ever escaping it. He made me feel weak. Yes weak.
He had the strength to decide it was time to end his pain, whatever that pain may have been. I don't know. I was not friends with him, never met him, never would.
But I know he was in pain.
A pain I swear I could wish no one would ever feel. A pain so terrible that some people take razor blades and make small cuts to feel something other than what is bouncing around in their heads.
St. John of the Cross writes of his Dark night of the soul. A carrying of spirit from this realm to (what he believed) the place with God.
People write poetry, songs, symphonies, plays, and a plethora of books on depression, or alcoholism, or just unhappiness.
For every person who takes a risk to put their heart out in the public, I am inspired. I grow strength from people, perfect strangers.
But this actor made me feel weak. He did the one thing that no matter how low I have been I know I could not do. Instead I reached out for someone. I cried, I slept, I cried. My days followed like this for almost six months.
I cried when I woke up simply because I did wake up.
I rarely showered, and even more rarely did I leave the house. I stayed in my nest with my love taking care of me and letting me feel the horrible feelings I had. She wished she could take them from me.
She couldn't. I was the one who had to take the first steps. I had done it before and chose to do it again. I chose life.
The actor chose death. I respect him for that. Yes he will be missed and loved, but he was in no way a coward. We will all be missed and loved one day, that is what matters more.
I am not saying all people who are depressed, bullied, sick, or sick of being sick should choose to end their life. No. Exhaust everything you can, call on every person. You will pleasantly surprised at who will come to your aid and sadly disappointed at those who you thought would and didn't.
Try. Try everything you can think of first.
Do I know if this actor tried everything he could think of? Obviously not. No one does. But he knew when it was too much. I can not call that being a coward. It was probably the most desperate and scary and ultimately brave thing he could do for himself and those he loved.
I leave you with St. John of the Cross:
"I remained, lost in oblivion;
My face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself,
Leaving my cares forgotten among the
lilies."
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Come on People Now Love one Another
Yesterday my partner was on her way home from work, taking her usual route which leads directly through the most crime ridden area of Austin. She was driving and saw a man lying on the sidewalk, as she passed the man feebly reached one arm up, as if to call for help in the only way he could.
Without hesitation my partner turned around and parked next to the man, leaned over and said, "Hey buddy, you okay?" The man's reply was mostly incoherent but he did mention something about smoking something.
"I will get you help"
She called 911 and waited with him, reassuring him, until the ambulance arrived.
Then she came home.
My son and his girlfriend once helped a man who appeared to be on drugs struggling to get on a motorcycle. They went over and tried to help him, stop him from riding and find out what was going on. As it turned out my son and his girlfriend deduced he was a diabetic, and being right near a bakery went in and got him some cookies and orange juice. Within minutes the previous slurring man was perfectly normal and thanked the kids. They said it was no problem, anyone would have done the same.
That is the problem, not everyone does the same.
My partner is looking for meaning in what happened with her and the man lying in the street. She seems blind to the fact that SHE was the one who brought meaning to the incident. No one else stopped. It is a busy road and every other person turned a blind eye, didn't see, or did not want to stop in such a neighborhood for what appeared to be just another crack head..
She confessed that she wants to change the world, but can not see that she already did. Maybe another car passing by took stock of their own life and vowed to stop to help his fellow man. Maybe a woman driving her children pointed out what was happening and taught her children it is a good thing to stop and help the strangers who need it.
Changing the world is not running for office, or standing on a pulpit every Sunday. Changing the world is taking the lessons you have learned out into your family and community. It is actions, not words.
I am no more changing the world by writing this, I was not the one who stopped to help. I am only pointing out the meaning of it.
She did not talk to me about her feelings of this event until today. Until with some irony, we left the voting polls having cast our ballots. I was feeling fairly self righteous about voting, even if it is my civic duty.
What difference did I make by pressing buttons? Does that equal up to helping one man get help?
Somehow I don't think so.
I have asked myself how I have changed the world and I came to the conclusion that I am a listener, I take people's stories as they seem to always want to tell me. I am one of those people that can not run into a store for a quick diet coke. I almost always come out with a story, a piece of someones life that they wanted to tell, and wanted me to hear.
My partner heard the only story she needed to. Help. And she did.
You do not need a cape or a weapon, you just need a heart and possibly a cell phone to change the world.
Without hesitation my partner turned around and parked next to the man, leaned over and said, "Hey buddy, you okay?" The man's reply was mostly incoherent but he did mention something about smoking something.
"I will get you help"
She called 911 and waited with him, reassuring him, until the ambulance arrived.
Then she came home.
My son and his girlfriend once helped a man who appeared to be on drugs struggling to get on a motorcycle. They went over and tried to help him, stop him from riding and find out what was going on. As it turned out my son and his girlfriend deduced he was a diabetic, and being right near a bakery went in and got him some cookies and orange juice. Within minutes the previous slurring man was perfectly normal and thanked the kids. They said it was no problem, anyone would have done the same.
That is the problem, not everyone does the same.
My partner is looking for meaning in what happened with her and the man lying in the street. She seems blind to the fact that SHE was the one who brought meaning to the incident. No one else stopped. It is a busy road and every other person turned a blind eye, didn't see, or did not want to stop in such a neighborhood for what appeared to be just another crack head..
She confessed that she wants to change the world, but can not see that she already did. Maybe another car passing by took stock of their own life and vowed to stop to help his fellow man. Maybe a woman driving her children pointed out what was happening and taught her children it is a good thing to stop and help the strangers who need it.
Changing the world is not running for office, or standing on a pulpit every Sunday. Changing the world is taking the lessons you have learned out into your family and community. It is actions, not words.
I am no more changing the world by writing this, I was not the one who stopped to help. I am only pointing out the meaning of it.
She did not talk to me about her feelings of this event until today. Until with some irony, we left the voting polls having cast our ballots. I was feeling fairly self righteous about voting, even if it is my civic duty.
What difference did I make by pressing buttons? Does that equal up to helping one man get help?
Somehow I don't think so.
I have asked myself how I have changed the world and I came to the conclusion that I am a listener, I take people's stories as they seem to always want to tell me. I am one of those people that can not run into a store for a quick diet coke. I almost always come out with a story, a piece of someones life that they wanted to tell, and wanted me to hear.
My partner heard the only story she needed to. Help. And she did.
You do not need a cape or a weapon, you just need a heart and possibly a cell phone to change the world.
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