Sunday, May 8, 2011

Chasing Words

The weekend, like most of my life was spent chasing time, sleep, and words. After many decades, there still is not enough time to do everything I want or sleep as much as I think I need. I remain tortured over the exact meaning of words and live life in close proximity to dictionaries and thesauruses.

Precious time goes by as I search for nuances between words such as amid or amidst and among or amongst. Unrelenting, incessant debates rage over correct verb tense and punctuation. I’ve learned it’s difficult to win a debate when you argue with yourself. I wonder how much of this linguistic battle spills into my life impacting all that I do. How much of the quest for the perfect word bleeds into my definition of self? How much energy do I expend searching for the right, the perfect, and the best?

I’m not that sure that I care although I do mull over these questions. I am who I am and I believe words count. Words are important and this weekend, I found a few locked away in a cedar chest. Old writings from childhood lay in piles describing life with cats, first loves, and storms. As I spent the day working on an essay to enter a writing competition, I remembered thinking as a child that I simply wanted to grow up, write, and be happy. That’s still all I want to do and as I compare the topics of a youthful childhood, it’s remarkable that I still write about topics of first appeal. Except for the animals, unless you consider descriptions in my mind for some people I know. I could write about last weekend and the cat that jumped up on the toilet and urinated like a person or the dog that lay on the couch like a little man. Alas, these are other stories.

What I know is that I love words and in my quest to find those that matter most, to rise above the mundane, the cliché, and the overused, I am fortunate. I have a vocabulary that will prevent me from ever using the word party as a verb and amidst the trials of life, I am amongst friends. In the end, that’s all that really matters.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Bologna and Blessings

This Easter weekend I prepared my first bologna sandwich since the days my father packed four school lunches in small, brown paper bags. He would tuck in pieces of fruit and if we were lucky; a “Little Debbie” snack cake. The tiny bags and shiny dimes for milk money were lined up each morning as my brothers and sister clamored to school. Some 40 years later, the white bread had changed to wheat; the mayonnaise to light and the pickles to sugar free, but the thick bologna bore the same distinctive red band. Shortly, I found myself humming the old Oscar Mayer commercial tune.

My father and I carried our sandwiches outside and sat on the porch overlooking the rushing creek. Swallowtail and monarch butterflies floated above the school of minnows darting in the cold water and hiding under cloak of tree shadows. The season’s first hummingbird came in the annual search for food. Dogwood trees and blackberry bushes alike bloomed and I remembered my granny’s cobbler. Thinking back, I also remembered the long eight hour car rides to this land of his parents. I hated the trip, the heat, the gnats and sleeping with my sister in the same bed. I hated dusty roads, cow patties and unpasteurized milk. I hated the loud crows of the rooster waking me up and then having to get up before dark in order to eat the only food available until lunch.

And yet, here I was, excited about my bologna sandwich and spending time with my father in this familiar place. I suddenly longed for time with my sister and family and wished for breakfast with my grandparents. I wanted to pick along the land with my granny and search for polk and turnip greens and stroll in the dark to the hen house and gather the morning’s eggs. I wanted to play in the barn with my cousins and hide in the scratchy hay. I wanted to walk up the country road to my uncle’s small store and be rewarded with a small glass bottle of coke. I wanted to bite into the cold flesh of ripe watermelon after swimming in spring creeks. I wanted to go pond fishing for catfish with my uncle and let anyone bait my hook.

I turned to my father and asked, “Did you ever imagine growing up that we would be so blessed and have all of this…?” He looked up from his sandwich and with a knowing smile replied, “No.”

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Pink Carpets

My father’s house has a room with pink carpet. Soft, plush pinkness oozes between toes and splashes the walls with more cotton candy color. Aged pink curtains cover two windows and line an entire wall revealing splatters of bright pink roses and faded green vines. This room was created during a time when someone followed some long forgotten trend and perhaps never imagined another marriage. I’ve always thought she left behind her poor taste and Pepto-Bismol styled room as a way to haunt the survivors of her life.

I didn’t think about the pink room on the day the cherry tree in front of my house reached peak. I simply stared at it reaching towards the blackened grey sky with plump pink arms heavy with soft cotton balls. Tender green leaves were hidden beneath decadent pink blooms and I was transfixed within a single moment of nature bursting into focus for even those with heavy lidded eyes to see. It was gloriously spectacular and wondrously perfect and gone by afternoon.

Heavy spring storms wreaked havoc across the suburbs. Dangerous winds swept roofs off businesses, shutters into yards, and sent objects flying to unknown destinations. The beautiful cherry tree, which had unveiled itself that morning, still stood but no longer wore a cover of solid satin bloom. Instead, a pink carpet lay under the tree. Soft petals covered the grass and reached into the driveway. Long fingers of muted color gently hid fresh mulch and scattered under the adjacent dogwood just revealing the white blooms of Easter. This new vision, so different than the morning, was even more stunning. I imagined walking amidst the pink carpet and feeling the softness on tender feet.

Perhaps that is how it felt to have pink carpet installed surely some 30 years ago in a strange house nestled against the panoramic view of the mountain. A carpet to walk on barefoot while dreaming the dreams of the free; a carpet to enjoy while remembering the magnitude of windswept color the softness of fading sunlight going down over white beaches and aqua oceans. A carpet overlooked by some and overdone by others, but for the ones moving along life’s tumultuous straight line winds and lifted by gentle breezes – a carpet representing another view of perfect beauty.

I wonder what my father recalls when he steps into the pink room. I hope he is able to see what I now see. A room that was glorious in a particular time and yet, with a different view remains stunning. A room that contains good memories and glory among the branches and leaves: that was and is a showcase: that is beautiful for those who survive the storms and still view life through rosy pink glasses.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Living

I’m back. I’ve been living for some time in the darkest chambers of the heart. Places that beat out of rhythm for guilt and shame. Echoes from the past bouncing off weakened walls. Passageways narrowed from fear. My blood pumps images of futuristic visions and merges them with realities and soon this present become normal in the dark of night. Strange voices whisper in the sounds of water falling and swirl in layers of stormy air.

Sometimes I am hurled into a chasm of space and remain frozen in time watching the world go by. Effortlessly others flow through life seemingly without cares or concern. They wander aimlessly or live in pursuit of the unknown while passing without empathy for those who carefully place wounds in scarred hiding places.

Struggling for air, I go down but each time, I fight back. My hand reaches out for something to believe in and someone to hold. But it’s my struggle. I am both rescuer and victim. I am both saint and sinner.

In the mazes of my mind, I search. In the trials of the world, I breathe. In the pursuit of peace, I exist. I am alive and blessed. I am my journeys and no matter where they take me, I live.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Braces

As I stare at the shiny metal lining my bottom teeth, I realize that I’m not unlike any number of children and teenagers who go through this same rite of passage into adulthood. With one huge exception -- I have to wear reading glasses in order to see these braces and have long, long transitioned into adulthood.

The orthodontist’s office staff shared that adults are the worst patients. Apparently we pout more (check), whine more (check), and want prescription pain pills (check). None of these versions of the adult temper tantrum work. Maybe it’s because we actually chose to go down this path of torment and torture. No, it’s not the same as water boarding but it hurts. I am fortunate in that I only have six months of wear to endure, as well as a retainer at night thank you very much. I am lucky in that I have a lot of weight to lose and 10 pounds have already magically melted. Some magic though. It’s easy to lose weight when all you can eat is yogurt, cream of wheat, oatmeal and soup.

One of my friends called on Saturday, and I told him my metallic news. “Braces,” he exclaimed, “On your teeth?” I wanted to say no, on my legs because I’ve been stricken with polio. Of course, I didn’t. I understand his surprise. I’m shocked every time I look in the mirror or slurp down pureed soup.

I’ve been told it will get easier with time. All things do. Perhaps that’s the part of this ordeal that does make sense. Months of suffering to a child may seem forever, but adults know better. Life passes in a blink of an eye. We grieve over loss and trudge through the pain. We overcome adversity and move on. We are the fittest in a modern day Darwinian world and have grown wise enough to live; strong enough to cry; smart enough to learn. Somewhere along the way, we accept who we are and love ourselves first. If it means smiling through braces as hair color and colonoscopy appointments are made, then so be it.

And yet, I am glad to be going to visit my mother this week. She has promised creamy potato soup and a hug. So for a short while, I’ll take off my reading glasses and be a child once again. Glad that I’m not too old to want a warm embrace and will never be too blind to see a mother’s love.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Emergency Preparedness

As winds begin gusting under a setting sun, tornado watches and warnings are appearing in black and red shades dotting the state map. The gloomiest of meteorologists begin talking about taking motorcycle helmets to closets. I sit under a cozy blanket by the fire wondering if I should take a shower and get dressed. I’m well prepared for disaster. Candles, matches, batteries, water, and weather radios – I have it all.

But how prepared are we for disasters that don’t come with sirens and notice? And what are the definitions for disasters? We stare at life and it stares back watching as jobs are lost, relationships fail and children disappoint. People don’t meet expectations and pets die. Sometimes, disaster happens in a second of time and the hours of life are changed forever. Disasters are self-defined. From a cake that doesn’t rise to a death in the family, each one of us may use the same terms for catastrophe of minor or major consequence.

I’m tired of planning for might be. I’m tired of catastrophizing. I’m just plain tired. And so my emergency plan is now to move forward secure with life lessons rather than armed with cases of green beans. I will focus on skills instead of purchases of beef jerky, vegetable seeds and solar powered showers.

My new preparedness tools begin with kindness to people - - they will be there for me in times of need. Non-judgmental attitude to others –- they may not judge me so harshly. Empathy for the downtrodden –-they may find me in their company when I need a helping hand. Compassion for the circumstances others find terrifying – -for surely, each definition belongs to the owner and is not mine to change.

Acceptance, openness, honesty. These are among the skills that will take us through life when it slaps us down because these are the ways in which friends are made and family is redefined. Life may find us opening a can of beanie weenies in the dark or crying under the sheets; but it’s only people who pick us up when we’re down and surround us with that which cannot be bought at the last minute-–Love.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Redefinitions

I asked someone once if he were happy. “I’m not unhappy,” he responded. At that time, I thought his answer was sad. Where was joy, elatedness, contentment? If you weren’t unhappy, weren’t you happy? What kind of scale did he use to measure his life?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about happiness and how to define it. It seems that I’ve given a lot of power to other people when it comes to how I feel. Give me a little praise and I’m like a lap dog panting for more. Say I look like I’ve lost weight, and I’m your friend for life. Sadly, I’ve given even more power to the nasty ones--the wicked, rude, mean human replicas that sabotage good feelings and who were the authors of my life’s chapter and paragraph. They defined if I were happy or not or if my day was good or bad. But, I’m not going to let them write my book any more.

Once if you asked if I were happy, I might say yes if it was day lived in the absence of destruction and terror and gloom. Or if I successfully turned my back and shunned the people who did not evoke joy, then I also would be happy. After all, happy is the opposite of sad. Good the opposite of bad. Right the opposite of wrong.

Life doesn’t work that way though. I’ve learned that manipulative people, by nature, will manipulate. Liars will lie. The corrupt will find ways to burrow like chiggers into the skin of the innocent. Not to me. Not anymore. I’ve taken the power back and use it to stand in the same room with the wretched and understand their evil and not let it touch me. I let their falsehoods bounce off me and reabsorb in their heartless body shells. I've accepted the reality that these people exist and live on the planet.

Somewhere in regaining power, I’ve redefined happiness. Somewhere in this game we call life, emotions live in the grey between black and white. Happiness is not the joyous height of euphoria that comes from surviving a life altering event or the mere absence of those who cause heartburn. Sadness is not the blank feelings of those pondering suicide. In between the extremes, there is not an abyss. In the space where the pendulum swings, it stills in a place that one person defines as not unhappy, another; peace and another; simply good.

I’ve believed that life was about swinging from trees on vines that never break jumping away from bad and into good. I’ve spent decades climbing from threat and into a peaceful canopy. I now realize that sometimes the vine breaks and I land smack in the middle of life. This event is not a catastrophe plunging me into the depths of dispair and misery. It doesn’t have to be defined or categorized. It doesn’t have to fit someone else’s definition. It’s enough to simply be alive. Every once in a while, I may find myself staring down someone whose weak vine dropped them into my world at the same time, but I have the power to walk away. They are not going to change my day or define my life. They are not going to control my emotions. Each day is an adventure and I don’t know if I will be unhappy, happy or perhaps feel something different, but it’s mine to define…mine to feel…mine to own.

In the distant past, after encountering the wicked, I would run home crying and be miserable. In the recent past, I might run away screaming over my back, “Adios, sucker. Sayonara, Satan’s seed. Au Revoir, insipid idiot.” Today, I might just say Goodbye as I slowly walk away and breathe in all the emotions that life offers which cannot be weighed and measured on a scale.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Change

Anyone who has ever walked into a dressing room only to discover that sizes which fit come in larger numbers understands exactly how I feel about change. Staring at the mirror in disbelief that life has altered is difficult, no matter how hard I try to shove my body into it. For those who can’t understand this feeling, consider pulling on a wet, cold bathing suit - - drunk. In other words, I don’t do well with change.

Big change is considering brown as the new neutral. It’s toning down big hair (just a little) and wearing sunscreen. It’s ordering tater tots instead of fries. Some of my friends thrive on change. Only a few weeks ago, I went to a hockey game with a friend who has been looking for a job. A few days later, I received an email inviting me to her going away dinner before she moves this SATURDAY to CHINA. I can’t even comprehend moving to another neighborhood, much less a foreign country, alone, and within the span of about 10 days.

Change is unsettling to me. When routines are altered, I feel like I’m flying on trapeze bars without safety nets. After the adrenaline ebbs, I fall in bed safe under flannel sheets pulled high around my neck well into the warmer days of spring.

Over the last few weeks, my routine altered plunging me into the chaos of change. During this same time, familiar people re-entered my life bringing along their human containers of bile and evil. I saw lying faces, that I still wanted to slap, hiding wicked hearts. I thought they could no longer touch me with their cold, wretched claws. I thought wrong.

But then again, I thought wrong. The time is different. I am different. Mahatma Gandhi said, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I understand now that change doesn’t happen to me. I am slowly becoming the change I want to see. Regardless of leprous forms slinking towards me, I am not a bystander allowing random targets to invade a porous spirit. The mean ones have power only in their heads and while they are in there, they need to think again. They need to reconsider their places in this world, and it’s not anywhere near me.

While I may not choose to move to China in a heartbeat, my heart beats true, and I am fortified through the strength of others. I have friends encircling me and extending open arms as I learn to walk. I have the one who believes in me more than I believe in myself whispering soft words. Through his eyes, I can sometimes imagine wearing new brown shoes until night falls and then slipping under cool, crisp cotton sheets.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

More and Less

I understand there live people in the world who eat when they're hungry and quit when they're full. They sleep when they're tired and get up when they awaken. I don't fall into these categories. I eat all of the time and sleep until I have headaches. I ascribe to the theory that if one bite is good; more is better. Forget napping - I'm down for the count on a Sunday afternoon.

I don't really grasp the concept of savoring one treasured morsel. If it's that good, move aside the dainty bowl and hand me the pint and a big spoon. You can also forget the tiny 100 calorie healthy snacks. My grandmother often says, "Just push yourself away from the table - for heaven's sake." She is from the South after all. Well, I do push away. After I vow I'll never eat again because I have overindulged.

I know I have company out there. After all, we live in a jumbo world of more. More square footage; fries; caffeine - all the better. More cars, vacations and botox - all the best. Some probably believe that the more contacts in their Blackberries and Friends on Facebook - absolutely better than the best. Of course, these may be the same people who put their forks down when full.

As for me, I do grasp the concept that there is one time when less is more and that's when it comes to real friends. It's not the numbers of mass acquaintances who keep social calendars full. It is simply - the few who never say never. The ones who don't ask what can be done; they just do. The ones who fill in your aging memory while sharing that you haven't aged. The ones who have been and will always be regardless of location or circumstance.

Maybe a day will come when I can put into action the notion that more is not better when it comes to food; it's only more. Until then, one thing I do know - less is more when it matters most.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Big and Huge

“Do you think we ever see ourselves as big as we really are?” she softly asked.

My friend and I were catching up and eventually found ourselves in various closets trying on clothes. Even though she is small and petite, as we played dress up, she found several items which were too small. I wondered why she thought she looked big to others and why she thought she looked big to herself.

I think about the words, unwanted and hurtful, that others give us. Words that float in the air long after they stab our hearts and mercilessly implant themselves with permanence in our brains and memories. We seem to have an endless capacity to judge others until we imitate life and become experts at judging ourselves. Believing the lies that others tell us, sometimes their opinions become ours and we no longer see ourselves as we really are. In my friend’s case, I do see her as big. She has a big heart that cannot be measured. She has big talent without scope and big humor that makes me smile.

In the movie Pretty Woman, Julia Roberts whispered to Richard Gere that the bad things are easier to believe. We listen so well to others that we only see what they see in the mirror and soon, believe it for ourselves. We become so good in our new identities that we can no longer utter any good about ourselves. Those words are long forgotten and discarded -replaced by ugly phrases from others. Soon, we have transformed and become an other fulfilling prophecy.

I hope that one day my friend will no longer hear the voices of others and will no longer see their judgment personified in the mirror. I hope she will laugh as she looks both outwardly and inwardly and know that she is not only big, but she is HUGE. Huge in spirit and making a huge impact in the lives of her friends and the world.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Mean People

There’s a lot of mean people out there who need to learn about civility, and I’m not talking politics. I’m talking about dim-witted replicas of mankind who push aside others with hostile words and nastiness. The surly ones hiding congealed strands of DNA which never properly formed into fully functioning adults. The wicked ones among the populous reeking havoc on the innocent. The ones, whose harsh tones leave imprints on my heart and images in my brain, I choose to remember for one brief moment.

A few nights ago, I met a friend in a bar. Arriving first, I leaned against the wood wall in a large entry way and finished a few text messages. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm and a loud voice shouting, “You’re going to have to move. You need to move RIGHT NOW.” Startled, I looked up at a hulking replica of humankind and responded, “Where? Where do you want me to go?”

“ANYWHERE BUT HERE. YOU ARE IN THE WAY.”

And so I positioned my body between two pub tables and shrugged my apologies to those who sat enjoying their appetizers. As I waited, I recalled another screaming maniac. Shortly after cranial surgery and before I was cleared to return to work, I ventured out for the first time. A few friends wanted to treat me to a slice of my favorite New York styled pizza. The line moved quickly but I was slow. Tired already from the stimulus and noise, I couldn’t make lightning decisions regarding my choice of salad or bread. The evil pizza human replica screamed, “CAN’T YOU SEE I HAVE A LINE? TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT OR LEAVE.” I started crying. Somehow managing to make it to the cash register, I apologized for having suffered a car accident resulting in head surgery and for leaving my house.

A few years later, I’m still lowering my head to the ugly who berate before they think and inflict their pain. And yet, recently I’ve had a few shining moments of confronting the emotionally vulgar. Moments that made my head throb as I avenged justice and as uncomfortable as pulling on tight jeans. Moments which magically stretched until I could walk and talk and breathe at the same time.

I’ve learned from a few lowly amoebas that I don’t have to act like them, and I don’t have to react to them. As much I my parents taught me about love and goodness, these bullies taught me the opposite and gave me living lessons of who I don’t want to be. They played a part in shaping the person I am today. A person who doesn’t want to hurt others and inflict suffering with words or deeds. A person who tries not to hold grudges but I have to admit, I’m still working on that issue.

Call me up, and I’ll tell you which pizza place to boycott and which bar to avoid. I’ll tell you the names of the cads who work there. Then, we can discuss topics of peace and harmony while shopping for new and comfortable jeans.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Snowflake Moment

I think we know too much and live life trapped in repetitive sequences of events both past and yet to be. We relive moments to all who feign interest and collectively gather in anticipation of upcoming events. As I watched football games, I was caught in the reminders of a week which saw a quarterback fired and a coach saved. I faced an orthodontist who confirmed braces in my not too distant future. I held silent vigil for one friend facing the unknown and had dinner with another living in new realities. I visited the grocery to overstock an already stocked pantry as the entire South braced for the fury of winter storms cutting an icy swath across our innocent path. We waited with eagerness like children on Christmas Eve for the first flakes to gently cover the present in pristine white. Untouched by the past and obliterating the future, the world would finally still.

I am tired by preparations and the excitement wanes as darkness fades slowly into my neighborhood. Relaxing to soft music and warmed in a cocoon of safety, my mind drifts as I remember the days of youth. Days with nothing to do except live in the moment. If clouds blew across a blue sky, it would rain. If the temperatures dropped and I could no longer smell the earth and fresh pines, it would snow. If the sky turned green, we would run for the basement. Food magically appeared on the table and everyone gathered at 6:00 for supper. Worries of flossing between foreign metal objects and travel on slick roads soon dissipated, and I was lulled into darkness the way of dimming stars under the weight of blackened night clouds.

In a drugged space between awake and asleep, I hear sounds like rain on a tin roof. Rising to gaze out the window, I am surprised that freezing rain is hitting a snow covered deck and trees are already bending towards me covered with ice. The glistening scene stretches deep into spaces lit from the ground and in wonder, I am transfixed. Braces and football and anxieties are forgotten as I open the door and breathe the chilled air. The past and future merge into a present rain changing into snow and I smell the virgin moment.

Oh that I could be trapped in this time where I only know what is felt on my tongue as I raise my face to the sky and capture snowflakes.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The Christmas List

I listened to my niece recount, in holiday tradition, Christmas gifts received earlier in the day. Over the next few hours, the phone rang and different family members went through similar lists for others celebrating the holidays from afar. My turn was no different. I punched my card and kept moving forward reciting cake holder, gift cards, and chocolates.

I wonder why I didn’t share the real list -love from family and laughter with friends; peace, joy, happiness, and good health. Time to slow down, rest, and reflection on all that we possess which cannot be wrapped in boxes and presented with glittering silver bows.

If we’re lucky, we’ll get the same gifts every day of every year. We’ll recognize them and speak often of their fragile strengths. Give me another chance and ask what I got for Christmas. This time I will simply say Blessed.