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it is the sixth day of sun and blue skies we’ve seen since thanksgiving, so we do the only thing that makes sense: we leave. we trek to a nearby town in search of an air purifier – that was our official excuse – and after spending, oh i don’t know, maybe two minutes on that search, we walk up and down main street, ducking in the human society thrift shop – where i found two national geographic magazines i can’t live another day without – then on down to one of the many antique shops on the square.
we see christening dresses, white gloves, a colonial war metal warming plate. we see a small perfume bottle in a sterling silver case that snaps closed with a definitive click. we see an entire cabinet full of keys . . . alas, but no roller skate key. if the woman who talks to herself is to be believed, we see a bible box and an ice cream plate. she begins to talk to me, generously sharing with me news of the best deal around: a mining spot in cherokee, n.c. where you buy a bucket for $13 and set to mining. she went there not long ago, and having decided to hold onto the smaller stones in their natural state, she is heading back over tomorrow to pick up her 3 carat emerald that’s being cut. the man doing the cutting reckons that one stone alone is worth $3,000.00 to $4,000.00, and she wonders how on earth they can make money with buckets costing only $13 each, but soon enough she answers her own question: they own the mining rights AND they get paid to cut and set the stones. she doesn’t think she’s tall enough to pull off wearing a four carat emerald, so she’s fine with the smaller three carat stone.
when she picks up her cut stone, she’ll pay for two or three more of those $13 buckets, hoping to raise enough money to purchase the ten acres on the market for $10,000. it’s uncleared land, but she figures she will sell the stones to pay for the clearing of five acres which she’ll then sell and use the proceeds from that sale to clear the other five acres and have clarence come put her a trailer there where she’ll live happily ever after.
///
spying the glass-front filled with jars and bags of marbles, the young mesmerized boy says pointedly, “dad, do you realize i don’t have any marbles?”
“oh you have some marbles,” his dad says, distracted with the boxes filled with hinges and door knobs and such he’s rifling through “you’ve just lost them.”
///
we see a naked baby doll that’s much the worse for wear, her skin all cracked and peeling, one eye permanently closed in a wink, her smile faded but still radiant. i want to bring her home and love her.
a smaller doll lies in the box with her, a doll so small you can hold her in the palm of one hand. her tag says “porcelain doll missing,” and sure enough both feet, one hand, and one arm up to the elbow have been amputated. i don’t know how to fix her, so i hug her, lay her back down, and wish her well.
///
as i stitch the evening away and as the scraps of fabric find their way together into a new cloth, these lines by nikki giovanni comes to dance in the eye of my needle:
When I am frayed and strained and drizzle at the end
Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt
That I might keep some child warm
And some old person with no one else to talk to
Will hear my whispers.
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves.
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i met him 39 years ago tonight. he was a bartender, and i was one of two girlfriends enjoying a night on the town. we were only looking for a free drink, but i got so much more – the bartender’s eye that night, and his heart soon after. he had my heart from the get-go.
i still feel a tingle when i see him after even the briefest absence. his lips are still the softest lips i’ve ever kissed. he is gentle, and though he doesn’t always understand me, he at least tries. his logical, linearly-inclined way of thinking his way through the world nicely balances my more metaphorically-inclined, search-for-the-story way that bends towards unpredictable. we hold hands wherever we are. he’s never put his work before family, and most importantly: we laugh. a lot.
we’re not the same people now, individually or together. how could we be, really? and our love is different, too. not better, not worse, just different.
and still changing all the time.
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves.
Perhaps you’d like to get the 365 Altars Newsletter.
And share a link to your blog so we can drop by and say “Hey.”
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And, hey, for all you mobile users:
On the way to her day-after-cataract-surgery eye doctor visit, Mother and I stopped by one of our favorite restaurants where the women who work there know what the regulars want before the regulars do. “You take care of yourself, Miss Ada,” Mindy Sue told my mother as we checked out. “Don’t be bending over or anything. There wasn’t anybody around to stay with my mama when she had her cataract surgery, so to remind herself about not bending over, she cut off a broom handle and put it down her pants leg.”
///
The eye doctor is an old friend of mine. Our children played together. We vacationed together. We walked into each other’s house without knocking. Then the kid started to different schools, and parenting commitments caused us to drift apart.
I had dread in my bones this morning. I noticed it, sure enough, but decided I was probably just tiredness and a reluctance to get out again. “Y’all come on back here,” his assistant said as she ushered us from the waiting room, motioning us to sit in a couple of waiting chairs in the hall outside the exam rooms. Two. There were only two chairs. Two chairs and two women – Mother and me. That’s it. Two.
“Hey Mike,” I said cheerily when he appeared, and I was relieved to be sincerely glad to see him. “See,” I hissed to the dread, “it’s not so bad.”
Apparently the happy reunion was a party for one. He said nothing. Didn’t even look at me. Didn’t even look in my direction. Didn’t even look at my chair leg. Just told Mother how glad he was to see her, took her arm, helped her into the exam room, never once acknowledging in any way imaginable that I even existed.
I took a seat in the small exam room, cramped with three people inside. He proceeded to talk to Mother, continuing to ignore me as much as he ignored the socks on his feet. As much as he ignored the hairs on his face. As much as he ignored the box of tissues sitting on the counter.
It’s been a while since I felt so overlooked, so thoroughly invisible, so totally and absolutely dismissed.
“Hello Mike, I’m Jeanne,” I eventually said, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn’t recognize me. It has been an age since we saw each other. “I know who you are,” he said without even turning his head in my direction.
“Oh well, then,” I said, “so you really were being rude.”
Now this is tricky because my mother is so nice – NICE, I tell you – and she gets very upset when there’s friction and disharmony.
“No,” he said. “I was just focusing on your mother. I didn’t want her to stumble or fall. She had eye surgery yesterday, and one eye is bandaged and when you’re used to having two eyes, you might fall.” Like I didn’t realize she had cataract surgery yesterday, like I couldn’t be trusted to help steady her.
To keep from upsetting Mother, I declined to say anything further and swatted away the insult I felt. He continued his examination of Mother’s recently de-cataracted right eye. Wanting to smooth things over, Mother said, “Well, I thought you probably didn’t recognize Jeanne. Thought maybe you haven’t seen her with red hair.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I didn’t recognize her. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
I remained silent, not wanting to embarrass Mother, not wanting to upset Mother, not wanting to be a bad girl. He talked with Mother about his wife and his grandchildren. When he pointed to the grandchildren’s photos, I didn’t even turn my head for a peek, a small rebellion. “Tell your wife hello for me,” I said as we made ready to leave. “Perhaps she will be glad to hear from me.”
“I guess I hurt your feelings,” he said flatly while making notes in Mother’s chart. “Didn’t mean to,” he added, still making notes.
“You did hurt my feelings,” I told him, desperately wanting to add “but more than that, you made me angry and you lied and you trivialized me and you were rude and you gave me as much attention as you did the chair I was sitting on and for all you know, I was a customer. And which is it anyway: you wanted to help Mother (because I am apparently incapable of helping her) or you didn’t recognize me?” . . . but I didn’t, of course, because Mother was looking anxious.
///
“I didn’t know what to do,” she told me in the car at the bank’s drive-thru window on our way home.
“I know,” I said, sounding calmer than I felt. Then, speaking in a voice that amazed me with his calm, quiet, matter-of-fact tone I said, “This man was rude. He was wrong. He was obnoxious. Mother, I love you, but I can’t join forces with him and erase myself. Far too many times in my life, I’ve been dismissed, cast aside . . . and I realized today, that I’ve dismissed myself as much as anybody else has dismissed me. Yes, I still want you to be proud of me, to love me, but I will no longer stand for being treated like an object. Not ever again. There’s plenty I long to tell him, but the fact that I called him on it – no matter how small my words – is enough. Instead of overlooking his dismissal, instead of excusing it or being quiet or staying calm or refusing to wrestle with pigs or taking the high road or imaging how busy he was or how much he had on his mind, or minding my words, or not saying something for fear of regretting it later, I spoke up. The tiniest bit, but I spoke up and in my own respectful-of-my-Mother way stood up for myself, and I can feel a deep unearthing, a subtle shift. Is it enough to salve over all the other times I’ve been treated by myself and others like lint on the back of a jacket? No, but it’s a start.”
///
Annie worked the bank window today, and as I turned to see what was taking her so long to cash one little check, she pulled the microphone down to her lips and asked, “How would you like this – are 10s and 20s okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” I said. “Sorry for the delay. I’m a bit upset.”
“I could tell,” she said. “That’s why I gave you some time.”
///
Later there was Skype call with Sally and Karen. There were text message conversations with Julie and Angela. There were brief exchanges on Twitter and Facebook. There was a hot stone massage and reflexology with Marcia, and after supper, an impromptu visit with three girlfriends from high school.
Women holding space for other women, witnessing the brilliance of other women. Women reclaiming their own glorious genius. This is what we do, this is what we need, this is what 365 Altars is all about . . . this and more. Much more.
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves.
Perhaps you’d like to get the 365 Altars Newsletter.
And share a link to your blog so we can drop by and say “Hey.”
And join the 365 Altars Facebook community
and the Flickr community.
There’s room for everybody at this table, so join us as and if and when you will.
And, hey, for all you mobile users:
it has been a busy week.
full.
full, i tell you.
mother had cataract surgery today.
she is doing swell,
and i will be, too,
as soon as
i play a bit.
art does that for me.
creativity to the rescue.
good old-fashioned
messy, no checklist
just-cut-loose-cause-nobody’s-grading-this
creativity
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves.
Perhaps you’d like to get the 365 Altars Newsletter.
And share a link to your blog so we can drop by and say “Hey.”
And join the 365 Altars Facebook community
and the Flickr community.
There’s room for everybody at this table, so join us as and if and when you will.
And, hey, for all you mobile users:
what’s the first thing you consciously see? don’t move, except to turn your head. don’t move to another spot. just stay where you are and tell me what you see.
bonus points: turn it into an altar.
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. Day 20.
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the lovely julie daley, my writing partner and friend kept me company (via phone) on my drive today, and she fanned my flames (i love her for that) (and much, much more) . . .
she came while he was out cavorting with the radiologists. ordinarily, i would’ve left so i wouldn’t be in the way as she cleaned, but my wise woman self said “stay” so i did. from vietnam, she worked and saved and lived beneath her means to put not one, not two, not three, but all four of her sons through medical school.
///
she works the midnight shift taking care of grown women (some of whom are older than she is) who can’t take care of themselves. she throws the ladies birthday parties, inviting the families, making sure the brother (whose birthday is the very next day) has a cake, too. a separate cake because nobody should have to share a cake on their birthday.
///
she sells jelly at a little farmer’s market, the prices handwritten on signs made from torn-off box flaps. she’s there on the weekends, making a little pin money to help with the kids and grandkids. the jelly she sells, the wisdom she gives away freely.
///
she came in to clean our hotel room, and on my way out (i did get out
of her way) i spied the request for privacy door hanger, gold with one word: peace. i stopped and asked for one to send to my friend who’d just broken up with me. “i just want to stick it in an envelope with a note that says ‘this is what i wish for you,’” i told betty, the housekeeper. who then told me about a lifelong friend she’d recently lost, and as she gently placed seven (yes, seven) door hangers in my hand, she clasped both her hands around mine, and looked deeply into my eyes and smiled at me through tears of kinship.
///
at the age of one, her grandson was stricken with polio. her daughter said there was nothing they could do because they had no money. and when the daughter refused to call that one telephone number in search of help for the boy, the grandmother took in ironing and baked cakes to sell to raise enough money for the long distance phone calls and the bus tickets needed to get her to her grandson, then get both of them to the Shriner’s hospital where the boy underwent five bouts of surgery. and afterwards, he walked just fine till he died at age sixty-eight.
///
if you think that one person is more important because of the clothes they wear, or the car they drive, or the job title that’s on their business cards, well, you just get on outta’ here and go peddle that somewhere else cause i’m here to tell you: that dog won’t hunt.
(which for those of you not fluent in southern means that garbage just flat-out don’t play here.)
never has,
never will.
///
today’s altar is dedicated to, well, i ‘spect you’ve figured that out by now.
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. Day 19.
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my head is in the clouds today.
this is no metaphor.
but it is
an altar
to
moving more slowly
than usual.
of connecting with
like-minded
women
in the ethers,
hatching
big things
and small,
dreaming
with magic wands
not letting
our brains
get in our way
as we
unapologetically
and
notoriously
step
into our
Knowing.
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. Day 18.
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it may be a ceramic skillet
she keeps out
because she loves cooking
and she loves the way
food tastes when
cooked in this skillet.
it may be flowers she
picks from her yard
and arranges in a container
using the glass frog
she’s had all my life,
setting them on a tablecloth
she embroidered
as a young woman.
it may be four small, colorful glass ducks,
lined up on her desk,
replicas of the ducks at
the peabody in memphis, tennessee.
it may be a poem i wrote her
so many years ago
to dress up some
crazy, inexpensive gift
i bought her,
and a postcard i sent her
from a trip we were on,
written, stamped, and mailed while she was
standing right beside me.
it may be a piece of granite
she decorated
at the quarry in
barre, vermont,
an impromptu side trip
on one of the best
trips we ever took
together,
and it may be
the inexpensive plaque
about family
i gave her
when we moved away
last march.
she calls them
“centerpieces”
or
“arrangements,”
my mother.
i call them
altars.
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. Day 17.
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today i stitched my way
through a block
on a piece i started
a while ago.
it was going well,
at first,
then i didn’t know
where to go next
so i laid it down.
but my hands
are so smart.
they pick up the cloth
and before you can say “thread,”
it is singing to me softly,
telling me
stories
of all it
represents.
stitching
slows me down,
gives me space.
it amazes
and amuses me.
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. Day 16.
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even at the ripe old age of . .
ahem.
even now
i fall prey to
over thinking
every idea
that tickles
my heart.
over analyzing it.
“will they like it?”
i ask,
not even know who
“they” is.
(or is it “are?”)
(and does that
question mark go
inside the ” “
or out?)
i begin to
craft a paper
filled with
my ideas,
shared in words
that show my
intelligence,
with
well-thought-out
defenses
of every
criticism
sure to confront me.
and first thing you know,
i’m paralyzed,
my enthusiasm
grown cold,
if i can even
remember
what i was
so excited about
in the first place.
what i want
more than anything
is to pounce.
pounce,
i tell you
onto something
just because
it turned
the head of
my heart.
i want to
ride that interest
until
another one
comes along
and turns
my heart
in another direction.
i want to pounce
and follow
without
explanation,
without apology,
without defense.
so why don’t i
do this
simple thing?
“would people
pay for this?”
never fails to
knock my
legs out from
under me,
sending me back
to the want ads
where everything is
in black and white.
literally.
and then
before you know it,
another idea
appears
capturing my
attention,
curling its
finger at me
with undeniable
sexiness.
beckoning,
and it
starts all
over again.
it takes
a blog post from a
loving, wise friend,
supportive, understanding,
loving
text message exchanges
from another
trusted friend,
and
a phone call from a good,
patient,
wise
and loving friend
to toss me a
rope,
to pull me back
to solid ground,
hose me off,
and whisper
“pounce.”
“pounce.”
(because saying it once isn’t
nearly enough when i get like this.)
tonight
instead of
putting the lid
back on this box
of old, old junk
and shoving it
to the back of
the closet
again,
i invite it out,
invite it to take a
nice, comfy
spot on my altar
and
i listen.
with openness,
with love.
p.s.
don’t even
get me started
on my response
to the word
“leader.”
///
365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. Day 15.
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