eating grapes

eating mudpies

cords on blinds

eating hot dogs

a wooden playpen

swimming in a pond with cows

cabinet doors without latches

summers without air conditioning

hanging wallpaper with my husband

eating peaches right off the tree

my high school guidance counselor

a mugging on the sidewalks of new york

roller skating without protective armor

riding in cars without carseats or seatbelts

telephones with no voicemail or answering machine or call waiting

bike riding before helmets, gloves, kneepads, and gears

an F on an undergraduate biology test (i was in love – i’ll tell you about it one day.)

and now: my brother going to afghanistan.

he leaves tomorrow night, and i’ve tried hard not to waste our time by missing him while we are together. but every now and then i kinda’ practiced, kinda’ opened that door to my heart just a teensy little bit to see if i could survive him being a world away.

why will i miss him?

oh, just let me tell you (some of) the ways:

he can keep secrets.

he always – and i mean always – has my back.

his soft spot for animals is about the size of the milky way. maybe bigger.

he’s so damn good on the golf course, i had to learn how to strut.

he has a deep insightfulness that sometimes takes my breath away and always keeps me thinking.

he tells the truth.

he is funny - i’m talking knee-slapping, side-hugging funny.

he wouldn’t know pretentious if it up and bit him on the nose.

he loves me just the way i am, bossiness and all.

my brother, of course

a.k.a. j3

Second helpin's:

1. the key to thanksgiving 2009
2. to sleep or not to sleep
3. kinnected: day one

lately the whole world’s a mirror.

for the past month,

i’ve been showing up with pen in hand

every single day

to write no less than 1000 words.

that kind of mindful consistency

changes a woman.

(thanks, bindu & angela & julie)

Second helpin's:

1. self-portrait, 3 (because yes, it’s all about me)
2. self portrait
3. diving in: 2

today was the (self-avowed and self-allowed) last day of being sick, so i only have 2 little illuminations gleaned from today . . .

i come from a long line of women who know that in every illness, you eventually reach a point where the best remedy is to take a hot shower, shave your legs, wash your hair, and put on clean clothes – especially clean underwear since you’ll now be going out and what if, god forbid, you should be hit by a car.

the end stages of availing myself of that remedy led to:

i also come from a long line of women (the other side of my family orchard) who save things. things aren’t worn out, they rust out. when my childless great aunt lucy died, i could’ve filled a dumpster with the boxes of colorful silk undies, worn only by the tissue paper wrapping. if she tried them on at the store, it was the only time those gorgeous garments felt the touch of skin.

and i can’t even count high enough to tell you how many boxes of tissues i found. had to throw them all away because by the time i found them, they’d become trees again.

so you see why finishing a jar of body cream – scooping out the very last bit – was a near milestone for me. i’ve had that particular jar of lotion going on five years, and just in the past year did i vow to change the way i think about something as simple as putting aromatic lotion on myself: it’s not an extravagant, unnecessary luxury. it’s not something i have to earn or deserve. it’s not something that will take time away from other more important things. it’s a simple thing i can do that will not only hydrate my skin. it’s a little ole’ bitty thing i can do to thank my body for supporting me with strength and the occasional moments of gracefulness.

p.s. i can’t help but wish, though, that if she wasn’t going to wear those slips and panties, aunt lucy would’ve held onto money instead. would’ve been so much more fun finding my way through boxes of green.

Second helpin's:

1. the graveyard shift

“The blueprint isn’t the building.”

Mary Pipher

“actions speak louder than words.” shoot, if i had a nickel for every time i’ve heard my mother say that, we’d be having this conversation in person, and i’d be picking up the tab. laboring, trusting, noticing, speaking, writing, yearning, connecting, pondering, desiring, building, standing, dancing, surviving. these are all actions that julie mentioned in her post. her post reads to me as a segue, a bridge from talking to doing.

caring is an action. so is caregiving, tending, pondering, deciding, preparing, singing, trying, loving, wiping, cooking, nurturing, hugging, listening, crying, seeking, writing, bearing witness. see, actions don’t have to be global to be valid or worthwhile.

many women who are career caregivers and family hearth keepers eventually find themselves stepping over the threshold of their front door, and all too often, it’s like leaving a darkened theatre and stepping right smackdab into the sunny parking lot. there’s an acclimation that must take place. many of these are women can tell you in the blink of a gnat’s eye what everybody around them thinks and feels, but ask them what their opinion is on something, ask them what gets their blood churning, and they draw a blank.

Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.

~Virginia Woolf

knowing our own thoughts and passions takes a little longer. discovering, defining, and clarifying personal voice are actions. so is supporting ourselves and others as we move through this stage.

we talk, write, listen. we poke around, visiting blogs to see what resonates with us – all actions – and while there are books and plays i want to write, i’m itching to do something that involves moving more than my fingers. i’m ready to live into my word of the year, ready to do something JustBecause.

some women go spend time at the ocean. other women get a job doing something they’re interested in. others collect, paint, draw, yarden, train for marathons.

but me? right now – as of last week – my action involves finding an old piano and deconstructing it down to the keyboard. all i want is the keyboard. a full keyboard. 88 keys. and once i have the keyboard, i want to hang it on the wall in my studio. it’s a desire, and desire is an action.

when this crazy idea came to light, i smiled (a good sign) and said to myself, “okay. so where do i find a piano?” i have a piano, mind you – music is in our blood – but i don’t want to take it apart, so i did what i always do: i asked my friends. within 4 hours of posting a note on facebook, a woman i seldom see even though i’ve known her for decades, commented that she had a piano i could have. the plan is to look at it tomorrow, then find a way to get it from there to here, find some tools, and let the deconstruction begin.

will harvesting the keyboard of an old piano save the world? shoot, no. will it cure cancer or restore order to haiti or stop domestic violence and rape? don’t i wish. no, i expect this is nothing more than one woman who’s itching to do something, doing something. nothing more, nothing less.

and i’m doing it with the help of friends. some i haven’t seen in years. others i’ve never seen (in person) at all. helping, listening, giving, picking up . . . those are all actions. and every action leads somewhere.

even the teensy little action of clicking on the name of a woman who left a comment on julie daley’s blog. there’s one more piece to this post, but i’m about to be late to a very important writing date with a friend i met when she came to audition for a show our theatre company produced last summer, so till soon . . .

~~~~~
my great aunt rene (and i mean “great” in terms of lineage and as an adjective) was a career caregiver. she never had children, but she took care of us, her brother, her two sisters, and countless others. in her younger years, she took such good care of a sick, elderly man that when his father died, the son deeded the house to her in appreciation. she then build a small house on the back of the lot and created an apartment on one side of the house, and the rental income fed and clothed her when her youngish husband died. laughing, playing canasta, yardening, and flirting were some of aunt rene’s more noteworthy actions. she took care of people and plants, and she tended them – us – well. the azaleas in the photo are in her yard.

Second helpin's:

1. coming to terms with our grips
2. overture
3. rightful sound

so there i was,
clearing and cleaning a rental property,
getting it all spiffied up and ready
to welcome
and shelter
its new person,
when i opened the grill to find this:

you just never know
where you’re gonna’ find
new life,
spring,
possibility,
[insert your own metaphor]
so stay awake
be ready,
and behave yourself*.

*and just so you know: that last one need not involve a long-term commitment.

Second helpin's:

1. coming to terms with our grips
2. but you can call me “Her Highest Petticoat Potentate”

my thesis semester found me managing my daughter’s campaign for state legislature. she was one of 4 candidates, and she wound up in a runoff with the older male career politician, an election she lost by the barest of margins. and by the time the last runoff votes were counted, i had 10 days to write my thesis. because it felt right, i worked from the table located in the center of our home – the chrome and glass table that was the first piece of furniture we bought as a married couple. every morning i’d light a candle, push everything and everyone else aside, and get to work. i had no time for angst or indecision. no time to argue with myself or let anything come between me and those notecards.

it was wonderful. you know what i’m talking about – being in that place that defies description where time and doubt don’t exist. that place i never wanted to leave.

but all too soon the thesis was turned in . . . and the first draft approved with only a note from faculty saying they were staying out of my way, leaving it up to me to massage if and as desired.

i wish that’s how i worked all the time – and lord knows, i wish i could get there without all the stress of having to fit it in, but alas. though i come up with more ideas than i can say grace over, and though questions are my native language (next to southern, of course), i have this annoying tendency to think them right out of existence before ever letting them fully hatch. or to run right over them with a ridiculously overloaded to do list.

that’s probably why i collect these stories about people who plunge right into something, making it up and deciphering it as they go. (there are at least 2 more right now begging me to give them some post time.) it’s how i want to be – just follow an interest without having to define, justify, or explain why it’s a good idea, why it will not be a waste of my time. i long to be a story in my own collection.

for more years than i care to count, i’ve carried around ideas for several books and plays, working on them and entertaining myself . . . but only on the inside. now let me be real clear here: nobody’s telling me i shouldn’t be working on these projects. nobody is telling me my ideas are ridiculous or that i’m wasting my time or who do i think i am. i am my biggest wall.

this morning, though, i leapt.

i wasn’t sure which project i’d work on when i got to the studio, i was only sure that it’s time. and without slowing down enough to even begin a thought, i started transcribing newspaper articles about the bank robbery. my maternal granddaddy was the county sheriff, you see, and my paternal granddaddy was the town’s banker, (yep, i couldn’t do a damn thing.) when my daddy was 5 years old, armed bandits came to town. because the vault couldn’t be opened on their schedule, the highwaymen (as the newspapers called them) brought out the whiskey, kept out the guns, and held my daddy and his family prisoners in their own home for more than 10 hours. it’s something that doesn’t happen to just every family, and yet it’s a story that was told surprisingly little around our dinner table. i don’t know that i’ll uncover reasons for the reluctance to talk about it, but i already know that it’s time to tell this story.

and i can’t – i won’t – wait.

p.s. that picture? it’s my granddaddy’s banker’s chair – in its original green leather – and it will be my constant companion as i discover this story.

Second helpin's:

1. diving in: 2
2. diving in, part 1
3. overture

this is what i dream my life will look like:

this is what it usually looks like by the end of any given day:

(hint: it’s a pig that’s been slaughtered, stuffed, and buried with hot coals.)

and i’m working on changing that.
it’s just that reprogramming a lifetime of
ingrained influences
takes a while.
longer than i expected, actually.
but i’m on it
(most of the time)
cause really,
i don’t look that good in
pineapple.

No related posts.

it snowed here last night.

just a dusting, really.

not enough for even one bowl of snow ice cream

but enough to cause the roads to be icy

and treacherous.

we spent most of the morning

with our noses to the window

taking in the beauty of the freshly-articulated trees

wondering if we can make it up and down the hills

on our daily walk.

i love the quiet stillness

the snow brings

and the blue air.

there are those who will explain

the hue and stillness

with great authority

using numbers and

formulas

and studies.

but they’re only theories, really.

educated guesses, really, that make some feel better about the world and themselves

but

sometimes we don’t need to know why

we just need to enjoy and revel in

what is

while it is.

Second helpin's:

1. when we gather around the campfire
2. good night, sweethearts