You might want to skip this one!

So I feel like ranting all over this page, about how I dislike reading all the "potty mouthed" and gross bodily stuff I get the privilege of commenting on in my Grad Writing Class. I find myself wondering if high art is about base experience? I get a lot of funny "poop" talk with my three year old and it sounds more comical than the twenty-something male versions. The language is the same for all of them, but somehow each thinks he is the first to stink up the page with the details. Why the obsession and push at this topic as if it is new and enlightening? I know that art is rarely comfortable or appropriate and I guess in the end, we spend a lot of time smelling our own "shit," and politely keep it to ourselves. As I write this I realize that though I still hate reading about it, it is fun to write about, o here I go with my own story (stop reading if you too hate reading about human waste).

When I worked for Citigroup, I flew to NYC on a regular basis. One winter night, I arrived at my hotel at 11:30 pm, tired and happy to be in the hotel my husband and I stayed at on our first visit to the big city together. It was perfect on the first go and just being there, I called him to talk and then unpack and then just lay down in the luxury of the space. About an hour in to the night, as I got ready for bed, I opened the bathroom door and then lifted the toilet seat and found a HUGE surprize sitting inside. I was horrified and then moritifed as I called the front desk to ask for some assitance in handling the mess. As I explained that the toilet was clogged, I kept wishing I had checked the bathroom right away, so no one would think I had made the mess.  A guy in a suit showed up with a plunger and almost puked as he stepped into the tiny closet-like space and experienced first hand the colored water. Without saying much, he plunged into with his implement, because I suppose he had to. Somewhere in the middle of his efforts, he paused and wiped sweat off his forehead. As we had not made contact and I was nervous, I started talking. "When I opened the door I could not believe it was there," wanting him to know it was not mine. He got red and apologietic and more energetic in his activity. The next day I found a fancy terrycloth bathrobe on my bed with a hand written apology from the hotel manager. I still wonder who left it there. Someone big I would imagine. Someone angry? House staff in dire straights?  Or maybe just an embarrassed guest who shut the top and left the cleaner to believe it was never used during his stay.

Ah. I loved telling that story. Thanks for reading if you got this far.

Now for all the things I wish I were writing about:
- Dying my hair, except my three year old is angry and keeps saying not to because "That is a joke, mom."
- MFA programs - I am going to apply to EMU
- My NANOWRIMO (the novel I am writing in November) is a remake on Jane Eyre, if I ever get my character to be as good as she was (so hard for me to do!)
- Why all my stories have to be in NYC, even though other cities would be easier and perfectly legitimate. My other city could be Detroit, except I have never experienced it and can't even tell you one road that runs through it
- How I am scared to talk to anyone right now (I am really insecure - except in my words on paper (as you can tell). I just don't know what to say, though I know that I am not just talking for myself, but because I really love and want people to know that I value them.
- The lady who was standing in between the highway and onramp at 8 pm last night talking on her cell phone.
- How I am terrified to have my 20 page essay critiqued on Nov 21 (AHHH)

Experimental Feminist

I am learning so much through my Grad writing class. Here is a new idea I am contemplating and thought I would share.

Retallack, "The Experimental Feminine"

Change is Coming

I feel like I am waking out of a fog. That the unstructured spaces of improv play over the summer are now being filled with ballroom competitions. All summer, we have woken to mosquitoes and chores and neighbors knocking at 7:30 am asking to play. We have done as we pleased, going to parks, swimming at the Y, while all the time talking about the possibilities available to us within a morning, an afternoon, an evening.

My heart races forwards this week as I shift to the order of two night classes, Several Groups (Church, Writing, Reading and Moms and Meals groups), the start of "The Artist Way," and kids programs. On Saturday I decided it was time to get back into running as the weather is perfect and I am done with being sick. On top of all that, we have more community responsibilities in September then the next three months combined. The switch is dramatic and I find my blood pulsing faster and my pen constantly re-working my schedule to make sure I know where I am supposed to be right now.

My blogs over the summer feel lonely. I have written about social anxiety and the perceived cost of service vs selfishness and in the struggle I wonder if I have lost all my readers. When I began writing, the emphasis was on change and experimentation, so that I could be gutsy in my life. Somehow it has moved towards exposing guts, my bloody innards that are the undercurrents I am sucked into when I choose not to be in control.

My desire today is to look for the bounty. To give thanks for my hour to write. To rejoice in the precious time I get to play lego's with David. To let go of my striving and anxiety and the barking cough that still lingers.

I keep reading blogs of others and am struck by the spaces they create in words. Karen Schreck sits on the train watching a woman draw a humming bird, then shares her own connection with the robin outside her window. The book my mom's group is going to be referencing is "1000 Thank You's," about someone who starts listing every little thing that is good.

So to start my list, I am thankful that a friend in my meals group said she did not get to making her meal, giving us all permission to have more time to get our food together. It helps me realize I do not have to accomplish everything. Another is having my son not want me to leave, because though I know he will be fine without me, I still love to be close to him and spend time loving him. A third is getting time to run! I am surprised I have not written more about that, seeing as it is my best anti-depressent money can't buy and my all-time favorite activity.

Today I am glad for deadlines and structure in this new season!

I am an Imposters

"It is because we are all impostors, that we endure each other." Emile M. Cioran


My son creates visions of his Halloween costume over and over again. He starts with, "It will be a box with big holes to get my legs in and out, a mask with slats for eyes, black boots, legs, buttons on my fingers for the lasers. . . " With every new version, he speaks with absolute certainty about the blinking lights and ball shooters, not wondering about design challenges or if it is possible to build. He knows how it is going to be and does not notice the smirks or winks exchanged by his adult audiences. He has also decided that "daddy and mommy" will be the bad guys he will fight and kill. I correct him to say, the bad guys he will capture, take to the police and ultimately, the judge." 


My halloween costumes were more simple. A mini skirt and big pony tail with the explanation that I am a "valley girl." In college I went tricker-treating with no costume and a just begged neighbors for candy. Now I can buy my own junk to be delivered in a brown box with no label exposing my lack of self control.


I am the cardboard package, not quite a servant willing to give my free moment to another, not quite a writer who will abandon a phone call, not quite a wife who will take care of the dry cleaning. I am greedy for free time. Dripping sweat that people might realize my efforts to be helpful make me resent myself. That sometimes I avoid people's eyes, so I am not forced to tell them "yes" and myself "no."

Sinking: A Short Story

The first time Tuck walked on water, he lost one of his favorite shoes. He paused as the sun speckled surface blinded his eyes. Feeling his wet foot, he caught sight of the brown leather sneaker bubbling down into the murky abyss below. His body froze as his eyes tried to react. In that second, he slumped, knowing he missed his chance to grab it. Sighing, he watched the shadow grow faint and the color of the sea swallowed his shoe whole. 

The teacher warned them not to break concentration with the trees on the other shore. In preparation for this moment, they had spent hours imagining themselves, "Floating on specs of sand," "Hovering over mountain tops," "Stepping onto clouds," and "Hopping on the moon." 

As he stood, his ankles pulled on his body. His pants sucked in water and his knees became millstones of the corpses they would sink in the middle of the lake. He forced his dense arms over his head in the "O" shape they had taught as a sign for rescue. The effort caused his chest to sink under. He gulped air and closed his eyes to the light. 

The first moment he remembered was the one when he stepped over the railing of the boat onto the sand. His legs fell through the crust and he grabbed at the pebbles with open palms. Hands gripped his armpits and hoisted him onto his legs. Embarrassed, he tried again to make his muscles firm, bending knees to keep from tipping. Someone behind him yelled, "get used to the weight. It's what happens to those who look down."

He heard the words and fell backwards onto his bottom, the hard impact shattering his bones. Looking at the road beyond the beach, he saw his father's face looking at him through the Chevy window, waiting for him to get in. 

[A bit from Matthew 14:22 - 32]

Jesus walks towards them on the water

Disciples: "Its a ghost."

Jesus: "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."

Peter: "Lord, if it you, tell me to come to you on the water." 

Jesus: "Come."

Peter steps onto the water and walks towards Jesus. Seeing the wind, he becomes scared and starts to sink.

Peter "Lord, save me!"

Jesus takes his hand and says, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" 

My father Could Always Find Me: Short Story

My father could always, always find me. I would look at the clock and wait for the Coo Coo bird to pop out, signaling 5:45 when I knew he would be close. Over the months, he had become used to my hiding inside my mom's long black dress jacket in the closet. The first time I hid there, he screamed and fell against the wall, making my mom say, "One of these days you are going to give him cardiac arrest." From that moment on, I moved around daily, from under his desk, to behind the bathroom door, to inside the kitchen cleaning cabinet, each time hoping to recreate that moment.

The last spot I found was under the train set table in the basement. I lay watching a spider slowly build circles of invisible floss, while my fingers worked red paint chipping above my head. I heard the front door open, felt the weight of his shoes, then feet along the floor and watched the ceiling to anticipate his every step. I imagined the basement door opening, his socks pressing on each step with tiny creaks as he moved closer and closer, till I could hear him breath just above my head. Then the moment I would grab his foot from the dark shadow and here him cry out.

All went quiet and I shivered in the dark, feeling the hard cement against the back of my head. Not knowing the time, I started counting to sixty over and over. Then I heard the door and one creak on the step before my mom's voice sounded with, "Dad's too tired tonight. Come wash your hands for dinner."

"No thanks," is whispered, "I will wait." The noises grew fainter and then I heard the voices of strangers on the television. I flipped to my stomach, pillowed my arm under my head and closed my eyes.

Is Art Frivolous?

I am hoping my artist friends will respond to this blog, because I am struggling with the question, "Is Art Frivolous?" In college I could have "just" majored in Art, but decided to double major, to cover my behind. Why?

When I finished college, I applied for a job doing the installations for the Field Museum in Chicago, but I did not show up for the physical test, when I would have to build something, because I didn't believe I could do it. Instead I walked into a temping agency and asked them to help me find a desk job. They sent me to Enterprise Rent a Car, Tech companies, Volkswagen and eventually Citigroup, where I stayed for seven years.

I feel like I am faking my way into art, while my real job is, "homemaker." I tell people I am writing, but I don't want to show them my work. My words often read exposure, embarrassment and humiliation. My art is about sitting in front of my truth and manipulating it into an image, a choice and letting go of being beautiful. I am afraid I might be wasting time focusing on me. The stack of survival work like groceries, helping others, doing my jobs for the neighborhood, blogging, reading, my family are all sitting over my shoulders demanding attention. My guilt in writing feels like I am pulling on a choke collar, where to get relief I must focus on the survival work and move away from my creative space.

Do I pretend art until I am legitimate? Is it a game where I try to convince people of my worth through a label? Is art life-giving or life-taking? Are children life-giving or life-taking? The question that haunts me even more is, Is time with God legitimate? Is God life-giving or life-taking? I jump to want to say, of course Jesus is living water and worth my attention, but when I sit down to write, I don't want to "waste time" with God.

My guilt at these questions is extreme and lead me to an internal question of, Am I life-taking or life-receiving? Am I open to God? Open to his art? Can I settle into his deeper work that is demanding my attention, exposing me deeper truth so that I can openly express both faith and doubt.

The Bargain

Today I ventured to Borders because I kept seeing emails about how everything is practically free. The irony is that it has always been a good deal to go there, since they send out 33% to 40% off coupons and give members the extra %10 almost every day. Now that they are "Going Out of Business," I wondered all morning if I was missing out on something great, so at 2 pm I drove downtown with the kids to find out.

I started in the Children's section, optimistic that the toys, books and games would provide a weeks worth of fun. We picked up a bionical robot and a sticker book cluing my three year old into the fact that I was ready to buy. He then began saying things like, "look at this Spiderman Puzzle" and Do you think we can get Little MR Grumble?" As he clutched the items, my answer was, "Sure" and his eyes lit up.

We moved to the magazines, all left-overs with piles of calendars, and romance novels filling the Politics, Art and Lit Review sections. Then we headed upstairs to discover walls of cookbooks, like the many I have bought and never look at again along with bath kits and shopping bags and walls of greeting cards. I moved from Fiction to Biography to DVD's hoping for anything I could justify adding to my pile for the "Buy 8, get an extra 15% off." Andrew said get kids movies and maybe "The Social Network," but the prices started at $29.99 and went up from there. I stood calculating what 30% off would add up to, it was hardly a bargain, especially given there were none I wanted to see.

So you might assume that I walked out in a huff, but no, I was intent on buying eight items. Do I need Little Miss Curious or Burst bees tinted chapstick or a Transformer sticker books? No, but somehow I felt compelled to cheat the system and make a killing in savings. I just wanted to buy things and I honestly believed that when they rang me up, the check-out man would say, "Your total is five dollars and you saved $75," or something like that. In the end I spent $35 and saved $30. The problem is that now I have all this stuff and am out $35. The moment I set foot on the sidewalk and for the rest of the afternoon I lamented that there are no returns and that now I am stuck with more stuff.

I am not sure the lesson. I want to say I shouldn't have bought the things, or that they will come in handy when I need to give someone a gift. I could even say I was the martyr in this debacle, allowing me to spread the message to you and your friends to avoid the place, but really I think I need to just say, what is done is done. I made a mistake. That despite the unknown authors who lined the shelves looking to be made legitimate through a sale, that David, Isaac and I got out of the house for a few hours. That now I don't need to wonder what I am missing. That next time I have can opt for the park instead.

The Itch in my Throat

I have had a cough for over a month now. It started with a horse throat and now the act of responding to the tickle in my throat has caused me to have pains in my back and sides.  When talking, I sometimes end up doubled over in a fit of hacking. People stare and ask if I am ok. My kids imitate it like it is funny and now my sides hurt so badly I am taking meds for the pain. I even went to the doctor on Tuesday to try and find some miracle cure. He was very thoughtful about it, but could not give me a diagnosis. 

Over this fight in my body, I survived a wedding, a reunion, cramming in a The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lack’s for book club, helping my sister with her newborn, community responsibilities and attending events every night this week. 

This morning after my husband woke up, I told him I needed to go out for a while and write.  In this moment I am sitting at my coffee shop drinking dark hot cocoa and all I can think is that I want to be alone. If only I could call in sick from life for the day, but my kids need attention and people are coming to our house for lunch and dinner.

In my dreams I watch family members and friends desperately need things and wake up with the stress of trying to understand my role in responding to them. I wonder if I can give myself permission to say that I come first.

My writing coach and I have had a repeat conversation, where I tell her I am not making time to write. We have analyzed reasons, made schedules, put together ways for me to ask for time and the bottom line for me is that I have to believe it matters enough to say no to everything else for a few hours a week. Oh and of course to practice asking for help to so I can get those hours.

My phobia is in troubling others with: “can you watch my kids?” To overcome it I need to do it a lot and accept “no” from one person and then moving on to ask another and another and another. I have to know that sometimes it will mean others don’t get my attention. The ultimate truth for me is that it is a sacrifice and act of love to listen to my life so I can show up in relationships. 

Laboring

My sister is in labor right now. Hearing her voice from the hospital room, I sense that this is a defining moment full of fear, pain and anticipation. A small and helpless little person lurking in the waters of unknowns. I want to tell her all the moments that are coming, but my advice sounds flat. I stop talking as I realize she must experience them to understand.

Classic me, I missed all the pre-labor texts and calls and when I did pick up the phone, it was because I thought she wanted to go blueberry picking. A week overdue, I somehow thought the baby might hang out in her womb forever, because our prior conversation was about the responsibilities lingering on a longish to do list.

Today is a first for everyone. Lights and screams and tearing and reaching through emotional and physical exhaustion to the hope beyond. Relying on the magic of the first hour of breath to carry life to a new space. Knowing that God has not given up on humanity.

Breathe in God's bounty little one!     

I do

My beautiful 22 year old sister-in-law is married. The day was perfection, from her purple eye shadow, to her side feather hair accessory, with white wire netting to her chin. I met her at age six and over the years she has blossomed, figuring out who she is, what she wants and now journeying forward to a new city, med school and a man who loves her for her (and vice versa).

At the event I got to walk the isle and meet my husband waiting as an attendant at the front. I caught his eye from the entrance and he twinkled, slim and chiseled. I wanted to run to him, my eyes light. We held hands through the seven prayers and sermon, the heat of the day drenching our fingers in sweat. Vows were spoken and in my head I to was saying, "I do, I do, I do." At the reception, as he sat clicking buttons for a twenty-five minute slide show of the couples story, my chest burst watching him masterfully painting their story and every so often glancing over at me and smiling.

More on Lying

Recently my three year old son has been talking to himself and when I try to jump into his world he says, "mom, i'm not talking to you." He thinks out loud, so I don't have to guess what is going on. On the flip side, I have a close friend whose boyfriend is abusive and I skit around them, like we are sand crabs jumping into our separate holes to avoid the truth. 

Another friend and I are the exact opposite. For some reason I tell her how I am lying to my therapist, so she will think she is doing a good job and she says, "why don't you tell her that." I get quiet, feeling panicked at the thought. Telling her I am lying feels like taking a weapon and harming her to the point she is devastated. It speaks to my ultimate fears of rejecting others and them rejecting me. 

My final thought about truth is in my sister who can't live without seeking wholeness and restoration. She confronts her past, issues within the family, abuses and she does not stop hoping for healing. When we all jump into our little holes and try to hide from her quest, she waits at the entrance, ever wanting to move through the pain to something better! 

Early in my relationship with my spouse, he would constantly read my emotions and encourage me to spill my guts. The truth is that over the years, that game put all the work on him to draw me out. I am thankful that we both evolved to a place where I can communicate independently of waiting for him to ask. 

This week as I have worked on truth, I went to my last session and told my therapist that what I need to work on going forward is telling the truth. I told her that the pressure to say what I think she wants clouds my work. She was quiet and I am not sure she heard me, but maybe it gets me closer to the practice of honesty.

Her last suggestion to me was that any change has to be a daily practice. Overcoming fear of your rejection, like a phobia of spiders, should be treated with continuous exposure. I attempt to risk judgement in this blog, to see if I can live on to do it again tomorrow. If I can spill open a little more every day, you will know me and I you in a way that is honest and far reaching.

Add I-phone to the budget?

So I am getting ready to switch to an i-phone. I have been waiting for a year, watching my t-mobile plan run out. I got a free I-touch that I use for listening to books, but recently cracked on the sidewalk. When it happened, I was almost relieved, thinking, now I have a real justification for a new purchase. I wonder at my desire for what everyone else has. The commercials make me wonder if everyone in the world will have to have one in order to breath. The apple bug crawls in my ear and tells me that I need an ipad or anything they are selling to live a better, more "simple" life.

T-mobile sales reps know that I want an i-phone and have been calling incessantly to try make their plan so good that I will change my mind. The irony is they have no better rates to offer. They suggest different plans for more minutes, but nothing is cheaper then what we currently have, which is the 750 minutes family plan. The truth is that I hate talking on the phone, so I don't do it much!

I am on my third pre-paid phone, because I lose them or accidentally drop them in toilets on a regular basis. The trap is that there are always better versions of the phone coming out, so to buy now means missing out on the next version. My tech friends tell me the 5G is coming out in September, which could mean a better deal on the 4G. Everyone with a phone says the 3G is terrible and you have to wait. Does it matter if I have a phone with cameras pointing both directions? Do I want to spend more and will it get me more. My husband says he doesn't need one, but I think he secretly wants one and that it might distract him further than his blackberry, which is mostly used for email. I the crackberry for his birthday long ago and still wondered what I was thinking.

My conflicting goal is to not overspend. The question I face is to consider if and when new phones will fit the budget. I wonder about how others budget for the random wants of life. In my world, budgets have felt like parents telling you not to buy the toy you covet. At 35, I still feel like defined dollar amounts to groceries, entertainment, gas, clothes all secretly make me want to defy them. Rules and limits, like bosses, are hard for me.

Question for you: [PLEASE COMMENT] - What allows you to live within limits that support financial freedom and personal enjoyment? (or conversely, what constricts you from financial freedom)

Christian Censorship

I have not let many people read my work outside of classes. People ask to read repeatedly and I hesitate and then say sure, but never send anything to them. I wonder what people will say about my work, both about the writing and the subject matter.

I remember the first paper I wrote in AP English at a public HS. I ended my essay with a Bible verse and testimony. Three days later my teacher stopped me in after class and said, they may have wanted that stuff in your Christian school, but I don't want that here.

Now in a Christian writing group I keep saying I will send my current story, but I wonder how they will respond to the title, "Intercourse." It is not a story about sex, but what censors or expectations do my readers have, especially high schoolers. What will they think of me if I write anything not explicitly about faith.

I think my real concern is what will the parent's think. Those are the people I have always catered to, tried to read so I could gain their approval. Maybe I will end up being one of those people who get read after they die, when someone else can share my work for me. I hope over time that I will figure out how to be brave and say what I believe to be most important, even if it starts with a word like, "Intercourse!"

Internal Poetry

I have been reading Mary Oliver poems because two people have mentioned that they liked her. I received her first volume of poetry several years ago as a Christmas gift from my sister-in-law. Not knowing a thing about her, I carried the purple book from house to house almost discarding it with each move. This week I found myself scouring the house to find it, as if it would instantly connect me with others who seem to like her.

Because others tell me she is good, I am reading about Goldfinches and enjoying her simple way of of watching the world. There is a sense that nature will spill open to reveal: your soul, bleeding heart, this moment, and the possibility of breaking free. I wonder if I love her for being short, readable, a distraction from other noise or because someone told me they liked her. Another friend mentioned that she was just ok and it made me wonder if she wasn't that good. How do I listen to my own thoughts and decide for myself if I should keep reading, or discard for something else?

This is the challenge with writing as well. Before even showing a word to someone I wonder how they will rate me. If they say it is good, I will wonder if they are telling the truth. If they say it is bad, I will abandon the effort. So like my post on telling the truth, I need to listen to my gut. To read on for what is to be found. Not looking at if it is good or bad, but experiencing visions that make me want to live bigger.

Pulling an Allnighter

My sister bought an amazing house in the heart of a hopping city and is in process of renovating it. As I wondered through the big rooms with large windows looking out on tall trees, I focused on the layers of pealing wallpaper and long cracking ceiling. She was full of joy and possibility, as if this were a place she could really settle with her new baby. I was stuck in the stress of the work, like I had to complete a 20 page paper by tomorrow morning or clean a storage locker in order to move. You know it will all be great, but the first box or scrub or word is the hardest.

With kids, I feel that my belief in accomplishing the impossible in a night has diminished. I have no desire to live through an allnighter, run five errands on Christmas eve or host a neighborhood party. I struggle to make a meal, manage groceries to include protein or wipe down the counter. Tonight I am going to the Townie Party in Ann Arbor to avoid having to think about cooking.

I wonder about how my sister can give her energy to this house, wonder how my mother managed food for ten every day, wonder how anyone managed with more than two kids. So many enjoy the process of eating and prepare ingredients beautifully as if every day is bountiful and special. I want the life where I too am immune from the exhaustion of beginning and the potential to fail, so I can celebrate the tastes and textures and magic of survival.

Belonging

Coming back from a family reunion in Connecticut, I spent the week thinking about my family. Each of my six siblings are married, many have kids and all have faith. In our days together we went to the depths of our relationships with our spouses, selves and God, answering questions like what first drew us to our spouse and what are the hot buttons in our relationship. We talked of cleaning quirks, the Frito question (see post of Fritos) of what we changed after getting married, and sharing thoughts on what we love.

The eighteen cousins said they loved things like, ice cream, playing with their Cousin Chloe, swimming and video games. What I loved was having my older sister to run with, stroke my head and tell me she loves me for being me. I loved how one of my sister-in-laws masterfully engaged our hearts while managing the food, the activities and ensured everything happened. I loved the intensity of a brother-in-law who challenged our patterns and tried to get at what was behind choices; to be in the work of observing why we do things.

It felt satisfying to see everyone belong to our family. The kids played, the men drank beer and the ladies bustled in the kitchen and I didn't worry about who was included, if someone would be offended or what I looked like. I wonder if this is what heaven might feel like, just sitting around pondering who we are in a space where we are unconditionally loved.

Christian Women Are Good at Housework

There is a sense that Christian women are organized, good cooks, helpful, planned, put together, etc and I am not. All my sisters appear to be pretty amazing in that regard. My therapist says everyone hates the grocery store, but I don't believe her.

For today, I feel content in how much I am enjoying my kids and our days together. We have a rythm and unlimited space to explore our closets and basement, because it is 100 degrees out. Maybe it is the anxiety meds talking, but I will take it! 

Please comment on  your idea about this: Is everyone is good at house management? Do you like or hate the grocery store! (I am curious about the real story here - and am ok if you enjoy it. I envy and wish I could be a better planner, because it feels like magic when I watch people managed things seamlessly!)

The People Pleasing Saga

I am a people pleaser. I lie to make you feel good. I apologize for taking up space. 

To do things together feels tricky because it means working with others. It means wanting them to believe I like them, so they will like me. This often translates to how can I drop everything to solve their problems and be available. I realize that it does create lasting connections, but since I was a child, I have thought that if I "do enough" people will acknowledge me as a somebody.

So the alternative to fooling you is deciding what I want and showing up as me. I choose not take on your burdens so you will like me. I will pray and help, but not be consumed by my impulse to fix it. I want to find what matters to both of us and share it with you. It means believing others are honest in choosing to be my friend, so we can be ourselves together.

The work of being "good enough" or not embarrassing myself too badly is hard. I look at anyone and see the ten things they have that I don't. I wonder why I can't get my kids outfits coordinated, do my hair, carry the right snacks and instantly engage you about something you have done or care about. 

I even went through Dale Carnage's 12 week program on Winning Friends and Influencing people and it backfired. It taught me how to get people to talk, but not me how to speak. My goal today is to stop and listen to what I want so I can relax. I will tell my guests my schedule, my family members what I can commit to, and overall let go of the conflicts within myself.  If I want to hang out at home all day, I can declare my plan with confidence. 

Further, my stretch for this week is to deal with the anxiety of working with a therapist. The conflict is between seeking change or attempting to make her feel good. To pretend I am "bad enough" to justify her time. To do what I think she wants in order for her to feel good. And my pattern continues. 

How do I break this habit? Decide to say what I want to myself before entering the scene. Then I don't have to live in dissonance when I am around you. 

God, help me to speak my heart so I can experience real relationships.

Passive Characters

As I begin to write about my middle aged woman living in NYC,  I have to force her to act! The word on the writer's street is that no one is interested in passive characters. A deeper question this morning is if people are interested in passive people, i.e. myself? The best fictional example of a passive character is Muriel's mother in the movie Muriel's Wedding. This woman is flat, large, and does not react to anything happening around her, even her husband's affair. We keep watching because the tension of the story is that something big is going to happen to change her and are not disappointed. When feeling like a nothing to her own daughter pushes her over the edge, we see her finally wake up and respond.

When I think about my own life, I find that action is the most energizing thing to contemplate. I love to run and talk about running. I love to relay what is happening in my kids brains and with their friends around our Co-housing neighborhood (always dramatic). I love to write. The act of pen to paper gives voice to what I care about, on days I am not stuck behind a Muriel's Mom complex of ennui or thoughts that I am powerless to choose my own adventure.

So it is Friday morning and I have two hours to write about anything. I wonder what my characters want? What they must go through to frustrate the hell out of all of us to the point that we jump out of our beds in the morning to respond to what our dreams tell us need our attention.

My dreams were about transvestite clowns running around an apartment complex while a camera followed them in hopes of capturing humor. Nothing funny was happening which created a lot of tension for the audience, i.e. me.

My morning conflict is this, pray that I can stay in bed for as long as I want or respond to the yells of my one year old in his crib saying, "Ma ma ma ma ma," on repeat from six thirty am on. [Special note here: If you ever want to come to my house and take my kids at 6:30 am, I will do almost anything in return!] Do I write about this character who ignores a baby for her sleep? I think my answer is to let her snooze for 5 minutes, scream in her head about the competing screams, then get up and respond. The action could be drinking the coffee, burning the grass in the backyard, running around our little road two times like it is the last chance you will ever get, and then snuggling all my guys and letting them into the spaces that make me come alive.

I would like to take my love of great conversations, good dark chocolate cocoa and tickle wars and combine them with a ten mile run in the woods or a sensual story I will write down later. To push the insert button and let those moments override my house chores and grocery trips to prepare for a house full of guests. I want to be the freedom girl who welcomes strangers, lets them rummage through her cluttered closets, without apologizing. I want to sweep out the passive work of solving everyone's problems and being the proper friend so I can freely "chew on pomegranate seeds" for ten minutes without caring that I am different.

Facing Off

I can't help wondering why we are so averse to pain or death, after watching a crazy scene from a movie recently.

Here is my version of the scene:
A man stands, six foot seven on a roof top, wet with rain, pointing a hand sized gun at the eight year old girl.
Girl: "Will it hurt a lot."
Man: "Just for a second."
Girl: "Ok, I'm ready."
Man: "Now brace yourself. One, two, three," POW! (shoots gun)
The girl flies backwards and hits the cement, disappearing from view.
The night is silence for several seconds.
Then the girl hops up and says, "That wasn't so bad." She pulls open her sweater to look at the bullet imbedded in the black vest.
Man: "So only two more times and we will get burgers at Five Guys and Fries."
Girl: "Okay, but I want a shake with that."
Man: "It's a deal."

***
The scenario haunts me. I watch and fear for the little girls life. A child not aware of death and a man who actually shoots her. I wince at the idea of death. My real fear, however is believing I am worthless. The gun pointing at my head is my vision of what everyone else is thinking about me. The bullet will knock me over with a "Don't take up any more of my air." I wonder if people notice my eyes flying down, left, my limbs bracing for a fall. The worst thing that could happen, would be losing God's eyes locked on mine; his attending to me with a soft smile on his face.

I just read a great novel by Margo Raab called Cures for Heartbreak and in it, the main girl loses her mom at fifteen and regularly worries about her dad's heart disease. She wonders what to do while alone, beyond reading romance novel and dreaming about real love. She meets a few boys who act interested without knowing anything about her, leaving her suspicious of men. Each time she interacts with a hot guy, she tells herself they are not interested in her. At one point there is a "good one" that comes along and invites her into his space. I chuckle at my own desire for them to be together, because it never gets old. It is the fantasy of a relationship where they can say anything and be accepted.  

There are two places that I can relax, journaling and running. Alone, I don't have to wonder what I have done to cause them to be happy or sad and what I need to do to fix them. That game is exhausting. I can't change others, especially, when I don't take care of myself.

As I anticipate this, I become the little eight year old girl locking eyes with you. I say, "reject me." I fall backwards and rest for ten seconds and then stand up and say, "ok again," until I no longer duck at your potential to see me and can listen to the voices that wants our best.

Editing A Life

I attended a local writing conference this weekend to find inspiration in the process. What the leader of my workshop, Margo Rabb and others seemed to repeat most was, there is no easy way in or out of the process. It is all hard! Without saying anything about the choice in being a writer, someone who knows my tendency to quit after a given amount of time, recently encouraged me to stick with it.

Stephen King's definition of a writer is, "She who shuts the door." This idea comes back to me this week as I think kick my fists against the table, because I said yes to everything except my writing time. My best friend writes daily and when I talk to her, I hear the rich calm, that comes with congruence between action and belief.

I find myself wanting to be like her or Margo Raab or any number of committed writers, who have a novel under their belt. I think, maybe if I write something profound, people will stop and say, "I want to know her." This idea moves me away from sharing my stories and stuck in the pursuit of get people's approval.

I read an article by David Mills entitled, "Overcoming 'Self-Esteem': Why our compulsive drive for 'self-esteem' is anxiety-provoking, socially inhibiting, and self-sabotaging." The writer spends several pages explaining why action based self-worth creates high stakes and performance based mood-swings. His answer is that if you eliminate ratings you can observe the world honestly and live freely.

So I sit here observing the world in hopes that I can enjoy this moment. I can play the role of me as me, let you be you as you, without any pressure to be anything more than that. As Bridget Jone's man says it, "I like you just the way you are," or said another way, "I like me that way too, sweaty armpits, wild fly aways in my hair and fictional shorts with titles like "Intercourse" and "Gonorrhea" that I may never be brave enough to let anyone read.

Alzheimers

My teacher, Deborah Bayer wrote the most beautiful Reader Response for The Sun Magazine on the theme, Rites of Passage.  I hope everyone will read it. It is about her mother finding joy in a duck flying, as if she is a child and she ends with, "suddenly her condition seemed less like a downward spiral and more like a coming full circle." I am Inspired by her beautiful connection with loving her mother's joy in her altered state. Here is a story I wrote about what my mom might be thinking as she battled with dementia.

Cutting “Mom” Hair
(Note: This is a fictional story based on a visit I had with my mom, where we cut her hair and she ended up falling out of bed in the night, which we discovered because her head was bloody in the morning.)

            I feel someone pulling my arms. I can’t see the faces in the light box [TV], against the wall.  Hands touch my shoulder. I hear, “mom.” I squint. I crinkle to move the smudged glasses that hide my eyes.

            I am lifting. Where am I going?  I look to the light in the ceiling but it hurts. I sit in a hard chair with a table at my chest.  Am going to be fed a slushed salad? A small hand grabs my pants. I move it off. What is it?

            I listen to sounds. “Mom. . . mom. . . mom. . .”, “hair,” and “eyes” and “love.” What? Blurry blue eyes look in. I feel warm air on my cheek. I try to shift away. A cloth tucks in my neck. Fingers move my head. I raise my shoulders. Zips and pulls and hands.  Dust falls. Get up! I lift my head and shoulders forward. I am pushed down. Is Lou [husband] rubbing my shoulders? Now the touch is gone.  

            A dark haired girl has sharp pokes in her fingers. I know what she is doing.  Remember how to say it. I touch my head. She keeps moving. Read letters in front of eyes, “B. .ee .E. tt. . T. s. . S. . ..” An eye is close to me, looking.

“Yes. . . me,” it says.

            More noises, words, “down,” “do this. . .” More dust falling. I rub it into the sticky crinkles of my neck and keep my shoulders up. Itchy.

            “Mom.” What say? “look . . . nice.” Little person is running away.

I am lifted. Wet?  Cold air. I want to move. Stand. The weight is there pushing me down.

More hands and wet. I shut my eyes. My shirt is catching on my head, pulling me into the dark inside and then naked. Water on my neck. Hands touch my shoulders. Cold.  Shiver. Bat the arms away. Hands rub face. Look at eyes. Who are you? I let my shoulders fall, eyes close.

            

***

In dark. I hear the sound of “mom” over and over and know I am mom. The voice is high and scared.  The eyes tears when I sing . . .”Jesus love me” and I say, “yes.” I want those blurry eyes, want to say, “Betsy.”

Where is she? Move forward, pull arms to the surface. My legs lumber, weighing on the sheets. “Betsy, I know. I remember.” Where do I find you?

***

Noises and fuzzes at the TV box. The faces close in on me and the little person hops. There is excitement. Fingers poke. “blood. . . wet. . hands?” I relax and hear “found. . . floor. . . mom.” You heard me and came back. It is you. I slouch back, letting people fuss with my arms.  My feet lift and hands cradle them. They swish my toes in circles. I close my eyes and breathe the smell of fresh shampoo. 

American Flag - Fiction

Sometimes a wind is content to wrap itself in the flag that is raised and lowered every day by my grandfather. At night he takes red stars off the strings, carefully collecting the corners of blue stripes in his thumb and forefinger. He folds across an imagined square, then hides the extra bit of rectangle inside to allow for the next step, making perfect right triangles. The material swings back and forth in halves that grow smaller and smaller until a thick handful of pillow-like nylon folds one last time into itself and is put to bed in an undisclosed location.

This daily ritual feels significant. Tanned faces down the row of white houses and pastel-rock covered lawns, nod as they watch him crank, pull, tie. All the bobbing heads seem to be a tribute to the flag and something bigger then their summer vacations along the Jersey shore.

I watch the flag from the side yard after lunch, where I sit along the steep inlet water way and throw rocks at a horseshoe crab lurking at the foot of the long latter to the sound three feet below. The wind whips hard, flapping the fabric over and over, holding the material straight, then swirling, then letting it go for a second before another gust pulls the stripes smooth again.

My brother watches with me for a minute before grabbling a life jacket and walking the dock to the sunfish sailboat, tied down as if it knows nothing of the wind. He climbs aboard saying, "Don't you wanta come?" I scold him and say, "You need to ask mom if its okay." He throws the rope that hold the boat to land and pushes the rudder down, steering towards the open ocean. I tell myself that he can sail alone because he looks like he is older than thirteen.

I see the big lumbering army crab hover at the ladder and I climb down the steps, dunk under, eyes closed, and grab the long triangle shaped tail. I pull the monster up and feel legs flail against my chest. The moment I get to the air, my arm muscles strain and I fight the possibility of it attacking. I have him and I hold tightly as he flits bits everywhere. I picture my dad at the beach when he tried to scare me by walking towards me holding one over his face like a mask, when I was six. Should I smash this one against the cement wall? Where are the eyes? Does he have anyone who will miss him? Is he really a mother, looking to feed babies? Would I cause her to abandon someone for my own freedom to walk tippy toe along the edge of the wall without it's body getting my feet? It is just shell and legs and nothing more, I decide, swinging it backwards as if to prepare a pendulum that will make it crash into it's death. The pole in my fist is sharp and the creature throws itself backwards on the out-swing, causing me to to lose my grip. It falls, dive bomb style against the water, back breaking the surface, splash squirting my eyes with salt. I close and scream in pain. When I test my sight, squinting to see light on the water, the bottom looks murky and the creature is gone.

The flag stops banging momentarily and falls limp against the pole. The sun sizzles my shoulders and nose and I lie stomach down on the rocks and watching the horizon for the boat to return.

*Note: The first line was taken from Capriccio In E Minor For Blowfly and String, by Paul Muldoon from Sugar House Review.

Tough God

This month I have been trying to make God make sense. My dilemma with a good God is that I can't figure out how he can be in my court, when I am not following him. In much of the Old Testament, God is letting people die. I read story after story to my three year old about mass destruction, Noah's Ark, Joshua conquering Jericho, Pharaoh's army being covered by the sea,  David killing the giant. In studying the book of Amos, I learn that God finally says to his people, this is it, I am not going to listen or relent, i.e. the dialogue is over and now many people are going to be wiped out.

I believe that God is just and perfect in his love, but I don't understand how I fit, because what I do leads me to think I should be punished. What can he be thinking when I try to ignore my screaming kids for 5 more minutes in bed. Does he want this world, this way? I have to think, "No." Does he have a choice about what happens, "I believe he does."

Last week I ask some friends why God created us, when it feels like we never do anything right. One said, why did you become a parent? I know that Christ died for my sin, so the equation changed. That God does label me by what I do, but sees Christ death as the payment for my selfishness. I know that I choose kids, even though I struggle in it and that terrible things will happen to them in their lives. I don't want to live on the set "The Truman Show," all happy and fake.

I want the raw and the pain and God's word saying, even though you have done it again, "I will relent." I want to hear him say, "Sonia, I want to know you and be with you despite everything you did today. " I feel the same in responding, "Despite your wrath and even knowing I have to accept Christ died on my behalf, I can love and not fear my future, or that of my kids. I could lose the things most precious to me and be rejected by everyone I care about, but God will not leave me. Today, I reach for that.

Starting Over Again Again

I ran two consecutive days last week, after taking a year and a half off. Many people ask me if I am running and I end up looking at my feet and wishing I could say yes. With my depression, my husband asked what I thought I needed and my instant response was I need to run. It feels great and hard and freeing.

Once I have run a few days, I instantly think ahead to two weeks out when it will feel simple, a month out when I can play with speed and hills and distance to become faster. Then my mind gets lost in what feels unattainable, too difficult, and I lose my grip on the experience itself. The cycle of starting my engine after years off, of my propensity to quit over and over, make me wonder if my body will seize up on me this time, the way our van did when it ran out of oil, rendering it totaled.

I relay this to wanting to play the guitar, which I also wish I could do. I have taken lessons a few times but the idea of having to start again, knowing it will be slow and hard and I may never sound good, leaves me feeling tired, distracted, disillusioned and then drives me to quit before I even get my guitar out.

Maybe Spring is about renewed hope in growing and changing me. I expect that the acts of making, doing, working creatively might cure me of the holes that apathy bring. I knowing I will start, dream big, stop a thousand more times, but I may get a bit closer to what matters. I enjoy believing in myself, but I hate the idea that I will fail one more time. In my head I know that a part of me has to choose being in the struggle; letting go of any other hope beyond creating from where I am now. I should redefine success to be the act of creating in this moment as the end goal. Rather than wish I were confident, brilliant, accomplished, belting James Taylor from my porch while my kids rid around the circle, I want to enjoy doing basic music ladders and making up my own lyrics about the orchestra of frogs in the retention pond.

The truth is that running or writing or playing my five chords wake up my brain. They allow me to observe beauty and see the world with fresh eyes. In one 35 minute run, I can write five blogs, processed all the voices in my head that are vying for my attention and dreaming about possibilities.

Fritos

I recently bought Fritos for a good-buy party for a good friend from church. They were on sale and made me think about my mom. She loved them along with butter pecan ice cream, Triscuits, mound bars, raspberries and hot water. The description on the front of the Fritos bag read all natural, gluten free, no trans fats, so I believe them to be a health snack that I can enjoy without guilt.

My cousin told me that my grandmother began buying at the age of 90, after my grandfather passed away. She would pull out a bag, pour a few into a little bowl and enjoy them with her afternoon coffee. She said, "I like to take a few of these in the afternoon. I never bought them when Tigger (her husband) was alive, because he didn't care for them. She sacrificed for sixty some years, tolerating his bugles instead. I am guessing that he did not even know that she liked them.

I think about that as I enter my 13th year of marriage. What have I given up that I might really enjoy, artichokes, lobster, control of our finances, hiking, dance classes? A 26 year old neighbors son asked me to go salsa dancing saying, since you are married, being your partner wouldn't be weird. But the truth is, I kinda want to dance with my husband, and for him to want to go Scottish dancing, swing dancing, even though it might not be cool, or to just slow dance in some cheesy dance hall.

My husband is always saying, eat what you want, dance, hike! The trouble is that I want to do those things with him, but the him who would agree to enjoy it, if that is even possible. Maybe this is the year I will become more secure in my adventures and go off to do them without needing approval or to be accompanied.

At a minimum, I would like to put some dreams on the board to work toward. I know they might never happen and some will take years to manage, but here goes.

- Be in each moment with my kids - Enjoying our time together! (writing it and living in it)
- Get out of debt and start saving
- Tithe consistently
- Settle on a regular writing schedule
- Plan and take a hike
- Buy some piece of clothing that feels like me
- Co-managing our family finances
- Read one book from my mom's list - God of Small Things
- Subscribe to and read a lit magazine (and submit work to it)
- Run
- Make art
- Play Guitar

I know I can't do them all today, but having a point to shoot for gets me closer. Looking over my list, they all speak of a kind of rhythm that I long for in my weeks.

Planting

I planted raspberries at the top of the hill in my back yard tonight. It took hauling in dirt, wood chips, 15 little plants and a lot of digging and mixing.  I have never had my own land, so it is exciting to look out my window and see the red line, where the pine mulch surrounds my hope of fresh fruit this summer. We had them growing up and my mom and I would collect a few every day for most of the summer. It is a way to remember the colorful spaces that she and my dad created for us.

Being the Odd Woman Out

I have worked many jobs in my 35 years. In them, I live by the motto, I will figure it out. The insurmountables were overcome as I stumbled through financial formulas in Excel, developed courses in communications and fired several people while being empathetic.

In each role, I have had to pretend I was competent until others and I believed it. Running for Nike, working in HR and now being in a "mom" role are challenging. My skills are not the traditional ones you would seek out if you were looking to hire in the exacting work they require. Each has a lot to do with planning, hyper-sensitivity and having the ego of an expert.

It is not that I can't have an ego, but it takes an hour of looking in the mirror and saying the, "I'm good enough, smart enough and people like me" speech first.  The confidence does not last longer than the event I target and so I go back to being a nervous reck until I launch into the psych up process all over again.

The irony is that I love an audience. There is nothing better than reading my work to a class or talking in front of a group. It gets me all pumped up. This blog is a thrill to write, because you are reading. I just reviewed my hits to this site for the first time and am floored that at one point I had 183 viewers, which makes me feel like sprinting around my circle while screaming at the top of my lungs!

Two weeks ago when I spoke at my Mom's Group, I remembered my love of an audience first hand. I had three things to share about starting a Freezer Meal Club. Here is the gist: 1) If I were to decide which sister I was between Martha and Mary (from the Bible), I would have to say I am the third sister, sitting in my room with a book. 2) If I were being considered for the job of "mom" based on what I perceive to be the job description, I would never be hired. All the planning, organizing, cleaning, disciplining and directing do not come easily. My mom didn't care about that stuff and neither do I. I watch other moms do the grunt work with the grace and ease of a ballerina pirouetting across the stage. It is not even that I am choosing to spend more time with my kids over these things as I often sit in anxious land worrying about how I will get those freezer meals made for tonight, finish the book I am to lead at book club tonight, and handle the basic needs of my family. 3) Freezer meals and babysitting co-ops and any number of other support systems are about sharing the load. I wonder why parenting is not more corporate in that I could share resources and strengths, while strategizing on the stuff I am not interested in, to make the whole situation more enjoyable. I love group planning, generating the ideas for businesses, food prep, childcare or writing. I would love to have a joint play-group and clean house event, where we could make housework about socializing over isolated manual labor. I work best with others, and thus, wonder what I am doing at home alone with my kids.

All I can think is that God has a sense of humor and is wanting me to grow more dependent on him and to let go of the formula's of others. I don't have to work inside anyone else's job description. I am my own boss and can make up my own rules! That being said, if anyone wants to have a cleaning house party or a monthly meal planning event, I am in!

The Editing Process

On Wednesday, I met with my writing coach to do an in-depth edit of a short story. I had my ten month old and three year old in tough and traveled over an hour to hit my destination, Lansing, MI. Once inside Decker Coffee, my baby was happy roaming around the coaches and entertaining himself. My three year old was the opposite, repeatedly asked if we could leave and edging towards the door. He was terrified of the the skeletons and big alien eyes of the heads painted in black and white and red art pieces littering the the walls. Every day since, he has told me he does not want to go back to Decker's.

In the midst of that, my coach and I managed to do a line by line review, where in some cases, each word in a sentence was examined. My piece included many words like, "it" and "that," where we talked about giving the reader more concrete descriptions. I noticed how the sentence structures were often repetitive. Then there were tenses to play with, hyphens to add and an endless list of ideas for making my work stronger.

I have also been reading a lot of short stories to try and understand what makes a good one (i.e. how do I write like others so that I can get published). I feel like I am staring over a huge valley, knowing Atlantis is hidden in the trees or clouds and that the only way to the promised land is by bushwhacking with a large machete and a good pair of boots.

I sit in a similar quandary about reaching God. I know it is not about building the Tower of Babel, but I watch my friends from church "working out their salvation" in how they live, serve and share themselves authentically and I feel like I am 10,000 miles from reaching their circle of faith.

I am guessing at the way forward being things like, running, a therapist, writing, me showing up in the dialogue of this entry, showing up to find the plants worth tilling the desert in my soul. I have been avoiding my desk since the Wednesday's sit down. Likewise I have been avoiding God, because I am afraid that I don't have what it takes to make it through the wilderness to some brilliant understanding on the other side. I know that there are only two choices though, sit here in fear, or put on my running shoes and attempt the impossible in writing one word to get me closer to experiencing God.

One Hope to Fill the Void of This Day

I am all emotion spilling out of my weekend of late nights and good-byes. I have looked the deep void within my soul in the eyes and I am afraid. The eyes that as a child would watch couples kissing and think they were so happy, making me want the same attention.

I watched Water for Elephants and the main character's chief aim in life becomes satisfying his wife with every good thing she never had before their embrace. In the end she dies and leaves him anyway. I look to friends, my husband, buying more stuff, anything to plug the great obis that cries out for me to fill it with white noise. I want it to scream up at me things like, "you are not alone," "I desire you," "i'm not going to leave you," but the truth is, no words can reassure me. Even in making my husband repeat back what I believe are words of reassurance, they echo around my head and I keep grasping for more words, stronger words, better phrases that can fill me. With twelve years and 12,000 I love you's I still doubt my ability to be loved. All the insecurities and attempts at finding the exact right kiss feels like a chasing after the wind.

Today I sit at Jesus's feet knowing that to truely be free of this, I have to accept the "brutal reality" that even if I lose everything, my husband, my kids, my mom, my friends and am completely alone, I still have "fierce hope." I can only know for certain that Jesus will never leave me and desires me and loves me and that is it. So I just need to be with Him, because every other thought makes me frantic to the point of breaking.

So today I put down his words:
Psalm 121
I will life up my eyes to the mountain;
From where shall my help come? (everyone around me? NO)
My help comes from [you] Lord;
[You] who made heaven and earth.
[You] who will not allow [my] foot to slip;
[You] who keep [me] will not slumber.
Behold [You] who keep Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

[You] are my keeper;
[You] are my shade at [my] right hand.
The sun will not smite [me] by day,
Nor the mood by night.
[You] will protect [me] from all evil;
[You] will keep my soul.
[You] will guard [my] going out and [my] coming in from this time forth and forever.

(paraphrased from New American Standard Version)

A thought on Easter

            On Thursday afternoon I was sitting by the neighborhood sandbox with my kids and a 4, 5 & 6 year old who all live on our block. As we chatted, the following transpired:

            4 yr old: "We should buy enough sand to reach Jesus."

            5: "Who is Jesus?"

            4: "He’s the President"

            Me to 5 yr old: "This weekend people celebrate Easter, which is when Jesus died on the cross and then came alive again."

            6: "That was a mean thing to do."

            Me: "You’re right, it was mean, but Jesus let them do it."

            Today I had my own worst thought about killing Jesus when I was trying to make my 10 month old take a morning nap, so that I could go back to sleep. He kept standing up in the pack-n-play and I thought, “Jesus, make him go to sleep or I will kill you.” As I had it flash in my head I instantly felt like I had just lost everything. I was the kid who after being on the verge of getting in trouble, threw his plate at his mom and then panicked. To try to take it back I ran away screaming, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!,” Even trying to apologize to God felt useless, because I had committed an unforgiveable sin and even in trying to tell God that I did not mean it, I knew it was too late.

            Where did this come from? Who am I to wish God were dead, to be as arrogant as to threaten him? I am ungrateful and dark and evil. I can’t help thinking that I nailed Christ up there. I said you are not enough unless you do my bidding, so I am going to destroy you in my heart. Shame and disappointment and isolation follow and now I am no my needs saying, please forgive me, like you did the criminal dying next to you who confessed that you were “the Christ, the son of God.” You did this for him, promised to meet him that day and I praise you for letting me be a part of the forgiveness and that same reunion that comes after. 

"Write What You Are Passionate About"

So I went to hear a poet read and sing on Friday night. It was a big effort to get out, knowing I would be alone, probably miss it and that it was thirty minutes away (which is far for Ann Arbor, where almost everything is within fifteen). Due to some luck or synchronicity or divine intervention, I got there at the intermission, just before he went on stage to begin his performance.

The guy is Matthew Hunter and one of his pieces is titled, Angel. Prior to reading it, he announced that he does not know this girl, Angel, beyond having spoken with her once. He went on to say that when you write about someone you don’t know, you are speaking about yourself. It felt like he was someone for what he did and for her enthusiasm about everyone he encountered. As I think about this guy, who I do not know beyond his readings, I envy his ability to command space.

I would like to be able to say anything, sing without regret, speak words with emphasis and mean them. To align it all to look important like he does, singing, writing and fighting for Civil Rights and pursuing some advanced degree like Public Health. I want to matter.

So what does it look like to command my own ship, or as he suggested, “write what you are passionate about.” I believe it translates to listening to my internal reactions and observing how I describe the world, as a way of understanding myself. It means continually wondering what is bigger in my character, my struggle with a son or my own disappointment in me.  Silencing that voice that runs on about how I didn’t do the dishes, didn’t stop to listen to my son, didn’t call you, wrote a shitty piece, am selfishly using money for childcare to support being lazy.

In this moment, bigger means sitting for 5 minutes in silence, letting go of expectation, RUNNING, writing the character who might be worth a penny, might not have an epiphany or might be incapable of a witty interlude anyone. Listening when my son says, “Mom, I don’t want you to be grumpy ever again, ok?”

Today, I want to be with David as he plays the “mother” in Mother May I and tells me not to sing. I want to understand why he fights to be the boss. Is he looking for connection, testing his own authority or just too tired to play nicely? Lately, I have struggled to grow beyond “yeses” and “nos” and the make believe stories of our days, as I practice my role as parent. I think that if I can just listen, we can both experience a new way of enjoying attention.

Agonizing in Chaos

I don't organize. Food is random. In the afternoon I think, "Oh phew, we still have some things that might work for dinners." My husband is fine with most things beyond having too many nights of salads and any food on the "wown't eat" list.

So I just got a bunch of quirky cookbooks from a neighbor and will once again attempt a month plan, freezing meats and hoping things last, because the work of purchasing ingredients and deciding in a moment is torture. I also need to be all new recipes because I somehow think people don't like anything I already made.

The same goes with cleaning. I clean when I get so disgusted by what I think others might notice about the fur balls in the corner. What must I, should I, can I do to be "good enough?" To accept the decision and move on (doing or not doing anything without fixating). I have to imagine that if I even settled on a once a month or five minutes a day cleaning routine, that might cure my anxiety.

I long to be less burdened by what I am not doing and either act or dismiss, going back to my entry on "doing or not doing the dishes."Here is the start of my meal plan. I might cook a Pork Roast, Beef Roast, Curry Chicken, Falafel Burgers, Meat balls, Chicken fingers, Fried rice, etc.

My desire is to see life, and in this moment daily survival, in a positive light, as if I am holding up a half full glass of ginger-lime juice, or an icy mocha or something bubbly. I love actually cooking for my family! The result feels like a major accomplishment.

My intention is to raise this glass to you, look in your brown eyes, say "cheers" and take a sip, swish for a moment and then swallow, leaving the memory to linger on!

If only it were that simple!

Processing

Somehow the people who try hardest to love me, give me gifts or really listen, make me afraid of them. My favorite teacher is constantly asking me to do things and I find myself looking down and leaving class the minute she dismisses us, to avoid her. I somehow believe they must be mistaken about investing in me, must want something from me, or will soon realize I am shallow.  So I let them grow up in my weeds or rocks or bad soil for a few minutes, before squelching them so they can never flower in my garden.

One of my college roommates wrote me a story about the day I was born, a five page deal with beautiful detail and lots of love. She made thirty paper flowers and coordinated with thirty people to hand them to me throughout the day. To top it off she threw me the only surprise party I can remember. I was cold in response. I secretly wanting her to miss things and be less important so I could say, no big deal, you are not that amazing or important and neither am I. It pains me to think about how I refused the joy and delight of her unconditional love.

Five years ago, a best friend stopped calling me to see if I would pick up the phone and initiate and I didn’t. I was afraid that if I let her in, I would not be able to hide the dark personal stuff I was facing.

Recently a close family friend chose not spend time with us during my mom’s memorial. I found pleasure in my own indignation. I could focus on stories about how they don’t care, making me feel justified in my distant.

My entire college career has teachers commenting about my papers with things like, “what do you really believe.” I hear them say, “you are a Parrot repeating everyone else, but what matters to you?” Or in art they said, you copy what has been said, but what do you want to be?

I have a print of a woman’s arms moving a black iron across fabric, which was stolen from Picasso’s Ironing woman. My husband has always loved it and while in NY with me on a business trip he stumbled on the original and recognized where mine came from.

Sheesley encouraged me to find my own way, Lundin constantly spoke of “not same love in copy speech, but counter love, original response. Then for my senior show, Shrek raked my layers of armor in questioning my pregnant lady sculpture, demanding that I figure out what the lady was really holding (which was in no way a fetus). In my pregnant sculpture, I wanted to pretend something profound and he saw through it. It turned into the mask of an angry man and still haunts me to this day.

This is one more unfinished thought as I look at deep failures in relating to others. I know that I want people and gifts to matter and I want to respond in love. I don’t want to push you away. I want to sit and listen, without any obligations to pretend. I don’t know what I am supposed to say and so I might just close my eyes and watch your words in my head! 

I know that the starting point is being honest with God and writing down my skeletons so they can be released or at least spoken to! I ask God for patience and to free me for real interactions!

In the past few days I have sat around thinking about personal struggles with abusers, navigating in relationships and how I play active or passive roles in engaging. My friend Melissa wrote an amazing blog about doing the dishes or not doing the dishes, that everyone should read!! She says the following: "There are only ever really two options: do the dishes or don't do them." http://casting-off.blogspot.com/ (Entry for April 13)

I think about this in terms of "save money, or don't, cook or don't, clean or don't, write or don't. The test of deciding what is important to me and what is not is tricky. I often pretend I don't have two options, and then leave the dishes like an unreturned phone call I may never return.

My husband is responsible for cleaning the kids ears and so they are either cleaned or not. If I want them clean, I can clean them, but I don't. He will get to it and manage it if it is important and I have to trust that things will be just fine.

I can't help but think this is same thing with relationships. I can call people I love or who I think need me or not. In reality, I tend not to and then spend hours thinking about how I should call. I keep wondering about this because I would never state that I don't want to talk, but my actions speak for themselves. I passively avoid the conversations. When I do talk, I often think that I don't want to say what I am thinking and flounder on to topics like the weather.

 My friends blog says, "Procrastination is Fear." I think it has to do with fear. Fear of being vulnerable, rejection, bored, alone. Maybe my blog is the answer. I want to talk to all of you, but I don't know how to be there to listen. I have ADD and worry about what I am not asking, remembering or saying to help you. On the flip side, I love moments where we are free to talk about anything and everything without worrying about if we will be ok, because we are in it for the long haul (or we are scheduled to speak again next Sunday night or at Book Club or Small Group or at dinner tonight).

My friends all know what they are going to make for dinner, when they will clean the house and they call me. Sadly, I can't even tell you the last time I showered. I have to believe there is more for me in all of this, so I will keep writing and hope you will keep reading, because I want to believe in you and to experience our lives growing and expanding because of each other. If I don't call you back today, know that I just am not comfortable enough to be honest with you in person and hope I will be bigger tomorrow.

Writing for Today

I believe that it does not matter if I write or paint or run. What is essential is that I am doing anything that grounds me in this moment. My creative life appears in pauses between needy babies; spaces where I can hear myself think. Writing is my choice, but saying it makes me wonder why I am not creating forms and figures in clay. The answer is that I can't stomach the juggling of childcare and supplies. Honestly, clay drying and kilns to fiddle with has meant dragging chalky grey figures from my Senior Show 11 years ago, through four houses until they finally landed in the garbage. Somehow, just having my voice and words is easier.

The thing that makes it feel justified beyond personal sanity is that there might be one or two people reading these words right now. At my mom's memorial, an old friend said that she followed my blog. I couldn't believe it and it makes me want to connect with her through contemplation on this page.

The blockade to my writing lately has been fear about people's reactions regarding the guts of my stories.  Face to face I am suddenly shy, because I am publicly exposed and you are not. In my writing class, people say things like "I can relate" and "this happened to me," which makes me realize that going deeper is a blessing to myself and to others.

Some also want to know if all my writing is non-fiction. The truth is always grey, because I do write about my life in the form of other characters. My goal is to say something about envisioning what being fully alive looks like.

Want to Write something?

Here are quick and easy places you can submit your work right now!!!

- The Sun Readers Write: Topic for this Month is Authority
- Blood Orange: Low Budget WCC Monthly Journal
- Bathhouse: EMU E Journal
- This I Believe: Submissions to NPR

Happy Writing!!!

Remembering Mom

Close your eyes and imagine mom saying, “Chicka-dee-dee-dee,” as she watches the little black capped bird hop around the skinny glass feeder. See her sip hot water from a speckled blue mug and woosh mail and magazines around the butcher-block table to find the place she last remembers reading, where a word waits for her to catch it.

            Eat your blueberry pancakes, with homemade honey slathered over top and place the container of stickiness on the pile of letters.
            Say, “mom, I don’t have time to eat,” even though you know you are wasting precious seconds. Watch her pin her eyes on you and repeat her mantra, “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  You are not allowed to leave until you have eaten everything on your plate.” She will turn back to World Magazine without blinking and you will never see her take a bite.

Arrive home from field hockey practice at five forty-six and find her talking on the phone to an adult sister, while NPR news chatters like another family member. See her fingers kneed dough and move it around in a restaurant sized mixing bowl. The paper selection in front of her shifts and now a book like The God of Small Things, Go Tell it on the Mountain or Lucy Shaw’s Poetry usurps their importance. She will ask you later if you have read one of these and you will have to say “no” over and over until you feel heavy with the burden of your disconnect. You will wish you had known the significance so you could talk about them. With her gone, wonder if reading them might give you language and word to hang on, feel close to. Imagine that she is her favorite character, Jane Eyre, and soak in her simple desire to be loved for her. Somehow dial her invisible phone and feel her voice wrap around you and rock you, because her own mother’s hardships made her to want to be available for her own children.

Say, “boy I am so thankful I had you as a mom.” Listen to her say, “oh honey,” in a faint breath. Feel your wet cheeks and hear her say, “what is it, honey?” Be the girl in the high school production of Our Town who watches her mom slip past, because she can no longer stay. Say, “good-bye” and then mouth the words “I am sorry.” Know that the two months of summer camp, then three in a college semester quickly slipped to six as you followed your spouse West all the way to the moment she forgot your name. Realize you have waited too long. 

Try to live in your mom’s brown kitchen as your three year old comes in to say, “Did Grandma Klauder give me this bear?” Then as he looks at a sister’s family calendar picture he will say, “look mom, it’s grandma Klauder.  She’s in this picture.” Then as the finale hear him describe a walk at the nursing home when he was two where he says, “Grandma Klauder fell, [pause] in the bushes.” Recall his twinkling eyes as he remembers how mom went barreling into the brush and sat down for a rest. Laugh the way you used to about his memory. 

Tell him that she died and went to be with Jesus and say now she has her voice back. Now she can tell all her stories. Watch his eyes shift toward the ceiling. Remember the fall evening at ten when you became aware that mom might die someday. How you lay on your bed sobbing into a pink pillow. She will come into your red wallpapered room and stroke your head and say, “Oh honey, I am not going to die for a long time.” Grab that hand and move it along your head the way you place your hand over your son’s, when he tells you he does not want to go to meet Jesus and he does not want you to either. Repeat back mom’s words to his sudden clouded eyes, “I am not going to die for a long time.” Hope for his sake, that you are telling the truth.

Know the power of your mom’s face. How she would tear up at anything inhuman in the world or your day. How she longed to be with you in your moments. She made those blueberry pancakes every morning, left the dishes to someone else and worked diligently to create warmth through her knitting needles. She loved a good walk, a good paddle in the canoe, a glide on the back of the tandem bicycle and dropped anything to take the van across the country to collect you from some adventure in growing older.

Her life hangs still in this moment when you whisper a love song back to her, decide what bits you will carry in the locket around your neck and what to say in your farewell for the longest amount of time you have ever been away from her.

“God, thank you for collecting her in your arms and stroking her head better than we ever could.”

I am a Cheerleader

I was a born cheerleader. I practiced my splits for the entire month of March, 1991 in anticipation of try-outs. For the three prior years, I attended every basketball game, watching my sister jump and shout and my brother make countless three pointers. The team let me stand with them during smaller events.

When I did not make the squad, because of a blip in my character as noted by Mr. Madison, my Proverbs teacher, I never attended another game. I even cut ties with the girls that I had been close to. They wore the thigh high green and white knit skirts that should have been mine. 

This rejection ricocheted into other areas in my life. The minute I believed that my Field Hockey couch benched me without an explanation, I assumed she disliked me and I quickly switched to Cross Country. When I received an "F" on my first college English paper, I changed my major to education, wriggling towards anything less painful. (eventually I switched back, but always feared that I was a fraud)

In my recent attempts to recover my artistic dreams, I applied to a Masters program for writing. The anticipation was answered in my dreams, where I relived my Cheerleading rejection, now titled "MFA try-outs."

In the first scene, I am sitting in my Creative Writing class and received a wooden ticket with a green circle seal in the center, which I somehow knew meant I was accepted into the Writing program. I cried in the dream and texted my husband. I could feel my lungs expand and lift me like a balloon for sheer relief that the weight of deciding on a path had been lifted.

My waking came with the memory of the second dream, where I received a huge package from the same institution, with some knowledge that they rejected me. I could not find it written in the sheets of text that were stapled in a thick stack, but there were comments on my writing sample, lots of scribbles on my application and an elaborate light blue children’s book, all shouting to me the word, “NO.” Just next to me was my best friend and writing coach. I asked if she had gotten in and she said “yes.” In that moment, I loved her for her success and hated my own rejection at the same time.

I want to react differently when the real notice arrives. I know that regardless of the message inside, I will continue to write. Why, because I know what it means have a voice. I am my own panel of judges deciding that I get to be an artist. I have to write and so in this moment, I sit outside the Marco I-Net Café and Boutique listening to a techno beat doing just that. 

Two planes, two kids under 3, Bring it on!

It is the night before I take my two boys on not one but two planes to get to Ft Meyer. David wants to be a pilot when he grows up and is ecstatic about this adventure. We have broken a paper chain link everyday for two weeks, because for the past month, he has said, “can we go now?”

We leave here at 9:45 AM and arrive at our final destination at 5:45 PM. Isaac has never flown and David and I can’t remember his last trip. On top of this, I can’t bring myself to pay the fees for checking a bag. What is wrong with me??? Why am I so crazy about money and always abusing myself in creating impossible situations to somehow manage? If my husband and friends read this, they would tell me not to do it, and then I would just be mad for having to deal with there opinions.

Where does this come from? Maybe years of packing in duffel bags, never flying, leaving hours past the scheduled time. Driving fast, taking the back roads, running for the train to just barely make or miss it. You would think I would be tired of it, but part of me is excited to have it go ok, or to complain about how I will never do it again (knowing full well that that is a lie).

Today I am sitting in Marco Island, and yesterday’s trip is but a memory. It was “easy,” I will tell my in-laws. I got to check my bag at the first gate for free. My son sat in the pilot seat in the cockpit of our first plane. Only one passenger complained about David, because he was drumming on the tray. David said adorable things like, “That plane is landing up,” and “I am going to make the plane go up,” as he lifted the arm rest up and down the entire second flight as he pushed the button to make it go faster. Only once did he say, I want the plane to stop now,” while we were in mid-air. Only once did he say he felt sick and accept my holding a bag over his mouth for several minutes. We fit three people into the bathroom and listented to Isaac scream only while inside. Honestly, if I was not the mom, I would be crying too. But seriously, there were no potty accidents and the story is already aging well. I walk away thinking, I can do anything and know that the next time, given the option, I will do it again!

Today

I called my best friend today saying I can't give myself permission to write. That I am failing at relationships, mothering and creating. A few times, today included she tells me what she tells her yoga students, "Accept your body as it is for at least the next 60 minutes." She also said, "You are doing the best job you can right now." I try to argue otherwise, but she insists that with what I have and where I am, that this is it.

The problem for me is in deciding. Do I A: Clean so my husband will be happier, B: Write so I know why I am so disengaged, C: Prepare for tonights mystery dinner, where I am narrating, D: Pay attention to my 8 month old Isaac laughing on my lap and saying "da da da, awooh, ba ba, wa, wa." E: Get a job to become "legitimate" to adults. Every choice or future has a BIG sign reading something like FEAR, WORRY, and UNKNOW just above it. It is like I am a weather forecaster standing in a room without  a script or clue what is being projected behind me, so have to pretend I know what is coming. (Do I even know what I am saying in this second?)

The tangible actions today were groceries  and laundry but the intangible was living inside my head. I am so distracted I can't hear anything my kids are saying. Is this me doing my best? Is this blog entry a hopeless bit of my conscience asking me to pay attention, to write the gunk out of me and onto a page I never have  to read again?

If I were one of my super organized sisters, I could fit the details into my life more comfortably, but I am not. If I were a professor, I might be smarter. I just read David Copperfield and I wonder if I am his first wife, Dora, who is simple and incapable of growing. Like her, details never feel easy. (I want to get other people's choices out of my heads.)

Living in this moment means not worrying about what might happen. I just need to take the deep breaths and let myself be ok without approval, to know that I am doing my best and enjoy being right here.