Someone asked her yesterday who she was. Who "she" was. There was silence for awhile. Now, here's a lesson from The Facts of Life: A really close friend, someone who is almost a part of you, can sit silently on the other end of the phone line without giving up and hanging up. She can sit there in dead silence, doing her toenails, watching a muted soap opera on TV for a half-hour at a time while you struggle with an answer or while you cry so hard you are no longer able to take a deep breath, much less speak words.
But someone asked her yesterday who she was and there was no answer until this morning when she sat up in bed when the 5:00 mockingbird alarm sang her awake, even in the midst of a pouring rain, and realized who she was.
She is a mockingbird. She can sing everyone's songs but has none of her own.
She has a friend like herself, and they are always alert to finding where they belong before it is too late, before all the best spots are taken. They are like puzzle pieces that have had the tabs bent so when they are put into a place in the puzzle where they should fit, they upset the smooth surface of the finished product just a bit.
She is a mockingbird, moving around, learning new songs, rippling the surface, always returning to the same tree in the Spring alone, happy to be singing someone else's songs from the safety of a familiar branch.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Seventh Street/Mockingbirg Lane
Last Monday morning she slowly opened her eyes, emerging from a deep dream-riddled sleep, to the sounds of a dozen species of birds, it seemed, singing right outside her window. When she pulled her sleepy, groggy-eyed self to her elbows to look out her second story window just above the head of her bed, that she had opened the night before to let the fresh air in, expecting to see an aviary of colors and nearly every species of bird perched on the power lines just across the street, she laughed.
Back from that place it flies off to in order to escape winter, was the mockingbird. Sleek gray body, a long tail that usually is at a right angle with it's back unless it is bobbing around to create balance on those skinny little legs, the mockingbird sings the song of every other birdkind it has encountered while traveling, along with the songs of the Midwest bird families it lives with all summer.
On Tuesday, it seemed the little bird with the loud voice had moved almost imperceptibly closer to her open window. At six o'clock that morning, the morning starting a little earlier as the earth moved closer to summer, she shook herself awake and smiled out the window at her new alarm clock. "I've missed you," she said to the mockingbird.
On Wednesday morning, the "alarm" sounded at 5:59. It was beginning to sound like possibly the Bird Population had escaped from their confines somewhere and had taken up residence on the wire across the street. But she glanced at her clock and snuggled back under the covers for fifteen more minutes, reaching up to close the window over the bed.
On Thursday morning, at 5:58, without bothering to look, she slammed the window closed on the choir with the incredible playlist rehearsing outside, seemingly on her windowsill.
Then it was Friday. 5:57. She rubbed her eyes and sprang out of bed, made coffee and sat on her front porch so she could throw rocks at the mockingbird across the street. The beautiful little bird watched her with amusement, first singing a Robin song, then a Cardinal song, then some mixture. A rock zipped past his little head and he never missed a beat.
"Are you frickin' BLIND?" She screamed! "These rocks could seriously injury you!"
The mockingbird sort of did a little bob on the wire, clearing his throat for the next barage of songs, and she grabbed her coffee cup off the step and stomped into the house where she closed all the windows and turned up the volume of her own music inside.
It became a competition, then, with the little guy outside quickly mastering nearly any music she played, running through the octaves and sclaes like a child with a choral instructor.
That night she went to bed late, knowing that Saturday morning was on the horizon when she could sleep in, recuperate from a long, stressful work week. She pulled the shades to keep the room a little darker a little longer.
Saturday morning dawned at 5:57 when she heard her cell phone ringing by her bed.
All of her friends in all of the time zones they represented, knew better than to call her before dawn on Saturday, unless it was bad news, and she sat up, fished the phone off the nightstand where it was hidden under a book or two, dropped it, quickly got out of bed to retrieve it, stubbed her already-sore toe. She clicked it open, "Hello?? Hello???"
She pushed the menu button, scrolled, found the recent received calls list on the menu. There was nothing there. No missed calls, no recently received calls. And then she heard it. The ring tone of her phone, perfectly imitated, from outside.
"Okay," she said quietly. "You win."
She crawled back into bed and opened the window wide, now after finally bowing to Mother Nature's sense of humor, and fell back to sleep right in the middle of the aviary she owned, and the mockingbird sang.
Learning to co-exist made for peace in the neighborhood.
Back from that place it flies off to in order to escape winter, was the mockingbird. Sleek gray body, a long tail that usually is at a right angle with it's back unless it is bobbing around to create balance on those skinny little legs, the mockingbird sings the song of every other birdkind it has encountered while traveling, along with the songs of the Midwest bird families it lives with all summer.
On Tuesday, it seemed the little bird with the loud voice had moved almost imperceptibly closer to her open window. At six o'clock that morning, the morning starting a little earlier as the earth moved closer to summer, she shook herself awake and smiled out the window at her new alarm clock. "I've missed you," she said to the mockingbird.
On Wednesday morning, the "alarm" sounded at 5:59. It was beginning to sound like possibly the Bird Population had escaped from their confines somewhere and had taken up residence on the wire across the street. But she glanced at her clock and snuggled back under the covers for fifteen more minutes, reaching up to close the window over the bed.
On Thursday morning, at 5:58, without bothering to look, she slammed the window closed on the choir with the incredible playlist rehearsing outside, seemingly on her windowsill.
Then it was Friday. 5:57. She rubbed her eyes and sprang out of bed, made coffee and sat on her front porch so she could throw rocks at the mockingbird across the street. The beautiful little bird watched her with amusement, first singing a Robin song, then a Cardinal song, then some mixture. A rock zipped past his little head and he never missed a beat.
"Are you frickin' BLIND?" She screamed! "These rocks could seriously injury you!"
The mockingbird sort of did a little bob on the wire, clearing his throat for the next barage of songs, and she grabbed her coffee cup off the step and stomped into the house where she closed all the windows and turned up the volume of her own music inside.
It became a competition, then, with the little guy outside quickly mastering nearly any music she played, running through the octaves and sclaes like a child with a choral instructor.
That night she went to bed late, knowing that Saturday morning was on the horizon when she could sleep in, recuperate from a long, stressful work week. She pulled the shades to keep the room a little darker a little longer.
Saturday morning dawned at 5:57 when she heard her cell phone ringing by her bed.
All of her friends in all of the time zones they represented, knew better than to call her before dawn on Saturday, unless it was bad news, and she sat up, fished the phone off the nightstand where it was hidden under a book or two, dropped it, quickly got out of bed to retrieve it, stubbed her already-sore toe. She clicked it open, "Hello?? Hello???"
She pushed the menu button, scrolled, found the recent received calls list on the menu. There was nothing there. No missed calls, no recently received calls. And then she heard it. The ring tone of her phone, perfectly imitated, from outside.
"Okay," she said quietly. "You win."
She crawled back into bed and opened the window wide, now after finally bowing to Mother Nature's sense of humor, and fell back to sleep right in the middle of the aviary she owned, and the mockingbird sang.
Learning to co-exist made for peace in the neighborhood.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Missing
The two of them were sitting on the reclining loveseat, reclined, relaxed, sharing a bottle of wine. The evening was gorgeous considering it was mid-February in Southern Indiana. She had the window in the living room open for the fresh air, but a fire in the fireplace for whatever bit of chill had started to set in as evening fell.
It was a Saturday night, the work week over for them both, and they were watching TV. A Dateline 48-Hour Mystery show was on and the episode was the story of a woman who had disappeared and her husband had become, of course, the prime suspect.
He said, "So, what do you think of that?"
She answered, in an off-handed manner, "He really nailed his coffin closed when he didn't report her missing for three weeks and she turned up dead in the canal five houses down."
"Well, you travel a lot. You're independent. You know how to take care of yourself. If you left ME, pissed off, I probably wouldn't look for you, either, knowing you were most likely fine, just angry." He said. "At least not for a couple of weeks."
She sat her wine down before she dropped it and leveled a look at him that could have intercepted and destroyed a nuclear bomb.
The air was so brittle in the room that her voice almost made a visible crack in it..."You're telling me that we've been together for twelve years, and you honest to God think that I would get angry and walk away for two weeks without contacting you? I wouldn't leave here for a DAY without contacting you...thank God I have girlfriends who would be a little more concerned!"
Three weeks later, another Saturday had rolled around, another bottle of wine had been opened and the big decision for the day was whether or not to go to Wal-Mart. They both hated it, but they both knew they needed to go, so they made a list and decided to make it a fun expedition to get what they needed and then go look at stone to put in the patio they had been planning for a couple of years.
On the way there he said, "Don't walk off and leave me in Wal-Mart, I panic when I start looking for you in there and can't find you."
You know? We never really know anyone. We think we do, but about the time we get comfortable, we realize we know nothing about the person we are walking through this life with.
She said, "Wait, aren't you the same person who said a few weeks ago that you would let me go missing for two weeks before you even thought about looking for me??"
He just smiled and drove, obviously not as confused by this as she was.
It was a Saturday night, the work week over for them both, and they were watching TV. A Dateline 48-Hour Mystery show was on and the episode was the story of a woman who had disappeared and her husband had become, of course, the prime suspect.
He said, "So, what do you think of that?"
She answered, in an off-handed manner, "He really nailed his coffin closed when he didn't report her missing for three weeks and she turned up dead in the canal five houses down."
"Well, you travel a lot. You're independent. You know how to take care of yourself. If you left ME, pissed off, I probably wouldn't look for you, either, knowing you were most likely fine, just angry." He said. "At least not for a couple of weeks."
She sat her wine down before she dropped it and leveled a look at him that could have intercepted and destroyed a nuclear bomb.
The air was so brittle in the room that her voice almost made a visible crack in it..."You're telling me that we've been together for twelve years, and you honest to God think that I would get angry and walk away for two weeks without contacting you? I wouldn't leave here for a DAY without contacting you...thank God I have girlfriends who would be a little more concerned!"
Three weeks later, another Saturday had rolled around, another bottle of wine had been opened and the big decision for the day was whether or not to go to Wal-Mart. They both hated it, but they both knew they needed to go, so they made a list and decided to make it a fun expedition to get what they needed and then go look at stone to put in the patio they had been planning for a couple of years.
On the way there he said, "Don't walk off and leave me in Wal-Mart, I panic when I start looking for you in there and can't find you."
You know? We never really know anyone. We think we do, but about the time we get comfortable, we realize we know nothing about the person we are walking through this life with.
She said, "Wait, aren't you the same person who said a few weeks ago that you would let me go missing for two weeks before you even thought about looking for me??"
He just smiled and drove, obviously not as confused by this as she was.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
From the Outside Looking In
Sometimes it is a lot easier to see someone's accomplishments when viewed from the outside looking in. We are a lot harder on ourselves than others are on us. We just don't realize that. Lately, though, she has been practicing how to quiet her head and try to see herself as someone else might see her.
That is very difficult. There is nothing easy about it. Besides the fact that her mind automatically wants to click to the past or the future, it is sometimes painful to have to look at herself in such harsh light. She is her own worst critic, of course.
Most of what she has learned from this practice is that while she wants to portray herself as hard, distant, cold and uncaring, that is nothing more than a defense mechanism to protect her heart. When she is honest with herself, or allows her spirit to be honest with her brain, she finds that she is not cold and uncaring and really not even all that angry, and it is much more restful to find she is really at peace with the person she has become than to constantly fight demons that should have been harnessed years ago. She finds she is quite happy to lose the battle in order to win the war.
She has been engrossed in the book "Gilead" by Marilynne Robinson, for days now, reading and rereading, savoring, and today she read the following passage: "Broughton says he has more ideas about heaven every day. He said, 'Mainly I just think about the splendors of the world and multiply by two. I'd multiply by ten or twelve if I had the energy. But two is much more than sufficient for my purposes.' So he's just sitting there multiplying the feel of the wind times two, multiplying the smell of the grass times two."
If we can learn to calculate our heaven, then we have won the war, she thinks.
That is very difficult. There is nothing easy about it. Besides the fact that her mind automatically wants to click to the past or the future, it is sometimes painful to have to look at herself in such harsh light. She is her own worst critic, of course.
Most of what she has learned from this practice is that while she wants to portray herself as hard, distant, cold and uncaring, that is nothing more than a defense mechanism to protect her heart. When she is honest with herself, or allows her spirit to be honest with her brain, she finds that she is not cold and uncaring and really not even all that angry, and it is much more restful to find she is really at peace with the person she has become than to constantly fight demons that should have been harnessed years ago. She finds she is quite happy to lose the battle in order to win the war.
She has been engrossed in the book "Gilead" by Marilynne Robinson, for days now, reading and rereading, savoring, and today she read the following passage: "Broughton says he has more ideas about heaven every day. He said, 'Mainly I just think about the splendors of the world and multiply by two. I'd multiply by ten or twelve if I had the energy. But two is much more than sufficient for my purposes.' So he's just sitting there multiplying the feel of the wind times two, multiplying the smell of the grass times two."
If we can learn to calculate our heaven, then we have won the war, she thinks.
Monday, March 13, 2006
A Case for the Dandelions
The "run to the bagel shop" this stormy Monday morning took on an all new meaning. She was hungry, the dog wanted her bagel bone and was restless about that, and it's just a habit to work until breaktime and then "run down to the bagel shop" on the corner.
This morning she stood glancing out the window to the west, watching another huge storm brewing there, and knew that she had to time it perfectly.
She shrugged into rain gear and tested the air by stepping out onto the porch, facing each direction to get a sense of the wind and how long she thought she had to get there and back.
"If I run there, get a banana nut muffin instead of the toasted blueberry bagel with cream cheese, and walk back pretty quickly," she told Annie, I can just make it before that cuts loose...can just get back inside before the first drops of rain splash down."
The run down was perfect, but a little awkward in a raincoat, the hood bouncing behind her, her tennis shoes splashing puddles up around her ankles with every step. She went inside, ordered her muffin, small house blend coffee and bagel bone for Annie, could feel the charge in the air, the humidity, and could tell by the almost imperceptible change in the light through the plateglass window, that she was just going to make it home before having to pull up the hood and pull on the rubber boots.
She pushed her beaded Moo-Lah cow-shaped change purse into one pocket, her cell phone and the bagel bone in the other and balancing the white paper sack and the cup of hot coffee, walked briskly toward her house. The first left turn and it was visible on the hill. The air thickened and she stepped the pace up a bit.
One drop on the sleeve of the coat, but she still had time.
Just before the sky opened up and dumped its wares, she stopped in front of her house and thought, "Man, look at all the dandelions in my yard!"
She opened the front door and the downpour began. The dog was squirming in anticipation of the breakfast she knew was coming, and she broke the bagel in half, and together, she and her black and tan Dachshund stood on the safe side of the storm door and watched the rain washing the earth while they had their breakfast.
Later in the day, once things had dried out, she noticed her neighbor outside in her own yard, seeking out the dandelions growing there, an industrial-sized cannister of weed killer strapped to her back that made her look like a misplaced moonwalker. She would see one of the yellow flowers and point and shoot, not unlike a cowboy in an old Western. She could almost hear the Spaghetti Western music playing in the background.
She feels she has to state the case for the dandelions. Really, if one thinks about it, they have to see that this is the most perfect species of flower. It comes up every spring and even sometimes in the winter if the sun gets warm enough for a couple of days, and adds a splash of yellow color. The dandelion requires no maintenance whatsoever, and it's reproduction capabilities are enviable.
She shakes her head, realizing that she will never understand what constitutes beauty and what constitutes weeds as long as she lives and closes the blinds on the mass murder going on next door.
This morning she stood glancing out the window to the west, watching another huge storm brewing there, and knew that she had to time it perfectly.
She shrugged into rain gear and tested the air by stepping out onto the porch, facing each direction to get a sense of the wind and how long she thought she had to get there and back.
"If I run there, get a banana nut muffin instead of the toasted blueberry bagel with cream cheese, and walk back pretty quickly," she told Annie, I can just make it before that cuts loose...can just get back inside before the first drops of rain splash down."
The run down was perfect, but a little awkward in a raincoat, the hood bouncing behind her, her tennis shoes splashing puddles up around her ankles with every step. She went inside, ordered her muffin, small house blend coffee and bagel bone for Annie, could feel the charge in the air, the humidity, and could tell by the almost imperceptible change in the light through the plateglass window, that she was just going to make it home before having to pull up the hood and pull on the rubber boots.
She pushed her beaded Moo-Lah cow-shaped change purse into one pocket, her cell phone and the bagel bone in the other and balancing the white paper sack and the cup of hot coffee, walked briskly toward her house. The first left turn and it was visible on the hill. The air thickened and she stepped the pace up a bit.
One drop on the sleeve of the coat, but she still had time.
Just before the sky opened up and dumped its wares, she stopped in front of her house and thought, "Man, look at all the dandelions in my yard!"
She opened the front door and the downpour began. The dog was squirming in anticipation of the breakfast she knew was coming, and she broke the bagel in half, and together, she and her black and tan Dachshund stood on the safe side of the storm door and watched the rain washing the earth while they had their breakfast.
Later in the day, once things had dried out, she noticed her neighbor outside in her own yard, seeking out the dandelions growing there, an industrial-sized cannister of weed killer strapped to her back that made her look like a misplaced moonwalker. She would see one of the yellow flowers and point and shoot, not unlike a cowboy in an old Western. She could almost hear the Spaghetti Western music playing in the background.
She feels she has to state the case for the dandelions. Really, if one thinks about it, they have to see that this is the most perfect species of flower. It comes up every spring and even sometimes in the winter if the sun gets warm enough for a couple of days, and adds a splash of yellow color. The dandelion requires no maintenance whatsoever, and it's reproduction capabilities are enviable.
She shakes her head, realizing that she will never understand what constitutes beauty and what constitutes weeds as long as she lives and closes the blinds on the mass murder going on next door.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Rainbows
The weekend has been stormy. The clouds gather in the south or in the west and fill up with precipitation and blow their way into her world, one gigantic electrical storm after another, full of rain and fury. Eight inches of rain in three days is a lot, even for this part of the Country, and venturing outside, even to the local McDonald's for a McGriddle on Sunday morning becomes a study in geography, planning the streets least likely to be flooded, coursing away from the river and, eyes peeled for signs of trouble, standing water not yet cordoned off by the local police department.
With all that anger built up in the clouds, she contemplates the fact that all she has found this weekend is peace. The pace has been slow. Nothing much seemed a necessity. A trip to a near-by book store to stock in substantial reading material turned out to be the only drive she took, the books being more important than milk or eggs.
She wanders to her cabinet, peers in, finds nothing of interest. Even less interesting is the refrigerator, but she puts eating on hold and curls up in the rocking reclining love seat by the big front window, turns on the lamp situated in perfect reading position at her right shoulder, kicks up the foot rest and soon becomes absorbed in a good book, sipping a diet Pepsi straight from the bottle, absently stroking the head of her Dachshund, Annie, who is snuggled between her and the armrest.
When a flash of close lightning interrupts her, she jumps at the same time the dog does, dropping the book, waits impatiently for the loud thunder that will cause the house to rattle and shake, and she is not disappointed. She looks out of the window in amazement at the hard rain that is so thick it is nearly white, like a translucent shower curtain, making the walls of the apartment building across the street seem dream-like and wavy. If the temperature was forty degrees colder, it would be a blinding blizzard-like snow falling and the effect would be similar.
Suddenly the curtain is raised, and only drizzle remains. To the east the black clouds boil and churn, to the west, the sun is dazzling and she knows there will be a rainbow. Not only is she sure of that fact, she knows, after all these years of being rooted in the same spot on this earth, exactly where to look for it.
She and Annie kick down the foot rest and go to the front door, knowing how fleeting the colors can be, step out onto the front porch of her little brick house and turn toward the southeast and there it is. A rainbow brighter than any she has ever seen. The colors are not terminating into the trees on the horizon but are coming straight to the ground in front of the treeline, a multicolored explanation point at the end of the day, and that is something she has never seen before. She can truly see the end of the rainbow. And as quickly as it formed, it is gone, before she can truly even absorb the magnificence of it, reminding her how precious every second is.
With all that anger built up in the clouds, she contemplates the fact that all she has found this weekend is peace. The pace has been slow. Nothing much seemed a necessity. A trip to a near-by book store to stock in substantial reading material turned out to be the only drive she took, the books being more important than milk or eggs.
She wanders to her cabinet, peers in, finds nothing of interest. Even less interesting is the refrigerator, but she puts eating on hold and curls up in the rocking reclining love seat by the big front window, turns on the lamp situated in perfect reading position at her right shoulder, kicks up the foot rest and soon becomes absorbed in a good book, sipping a diet Pepsi straight from the bottle, absently stroking the head of her Dachshund, Annie, who is snuggled between her and the armrest.
When a flash of close lightning interrupts her, she jumps at the same time the dog does, dropping the book, waits impatiently for the loud thunder that will cause the house to rattle and shake, and she is not disappointed. She looks out of the window in amazement at the hard rain that is so thick it is nearly white, like a translucent shower curtain, making the walls of the apartment building across the street seem dream-like and wavy. If the temperature was forty degrees colder, it would be a blinding blizzard-like snow falling and the effect would be similar.
Suddenly the curtain is raised, and only drizzle remains. To the east the black clouds boil and churn, to the west, the sun is dazzling and she knows there will be a rainbow. Not only is she sure of that fact, she knows, after all these years of being rooted in the same spot on this earth, exactly where to look for it.
She and Annie kick down the foot rest and go to the front door, knowing how fleeting the colors can be, step out onto the front porch of her little brick house and turn toward the southeast and there it is. A rainbow brighter than any she has ever seen. The colors are not terminating into the trees on the horizon but are coming straight to the ground in front of the treeline, a multicolored explanation point at the end of the day, and that is something she has never seen before. She can truly see the end of the rainbow. And as quickly as it formed, it is gone, before she can truly even absorb the magnificence of it, reminding her how precious every second is.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Tears, Fears and Missiles
There are not many things that can make her cry, but the sky might. Just the way clouds form, the colors they take on, will occasionally bring some long-buried memory to the tear ducts in the corners of her eyes. The tears bring a sobbing reflex and soon, she is sitting alone in her beach house on a twenty-dollar Wal-Mart lounge chair, feeling the breeze dry the salt on her cheeks, blowing her nose, shaking her head and wondering what memory, when she turned the corner toward her house on her evening walk, glancing up and seeing the clouds churning, first black, then pink, then the color of scalded corn chowder, blasted out of its comfortable bunker where it had been safely stored, for a split second and reduced her to that tight-throated episode of self-pity or fear
Even after the lid was closed on it for less than a minute, she had no recollection of the color of that missile.
Even after the lid was closed on it for less than a minute, she had no recollection of the color of that missile.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Dreaming
Last night she had a fitful night. That was pretty apparent from the condition of the quilts and sheets this morning and evidenced by the little pounding headache right behind her eyes. With a full day of work ahead, she finds herself squinting at the computer screen already, at 7:30 A.M., chugging iced coffee.
The exhaustion after a night like that is physical and expected. The remnants of nightmares, scenes playing out over and over in her mind until it seems the film suddenly breaks and is spliced, cutting out small pieces of the terror until finally there is nothing left to view, surprise her with their close association with her consciousness, and with their clarity.
When she tries to make sense of the five-minute snippets, only five minutes long since for the past three hours she has dozed in five-minute increments, each time shaken awake by another piece of the dream, she can't. They do not correspond at all with her real world. And the Dream Gods refuse to offer any interpretation. The messages seem apparent yet elusive because they signal a dark side she hates to consider lives within herself, and they literally scream of fear of something, and dread.
There was a dark elevator she had to ride, and it tilted as it made its way skyward, throwing her against the wall, but making her giggle at the same time. There was an empty suitcase on a long trip, far from home, and ridicule because she had forgotten to pack. Then there was a contradictory, comfortable moment...a sweet kiss...followed almost immediately by a speeding car and what seemed would be certain death before she was jerked awake, sweating, breathing hard.
She refused sleep then. Craved it but held it off, dragged herself out of bed and started her day.
When her children were young and would wake her to save them from a nightmare she would say, "Dreams are just movies in your head, they aren't real."
But after nights like last night, the mother worries that dreams are truth and life is fiction. The worry will fade as the movie is spliced shorter and shorter and tonight might be a dreamless one, quiet and opposite, or the sleep world colorful and content and beautiful, proving that there is also a kind and gentle side that is real. Her autobiography. We need the occasional nightmare to help us appreciate the colors of life and the beautiful, sweet dreams. She knows that and she demands another take on last night's movie, clicks the board shut, directs a new scene and covers last night's fiasco with images of flowers and laughter.
There, that is much, much better! Let the day begin...
The exhaustion after a night like that is physical and expected. The remnants of nightmares, scenes playing out over and over in her mind until it seems the film suddenly breaks and is spliced, cutting out small pieces of the terror until finally there is nothing left to view, surprise her with their close association with her consciousness, and with their clarity.
When she tries to make sense of the five-minute snippets, only five minutes long since for the past three hours she has dozed in five-minute increments, each time shaken awake by another piece of the dream, she can't. They do not correspond at all with her real world. And the Dream Gods refuse to offer any interpretation. The messages seem apparent yet elusive because they signal a dark side she hates to consider lives within herself, and they literally scream of fear of something, and dread.
There was a dark elevator she had to ride, and it tilted as it made its way skyward, throwing her against the wall, but making her giggle at the same time. There was an empty suitcase on a long trip, far from home, and ridicule because she had forgotten to pack. Then there was a contradictory, comfortable moment...a sweet kiss...followed almost immediately by a speeding car and what seemed would be certain death before she was jerked awake, sweating, breathing hard.
She refused sleep then. Craved it but held it off, dragged herself out of bed and started her day.
When her children were young and would wake her to save them from a nightmare she would say, "Dreams are just movies in your head, they aren't real."
But after nights like last night, the mother worries that dreams are truth and life is fiction. The worry will fade as the movie is spliced shorter and shorter and tonight might be a dreamless one, quiet and opposite, or the sleep world colorful and content and beautiful, proving that there is also a kind and gentle side that is real. Her autobiography. We need the occasional nightmare to help us appreciate the colors of life and the beautiful, sweet dreams. She knows that and she demands another take on last night's movie, clicks the board shut, directs a new scene and covers last night's fiasco with images of flowers and laughter.
There, that is much, much better! Let the day begin...
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Believing in Angels
Remember the song, "Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go?"
In her case, the lyrics are a little different. They're, "Over the highway and through the town, to granddaughter's house we go."
She made the short drive to pick up her four-year-old granddaughter this afternoon. They were together all day yesterday, but for her, it did not seem long enough. The day in the presence of this little girl is just a study in relaxation, a chance to renew, strengthen, redeem herself.
The child can make her cry, with a few words.
The child can show her her soul just with a smile directed her way.
And the child can make her realize her blessings by saying, "Gramma, what did you wish for last night?"
She answered, after very little thought, "I wished that you could come back over to my house today, and look, it came true...what did you wish for?"
And without missing a beat the little girl said, "That I could see my Gramma again today, and see? It came true."
Love comes in all shapes and sizes, but there is no love like the electric love between grandmother and granddaughter. They look at one another and understand God and believe in angels.
In her case, the lyrics are a little different. They're, "Over the highway and through the town, to granddaughter's house we go."
She made the short drive to pick up her four-year-old granddaughter this afternoon. They were together all day yesterday, but for her, it did not seem long enough. The day in the presence of this little girl is just a study in relaxation, a chance to renew, strengthen, redeem herself.
The child can make her cry, with a few words.
The child can show her her soul just with a smile directed her way.
And the child can make her realize her blessings by saying, "Gramma, what did you wish for last night?"
She answered, after very little thought, "I wished that you could come back over to my house today, and look, it came true...what did you wish for?"
And without missing a beat the little girl said, "That I could see my Gramma again today, and see? It came true."
Love comes in all shapes and sizes, but there is no love like the electric love between grandmother and granddaughter. They look at one another and understand God and believe in angels.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
The Recliner
She gave her ex-husband an old recliner. He had nothing to his name, really; so few possessions, so hoping to rid herself of the old, broken down, dilapidated chair, she offered it to him, only to find it once more in her possession when it returned with the ex-husband to reside in the upstairs of her house years later. After she evicted him, once again from her life, as if haunting her, the chair stayed firmly lodged in her upstairs hallway, and each time she passed by it she found herself kicking it and cursing at it.
So when Ex called again, asking to come after the chair, she was more than a little relieved but skeptical that it could actually vacate her premises.
He brought three men along: Two younger men and one old man, and the younger ones trudged up her staircase with Ex to wrestle the chair once more down the steps and into her dining room. She looked at it, head tilted, eyes narrowed, and silently challenged it to return to her ever, now...now that it belonged to perfect strangers whose names she never even asked for.
But imagine her surprise when the old man took out his wallet and paid Ex twenty dollars for it, right there in her dining room.
That old, recliner smiled, she swears it did, and stuck its tongue out at her as it exited the house and made its home in the back of a rusted-out pickup truck where, for all she knows, it will stay forever and ever amen.
Now she will be pulling up alongside similar-looking trucks at stoplights and passing them on the streets, forced to always peer over and see if the maroon chair is in position like a Beverly Hillbillies rocker, with an old man perched there, roasting in the sun or freezing in the cold, swigging a beer or rum straight from the bottle.
Life is a study.
So when Ex called again, asking to come after the chair, she was more than a little relieved but skeptical that it could actually vacate her premises.
He brought three men along: Two younger men and one old man, and the younger ones trudged up her staircase with Ex to wrestle the chair once more down the steps and into her dining room. She looked at it, head tilted, eyes narrowed, and silently challenged it to return to her ever, now...now that it belonged to perfect strangers whose names she never even asked for.
But imagine her surprise when the old man took out his wallet and paid Ex twenty dollars for it, right there in her dining room.
That old, recliner smiled, she swears it did, and stuck its tongue out at her as it exited the house and made its home in the back of a rusted-out pickup truck where, for all she knows, it will stay forever and ever amen.
Now she will be pulling up alongside similar-looking trucks at stoplights and passing them on the streets, forced to always peer over and see if the maroon chair is in position like a Beverly Hillbillies rocker, with an old man perched there, roasting in the sun or freezing in the cold, swigging a beer or rum straight from the bottle.
Life is a study.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
When Daddies Dance - For Fred and Cathi
I wonder if you remember the way you
Used to catch me if I'd fall.
The special things you said to me
From up there, ten feet tall.
I wonder if you laughed at night
At the silly things I did,
About the way I looked to you
To keep my secrets hid.
Because I remember, Daddy,
How much you meant to me and
That you noticed something here
That no one else could see.
I remember that you saved me
From myself time and time again.
Without you all the things I am
I never could have been.
Only special daddies dance and
I remember you that way.
I could never love you any more
Than I love you here today.
Go dance with the angels in Heaven,
Go dance among the stars.
You'll always be here with me
In the memories that are ours.
Go dance across the sky,
You're free to do that now.
Pirouette between the clouds,
Take your final bow.
I'll be standing down here watching,
Applauding loudest of them all
And remembering what you said to me
From up there, ten feet tall.
Now go dance with the angels in Heaven,
Go dance among the stars.
You'll always be here with me
In the memories that are ours.
Kathy McWhirt
3/1/06
Used to catch me if I'd fall.
The special things you said to me
From up there, ten feet tall.
I wonder if you laughed at night
At the silly things I did,
About the way I looked to you
To keep my secrets hid.
Because I remember, Daddy,
How much you meant to me and
That you noticed something here
That no one else could see.
I remember that you saved me
From myself time and time again.
Without you all the things I am
I never could have been.
Only special daddies dance and
I remember you that way.
I could never love you any more
Than I love you here today.
Go dance with the angels in Heaven,
Go dance among the stars.
You'll always be here with me
In the memories that are ours.
Go dance across the sky,
You're free to do that now.
Pirouette between the clouds,
Take your final bow.
I'll be standing down here watching,
Applauding loudest of them all
And remembering what you said to me
From up there, ten feet tall.
Now go dance with the angels in Heaven,
Go dance among the stars.
You'll always be here with me
In the memories that are ours.
Kathy McWhirt
3/1/06
Home
Just about the time she is ready to ditch this place, Spring happens. When she starts becoming restless, looking for a way out, the doves commence their cooing. Her grandmother called them "rain doves," a fact she never questioned until later in her life and a fact that she analyzed and understood as a woman. There is a certain way that coo sounds when it is anchored close to the ground by black rain clouds that causes a person to notice the loneliness in the voice, makes the tone more pronounced than on bright, sunny days.
March 1. She took her break and walked under cloudy skies, to the bagel shop on the corner and bought her breakfast, sipped the hot, strong coffee on her trek back home. As she stood there waiting for her bagel and coffee, she looked out the plate glass window that faced Newton Street, the main thoroughfare through her town, recognized the way the traffic moved, the way the buildings looked, the way nothing had really changed in the past twenty years.
She has lived here longer than she lived anywhere. Only 18 years were spent in her parents' home. Only seven years were spent in her first relationship and marriage. Only seven years were spent in her second relationship, only one of those as man and wife. She might be the poster child for the term "seven year itch." Or else she is the poster child for the term "enabler;" for staying anchored to something bad to make things good. Who knows how her brain works? Sometimes not even she has a clue what neurons are firing at the exact same moment to produce thoughts she finds comforting or frightening.
Twenty years in this little town.
She has walked from her pretty brick house on the hill to this bagel shop dozens of times. She has made the split-second decision to forego the bagel shop and instead get a chicken salad sandwich at the deli across the street dozens more.
Nothing has changed much in twenty years and Spring is happening once again. She nods at the doves on the green wrought iron fence and smiles at what must be the third or fourth generation of the same dogs contained inside there, barking mercilessly at her. She could close her eyes and walk to her house on the uneven sidewalks. She is home.
March 1. She took her break and walked under cloudy skies, to the bagel shop on the corner and bought her breakfast, sipped the hot, strong coffee on her trek back home. As she stood there waiting for her bagel and coffee, she looked out the plate glass window that faced Newton Street, the main thoroughfare through her town, recognized the way the traffic moved, the way the buildings looked, the way nothing had really changed in the past twenty years.
She has lived here longer than she lived anywhere. Only 18 years were spent in her parents' home. Only seven years were spent in her first relationship and marriage. Only seven years were spent in her second relationship, only one of those as man and wife. She might be the poster child for the term "seven year itch." Or else she is the poster child for the term "enabler;" for staying anchored to something bad to make things good. Who knows how her brain works? Sometimes not even she has a clue what neurons are firing at the exact same moment to produce thoughts she finds comforting or frightening.
Twenty years in this little town.
She has walked from her pretty brick house on the hill to this bagel shop dozens of times. She has made the split-second decision to forego the bagel shop and instead get a chicken salad sandwich at the deli across the street dozens more.
Nothing has changed much in twenty years and Spring is happening once again. She nods at the doves on the green wrought iron fence and smiles at what must be the third or fourth generation of the same dogs contained inside there, barking mercilessly at her. She could close her eyes and walk to her house on the uneven sidewalks. She is home.
Monday, February 27, 2006
New Season
Winter has been brief this year. Too brief, really, to suit her. She needs to feel the cold in her bones and the shivering in her soul during the winter months. She was born and raised in the eastern part of the Country and her sense of normalcy comes from distinct seasons: Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring. When one of those seasons wimps out on her, she feels, though maybe gratefully so, hearing her speak of it, that the world is changing too quickly. She speaks of her desire to live through Eternal Spring, and speaks of it even as her heart is telling her she's lying; even as her eyes give her away.
And now, before Winter ever blew in, it is ending. The sun was never that deceiving white-hot orb floating out there, causing her to cuss and run back inside for more clothes because of its deception of warmth while shining through a below-zero morning. When it was shining this winter, it was not deceiving, it was bringing warmth to the earth, making it a surreal season.
Now, today, there the sun hangs, forcing her to shed clothes, forcing her to open screens, causing her to cuss because she seems to have missed Winter.
And Spring comes marching in...forcing its way through the curtains, bouncing around through the yard, heating everything not covered with an unnatural warmth.
Nothing she can do will stop it. Nothing can make it slink back and wait for its time End-of-March/Beginning-of-April, or even The First of May. It's on its own course so she will welcome it...tomorrow.
And now, before Winter ever blew in, it is ending. The sun was never that deceiving white-hot orb floating out there, causing her to cuss and run back inside for more clothes because of its deception of warmth while shining through a below-zero morning. When it was shining this winter, it was not deceiving, it was bringing warmth to the earth, making it a surreal season.
Now, today, there the sun hangs, forcing her to shed clothes, forcing her to open screens, causing her to cuss because she seems to have missed Winter.
And Spring comes marching in...forcing its way through the curtains, bouncing around through the yard, heating everything not covered with an unnatural warmth.
Nothing she can do will stop it. Nothing can make it slink back and wait for its time End-of-March/Beginning-of-April, or even The First of May. It's on its own course so she will welcome it...tomorrow.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Fragments
She is fragments, not a single person or a single soul, but a collection of souls and people. She is someone for one friend and someone else for another friend. She is a name for her family, a different name for her lover. But the time will come when she puts up the wall and pulls the welcome mat inside, places it INSIDE the door for awhile, welcoming everyone to leave her alone to be herself.
Grief and Life
She has been grieving the loss of two friends; and the loss of her innocence. She had to say goodbye to her childhood because Barry and Bill took that with them. On the flip side, she has come out stronger and with much less fear of living AND dying than before. She has learned the importance of finding a passion and the importance of connections.
The past is important but not as a means to the end. Her history is hers and hers alone and it is to be cherished and loved. Her birth home is still there and time stands still while she connects with it. Time never commences again, she simply walks away.
She has accepted herself. And isn't that the ultimate goal?
The past is important but not as a means to the end. Her history is hers and hers alone and it is to be cherished and loved. Her birth home is still there and time stands still while she connects with it. Time never commences again, she simply walks away.
She has accepted herself. And isn't that the ultimate goal?
Friday, February 24, 2006
Time
She has been meditating. Jason listens to Sinatra and the couple dances still to Sinatra in 2006. The falcons save our lives.
The truth might be this: That time stands still...the movement is from US. The secret might be that we have to jump back and forth between the dimensions, and that might be the Afterlife. When Moon River plays and we feel a tug at our hearts or when we hear a story about Al Capone and have a familiar feeling, it could be because we have crossed into that time. We have memories of our past lives.
Time stands still. The only reason anything changes is because of our movement through it.
The truth might be this: That time stands still...the movement is from US. The secret might be that we have to jump back and forth between the dimensions, and that might be the Afterlife. When Moon River plays and we feel a tug at our hearts or when we hear a story about Al Capone and have a familiar feeling, it could be because we have crossed into that time. We have memories of our past lives.
Time stands still. The only reason anything changes is because of our movement through it.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Lessons
She's learned a lot today already. It's 10 AM and she has been glued to The History Channel for the entire morning.
She learned that Dulles Airport was the first jet port in the United States and was opened in 1962.
She learned that the DC-8 aircraft was called the paper plane because it started to sell to airlines while it was still on the drawing board, literally.
But the thing that she learned that floored her was this: With all our technology and all the time we have had to perfect our technology, 15 of our airports still use falcons, yes, the actual birds, to keep other birds away from the runways to prevent crashes caused by bird impacts with planes.
We rely on FALCONS to prevent crashes of those gigantic, fantastic, technologically advanced super jets on take-off and landing. With all our computers and our education, we rely on a falcon to scare other birds away from runways so we can safely land our planes.
She thinks, "My, my, my, how misplaced our vanity is."
She learned that Dulles Airport was the first jet port in the United States and was opened in 1962.
She learned that the DC-8 aircraft was called the paper plane because it started to sell to airlines while it was still on the drawing board, literally.
But the thing that she learned that floored her was this: With all our technology and all the time we have had to perfect our technology, 15 of our airports still use falcons, yes, the actual birds, to keep other birds away from the runways to prevent crashes caused by bird impacts with planes.
We rely on FALCONS to prevent crashes of those gigantic, fantastic, technologically advanced super jets on take-off and landing. With all our computers and our education, we rely on a falcon to scare other birds away from runways so we can safely land our planes.
She thinks, "My, my, my, how misplaced our vanity is."
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Death
And her day continues. Approximately 7000 thoughts per hour are zinging through her brain.
She has spent most of today evaluating fear. And she has realized something comforting: Billy died. Barry died. Gramma died. It's okay for her to die, too. It's not scary anymore. She isn't going to wake up in the night and lay awake imagining herself in a coffin, her body no longer working, sleeping forever, because she knows that life continues even after this body stops functioning. She knows this now because she has people who have stayed with her, who are telling her that there ARE purple butterflies and that someday she'll be ready to take her net and catch them, too.
But then there is a new fear taking shape. Suddenly she has realized that her own parents are old. That they might exit at any moment and that she is going to have to step up to the plate and where there were five Cowsills to step up to the plate, there is only one HER, and a brother who will fall to pieces. Now there is that fear...that she'll be totally alone to cope with that loss. The realization that we all die has finally hit home.
The realization that this roller coaster has only been shut down for a short time for repairs, has hit home, and she knows that at her age, she will be in the last car up the hill and screaming all the way down, over and over and over again.
She has spent most of today evaluating fear. And she has realized something comforting: Billy died. Barry died. Gramma died. It's okay for her to die, too. It's not scary anymore. She isn't going to wake up in the night and lay awake imagining herself in a coffin, her body no longer working, sleeping forever, because she knows that life continues even after this body stops functioning. She knows this now because she has people who have stayed with her, who are telling her that there ARE purple butterflies and that someday she'll be ready to take her net and catch them, too.
But then there is a new fear taking shape. Suddenly she has realized that her own parents are old. That they might exit at any moment and that she is going to have to step up to the plate and where there were five Cowsills to step up to the plate, there is only one HER, and a brother who will fall to pieces. Now there is that fear...that she'll be totally alone to cope with that loss. The realization that we all die has finally hit home.
The realization that this roller coaster has only been shut down for a short time for repairs, has hit home, and she knows that at her age, she will be in the last car up the hill and screaming all the way down, over and over and over again.
How Do You Tell?
Sometimes it is impossible to tell the difference between sadness and happiness, joy and depression, elation and let-down.
Someone asked her today how she was handling these unexpected, sudden deaths in her life and she said, "I feel nothing. I feel no emotion, no pain, no sadness, no grief...just blank...or else I feel overwhelming emotion, pain, sadness and grief... and am numb."
Today she has a project. Today is a day for self-evaluation and planning. Today she plans to wrap her head around all of this and decide where she sits.
No drugs, no alcohol to make her number. No squeezing her eyes shut to see if she can find tears. Just quiet meditation and decision-making.
It might be painful to watch her struggle.
Someone asked her today how she was handling these unexpected, sudden deaths in her life and she said, "I feel nothing. I feel no emotion, no pain, no sadness, no grief...just blank...or else I feel overwhelming emotion, pain, sadness and grief... and am numb."
Today she has a project. Today is a day for self-evaluation and planning. Today she plans to wrap her head around all of this and decide where she sits.
No drugs, no alcohol to make her number. No squeezing her eyes shut to see if she can find tears. Just quiet meditation and decision-making.
It might be painful to watch her struggle.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Lonely
Today I was feeling lonely. I'm never alone for long, but was feeling the need to connect with my friends. As the morning ticked along, I was fragmented, distracted.
With a cup of fresh hot coffee as my companion, I braced against the cold eastern winter morning. We keep winter clothes hanging in the entryways here...gloves, scarves, nice warm coats, an extra sweatshirt...
I bundled up and stepped outside onto the front porch. Anytime I step outside I close my eyes and turn in a circle a couple of times so I won't know which direction I'm facing, then open my eyes and try to see everything in my line of sight like I've never seen it before that moment.
When I looked up at the sky, facing east, I saw the sun beginning to wake up and knew that that sun was the same one my friends would be looking at today. I saw some high, wispy clouds floating eastward and knew that some of my friends would look up and see clouds in their cities and know that those clouds had passed over my head at one point in the day, most likely.
It's really not easy to feel lonely when you know you share the stuff that nature is made of.
With a cup of fresh hot coffee as my companion, I braced against the cold eastern winter morning. We keep winter clothes hanging in the entryways here...gloves, scarves, nice warm coats, an extra sweatshirt...
I bundled up and stepped outside onto the front porch. Anytime I step outside I close my eyes and turn in a circle a couple of times so I won't know which direction I'm facing, then open my eyes and try to see everything in my line of sight like I've never seen it before that moment.
When I looked up at the sky, facing east, I saw the sun beginning to wake up and knew that that sun was the same one my friends would be looking at today. I saw some high, wispy clouds floating eastward and knew that some of my friends would look up and see clouds in their cities and know that those clouds had passed over my head at one point in the day, most likely.
It's really not easy to feel lonely when you know you share the stuff that nature is made of.
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