Thanksgiving Memories

I'm a bit sad today, my favorite holiday, though I am thankful for the people in my life, family and friends I cherish. Due to the impending move, we aren't having dinner this year. No turkey or pie, no family get-together. No hum of conversation over the clinking of glasses. Today, I have only memories and thoughts of the future.

My son is twelve now, taller than I (and I ain't short!) His voice has begun to crack. And those broad shoulders and large hands are still growing....

So today, despite my melancholy, I smile as I pack dishes instead of serving on them. My grandfather and brother are far away, but my son's hugs will carry me through until next year.

I wish all of you a Happy Thanksgiving and much love and laughter among family and friends. But if you're among those who aren't able to gather around the table with loved ones today, I hope you have happy memories and much to be thankful for.

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Learning to Write

At eleven, I won a district-wide writing competition. First place out of 1,800 sixth graders. I still have the piece. I don't recall the process or feeling of writing it, but I remember the feeling of winning. I felt smart. I felt significant. I felt listened to.

In those days, I sought approval from adults because I didn't get it from peers, and the adults had listened. That flaw of approval-seeking, and others, led down some unfortunate paths. My fears stole that sense of significance while I sought approval in ways that didn't succeed from people who didn't matter. My teens and early twenties taught me harsh truths and suffocating falsehoods.

I learned drawing attention meant drawing criticism and scorn. I learned there's always someone waiting to drag you down. I learned to fade into the background to avoid disapproval.

I learned smart women weren't nearly as worthy as fun, pretty, friendly women (let alone men)--and that the former is mutually exclusive from the latter. I learned you could only be one thing, and that as a woman, smart would always lose. I learned smart women are challenged and belittled, and outspoken women are bitch and overbearing. I learned to shut up.

I learned to only present the good stuff. If it wasn't perfect, it wasn't good enough. And in that case, well, what was the use in trying? I'd never be perfect. I'd never be smart enough or pretty enough or good enough to matter. I learned to quit trying.

I decided I had no imagination, no creativity, nothing important to say, so anything I wrote would be stupid, vapid crap. I told myself I wasn't "inspired." I wasn't deep or insightful or funny. What if I offended someone? What if "they" didn't approve? I didn't want to be wrong. I didn't want people to pull back the curtain and see an imposter. If I made up a story, if I created something, it would be all my fault if it sucked.

After my son was born, I decided to accept another truth. I'd failed to learn all of the things I wanted to teach him: confidence, using his strengths, always being willing to try, accepting failure, to never stop learning, and above all, to never let anyone else decide who he should be or silence him.

Hypocrisy.

At 39, I woke on a cold November morning, sat at my desk, and started writing. It wasn't perfect—good grief, the suck reigned supreme—but I wrote for sixteen hours. Why? It wasn't some supernatural, angels-singing moment of inspiration or a lightning bolt best-story-ever idea. It wasn't the story.

I no longer wanted to fade into the background. I was sick of letting the fear win. I refused to be quiet about things that excite me, scare me, and anger me any longer, and it didn't matter if anyone approved. I wanted to smash those falsehoods I'd learned.

I have excuses, like everyone. I'm a full-time single mom, and I work two jobs and homeschool my son. I have a house to maintain and family obligations. Health issues abound. Chronic pain cripples me, and painkillers make me stupid but don't alleviate the pain. Just after I finished the first draft, I endured emergency surgery that almost killed me and required months of recuperation. Those things slowed me down, but I kept learning and writing.

I studied art and craft, worked hard, and finished the manuscript. I learned to write well, not just spit out thoughts. I learned grammar and punctuation, those technical rules many disdain. I learned how to write with emotion and clarity. After remembering that I had a voice, I worked on learning how to use it.

Why—how—did I write a novel? I decided. That's all. No magical breakthrough, just a decision to use my voice and speak my mind, imperfections and all. That decision—which I still have to make every time I write—is exciting and terrifying. It took years of fighting fears and searching for confidence to make that first decision, to learn new truths and refuse to accept falsehoods.

Learning to write, both art and craft, is about learning how to connect with strangers. It's learning style and mechanics to create clarity and meaning without losing the story. It's learning to accept criticism along with approval, being willing to have our ideas challenged, and reveling in the fact that the learning is never finished. It's learning to use our voice, and it's never easy.

We all have fears and hopes, and we all need someone we can relate to, who has those same fears and hopes. No matter who you are or where you've been, someone out there can relate. If you tell a story with a message--no matter how simple or trite or crazy that message may seem to you when the demons of doubt rise in the dark hours--and tell it well, it will speak to someone. It won't connect with everyone, and not everyone will approve. But that's okay. It probably won't change the world, but maybe it will change one person, and it will change you. It will give you a voice.

At 39, I learned I have something to say and someone out there needs to hear it. When will you learn it.

The Fire Inside

Forsaken at forty, I've lost my autonomy. I still have my mind, talents, skills. It's my body that betrays me. All those years I prided myself on strength and hard work, on doing what needed done whether it taxed my limits or not - now I pay for those years by living with a cruel master....

Fire rules my life. It decides when I rise and fall. It dictates whether I conquer the day or endure it. It determines how I behave and think and feel.

A mist dampens the blaze, a brief reprieve. But the relief demands a price to bankrupt my soul, stealing the only value I have left: words.

The inferno advances, fingers of pain streaking across the landscape with a pitiless roar. My escape cut off, I can only hide and whisper a plea for a little more time, a little more time before it strikes the inevitable crippling blow, a little more time to work and play and love.

How long can I hold the fire at bay?


Not long enough. Never long enough.

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A Storm Coming

Insidious fingers reach inside, through the layers of flesh, seeking delicate filaments. Claws of heat and ice, tipped with needles, burrow and tunnel until they find their mark. They tease, light, gentle—oh so gentle—as they explore the innermost reaches of my soul. The fingers whisper of a storm coming, like a breeze that ruffles flower petals on a lazy, muggy afternoon while dark clouds swell on the horizon.

 

 

 

 

I brace myself for the storm. Cover the flowers, close the windows, and retreat to the deepest, darkest corner in search of shelter. I hide and wait for it to pass.
 
Will it spare me this time? Might the frenzy pass me by? When I emerge, will I find my world intact?
 
Not this time. The wind and whispers grow louder, into a howl of thunderous glee, a scream of fury. The tender exploration turns savage when the fingers find a rift in my defenses. Talons rip through tissue and slake their bloodlust. Like lightning striking a tree, the fingers seek the heart and set it afire, burning and charring until nothing remains but a blackened, wispy skeleton.
 
The storm rages, the beast ravages. Nothing could survive the tempest. Yet I must, I do. Until the fingers whisper again.





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Yesterday

Yesterday is my ghost. It follows me in every moment, trailing behind like the scent of sorrow, like the touch never felt, like a memory hidden in time. I close my senses and try to forget, but yesterday never fades.

Days past haunt me with accusations of What if? Whispers in the murky depths of my mind, soft, slithering, sinister, reopen the wounds and remind me of my faults. Bad timing, wrong places, poor choices. I’ll never know what might have been. Yesterday steals the answers and leaves only questions.

I yearn for escape, seeking the light of another sunrise and the changing of the guard to chase yesterday away. With my head on my pillow, I dream of a new beginning without the burdens of my ghost, my yesterday. The new day comes, yet my companion still resides within.

Yesterday is invisible, a spirit without form. Still, it is always with me; it never fades. Yesterday is my ghost.




 

 

 

Image courtesy of hyena reality at FreeDigitalPhotos.net


The End

"The End."

I believe those two words, at this moment, hold more emotion and meaning for me than any others I've written. They represent time and energy expended. They carry the weight of my expectations and my fears. Those two words mean the end and the beginning.

I finished my manuscript today--well, I finished it at 5:43 a.m., after writing furiously all night. After one year and one week, my creative endeavor is complete. I have told the story.

The work is not done, of course. I still must revise and edit, tweak and adjust, worry and massage the words I've written. The story is not ready for the world yet, and making it ready will be no small feat in itself. More time, more energy, more expectations, and more fear. But I have told the story.

When I started telling this story, I had a plan. The plan involved writing a book in about two or three months. After health issues intruded, I went to plan B. Six months. Writer's block. Nine months. Work. Ten months. Health issues. Twelve months. Things got in the way, and I got in the way. Maintaining momentum is hard, especially when you aren't really sure you have what it takes. The initial excitement loses out to monotony, focus fades, and doubts creep in. I'm actually surprised I found the determination to fight through. I have persevered and told the story.

The end of the story means I have accomplished something new and know now I can accomplish much more. The End means far more than I imagined those two words could.

Cancer of the Hamper

Sometimes I think nudists have the right idea. They’ve simplified their lives. I haven’t managed to take that leap into territory where no clothing hides the various bulges and quirks of my decaying body. Eventually my wits will abandon me, and I’ll no longer mind the scorn and mockery bound to follow if I venture out naked. Until then, laundry haunts me daily—the bane of my existence.

About once a month, I gather the courage to face the heap of clean clothes which reproduces like rabbits on top of my dryer. I stand in the claustrophobic laundry area for an eternity and fold clothing I didn’t know I own. My hands move in a tedious monotony, shaking out a shirt and smoothing it into a somewhat tidy square. I set it down and grab another superfluous garment and repeat the process…. Over and over and over. This is the moment I can’t help thinking, “How on earth did I get so many clothes? Where did that skirt come from? Why can’t I find anything to wear?”

Apparently I do find things to wear, because a tumor grows in the hamper at light speed. It is cancerous, contagious—frightening. And since I have a child, it reeks. The menacing lump swells, and I cringe each time I see it. It spills out like the noxious slime oozing from alien pods in a sci-fi flick.

I brace myself and confront the growth. I open the washer and turn the knob to select the correct cycle, sharp, rattling clicks grating on my nerves. The water streams into the tub, slowly, ever so slowly, filling it. Detergent poured in, then I excise a chunk of tumor and sort the pieces, hurling a tornado of garments until the drum is full. Dark, white, color, white, towel, dark. Most often, the procedure ensues due to the lack of a certain item which must be worn on a certain day, or perhaps my son finding some new, foul way to soil his clothing.

The groaning, rattling, swooshing, gurgling of the washer drills my brain for forty minutes and then, if I don’t forget I’m in the middle of doing laundry, my hands pull the cold, soggy mass out and wrestle it into the dryer. Inevitably, a wet pair of undies splats on the floor in an effort to escape. I close the door and hit the button; the dryer rumbles, the mound thumps in protest. Desiccation separates the mass, and the sound softens with time, but for one button that tinks, tinks, tinks. Or maybe it’s a penny. Not loud enough for a quarter or tinny enough for a dime. After a while, the buzzer sounds, the jolt of a cattle prod interrupting one of the other hundred tasks I've attempted.

But by this time, my fortitude has waned. The scourge prevails, awaiting another load which requires its removal. Yanking it out, I try to balance a sodden load in one arm, sodden socks plopping at my feet. I mash the dry clothes into the already full basket sitting on the dryer, crushing them into compliance and wrinkles. There the clean clothes remain, the pile shrinking by a shirt here, socks there, replaced by ten more until the malignancy overwhelms.

Thus, the cycle begins again. I wish had the strength to face the process more often, but instead I avoid it. The cancer mocks me. I turn my head and pretend it’s not there…. Until I gain the courage to battle it once again.

Despite my loathing of the process, I admit I do enjoy the outcome. The sense of accomplishment in a chore conquered provides relief and satisfaction. The clothes hang neatly in the closet or lined up in organized rows in the drawers.

The warmth of a plush, fleece shirt fresh from the dryer provides comfort few things can. I rub the fluffy material against my cheek, inhaling the scent of flowers, as if deprived of oxygen. It transports me to the simplicity of childhood, when I took for granted the clothes arranged in my old oak dresser. I remember lying in my mother’s soothing arms, the softness there, the perfect serenity, and the crisp, summer-wind smell of her blouse.

Maybe I won't throw the clothes out just yet.

Thanksgiving: Generations

I scurry about the house, jittery, focusing on the preparations. It’s always like this. In the hours before everyone arrives, the idea of the family dinner intimidates me. I try to conjure ideas for witty conversation while spreading table cloths and pulling dishes from cabinets, but when the time comes, all wit escapes me.

Seasons mark the passage of time, like generations retiring to make room for the young. Some people like spring. The new growth and cool showers rejuvenate them. Others like summer, basking in the sun and outdoor fun. Then there are those who baffle me with their affinity for the snow and teeth-chattering short days of winter. My favorite is autumn. I love the warm colors falling like rain drops from the trees. I love the metallic tang in the air when I step outside. I love Thanksgiving, and a large family dinner. Everyone leaves their far-flung corners to gather for sustenance, physical and emotional.

I set out silverware and plates, arrange napkins, and devise a centerpiece. As I move about the long, make-shift arrangement of tables lined end-to-end, I envision everyone, already in their chairs, chattering and laughing as they wait for the feast. As I notice a similarity of traits in my clan, the image focuses on three figures.

My grandfather sits at the head of the table. His balding head gleams in the soft light, his large frame cocked to the left, with his elbows planted on the table. His huge hands, seamed with wrinkles and age spots that belie my childhood memories of a man in his prime, link loosely together just below his square chin. Thin lips press together in the slightest of smiles. It’s difficult to tell if his smile is the outward expression of a sense of superiority, which lies just below the surface, or simply mild amusement. There's something fantastic in his shoulders, in the way he holds them, as if an invisible mantle hangs upon them that bestows a greater…everything. He pulls his shoulders back and holds them straight, steadfast. They embody the pride he carries with him, like a coat of armor, inspiring admiration for the soldier of years past. His shoulders have carried large burdens, too heavy for many men. They embody strength and security. But armor can shield too well, preventing true closeness and intimacy. I'm certain I'll never peel that armor back quite far enough to see what hides underneath.

Then I picture my brother. He sits much looser, without the obvious rigid control of the man beside  him; he projects less visible tension. But as he shifts in his chair, I spot the signs of restlessness. He’s never still for long. His hands, so similar to his grandfather’s, are gentler in some indefinable way. They rest upon the table, then cradle the back of his head as he leans back with a sigh. The arms are thinner, more sinuous. But his shoulders mimic his ancestor's. Not quite as broad, but they have the same lines. I see the deeper differences, though. These shoulders speak of more pain endured and truly felt; absorbed rather than deflected. They do not offer the same inviting impression of security. More vulnerable, less guarded. But I know they shelter something within. The armor isn’t as thick, but it’s made from the same resilient material and formed from the same mold.

Last, I see my son in my vision. The thought brings a tightening in my chest; an unbearable ache, a need to hold him and keep him always within my reach. He squirms in his chair, that dazzling, mischievous smile lighting upon anyone who looks his way. Overwhelmed by the larger-than-normal crowd and all of the attention, his eyes flicker to me for reassurance.

He reminds me of the leaves swirling in a blustery autumn breeze, free and loose. Yet his excitement prompts a virtual vibration of his entire body, invisible energy on the verge of explosion. He sits straight, then leans to grab the cup belonging to the person next to him, then shifts to look at the people at the far end of the table who erupted in laughter, his green eyes opening wide in surprise. Between his bursts of movement, I catch a glimpse of his hands and his smile; the hands of a small child, the smile of a cherub. But when I look closer, I notice his hands are large for a boy his size, with long, slender fingers--exactly like his grandfather’s and uncle’s hands. He reaches to rub his ear, brushing away the bronze-red hair that tickled it. He has a slim neck, with the spot under his ear that I can’t help nuzzling whenever he allows me to restrain him for the briefest moment. He has the shoulders, too. They aren't as big or as broad, of course. On a child, they look as fragile as the whisper-thin bones of a hummingbird. But potential inhabits his shoulders. I try to imagine the man he will become, but it's too soon, and the picture eludes me. I pray he won't encounter too much pain, but I know he will bear his share. I hope when he meets challenges, he learns to absorb what makes him grow and learn, and manages to deflect what can damage his soul. His shoulders will carry burdens, and his hands will bear scars. Just like his grandfather and uncle.

I finish the settings, making small adjustments, fidgeting until it's just right. The aroma of rich food--turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie--fills the air. I admonish my son to stop playing with the napkins I just folded and scoop him up as he giggles. I bury my face in that precious spot on his neck, inhale his little boy scent, and endure the painful swell of love he brings to my heart.

The others arrive, and I hug my grandfather and brother. As each embrace me, my cheek nestles against their shoulders. They comfort me and calm my nerves.

 

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