Free

Ever since I watched the Brene Brown TED talk on vulnerability, I have been more aware of the times when I feel guarded and instances when I exert control.  The essence of her talk is that one must be vulnerable in order to feel the full measure of emotions such as joy and love.

I have raised five teenagers.  There are three more to go.  Lately, the experience has been riddled with sadness, worry and frankly not a lot of joy.

Raising my first born, I held onto the image of perfection.  After all, I was raised on Leave it to Beaver, The Brady Bunch and the antics of the Huxtable family.  As a first time parent I learned so much about myself.  And even though decades have past since my son was a teenager, I continue to discover new things about myself through my role as a parent. Perhaps at times I cling to the notion of perfectionism.

Today during lunch I called a friend who I have not seen for a long time.  She is wholly accepting of me.  She knows more about me and the inner workings of my quirky brain than any other person.   I can sit on her couch and be totally transparent, without fear. There is mutual trust.  I daresay that I have not encountered this often in my life. In her presence I allow myself to be vulnerable.

Struggles with raising teenagers in this era, often cloud my vision of who I am.  Preferably, I would like to be a fully joyful parent, free of strife and anxiety; at least some of the time.   I look forward to seeing her tomorrow.   It is sure that  together we will laugh, cry and dream in a space of time where I can be accepting of who I am and make no apologies.  Totally vulnerable.  Free.

Gone

The Shore Path crawls with strangers and their dogs.  Rex breaks the ice as he wags and sniffs.  We strangers laugh and smile. What would we do without dogs and their non snobby ways?  The Shore Path would crawl with strangers minus the dogs.  With hands in pockets, the strangers would brush pass each other looking at their feet. The potential for connection is gone.

Google It

My grandmother hid under the bed during thunder storms.  My husband watches storms from the shelter of our porch.  I am somewhere in between, but I can easily imagine coaxing my grandmother to move over to make room for my quaking body under her twin bed.  Now it is pouring.  Moments ago I thought I heard a rumble.  My brain tripped to a notion of safety-devices off, stay away from open windows and don’t take a bath.  Don’t sit under a tree, don’t walk in an open field and don’t decide to take up golf. Don’t.  Don’t. Don’t.

I realize I don’t know the do’s. You would think that such a fear filled brain would be able to recite the steps in dealing with any natural disaster and man made one.  I don’t know what to do in the event of a tornado.  Head for the basement?  When do I stand at the threshold of a door relying on the strength of the frame to protect me?  I don’t know. Is that during an earthquake? Some people sit in empty bathtubs, don't they?  My father was the protector.  He clearly trained me in the “don’t do’s”, but failed to solidify the ‘ disaster do’s.”

I have not heard any more rumbles.  Perhaps it was an isolated thunder event in the distance?  Maybe it was a truck driving past, but then again maybe it was an earthquake? How do I prepare?  Maybe I will just “Google it.”

the risk

                                                                                           Copyright: Travelinma


Is it possible to feel too deeply?
A heart that aches incessantly,
Holds room for joy too.
Cannot sorrow and joy inhabit the same chambers?

For what is a life without the highs and lows?
The fullness of heart is preferred,
Over hollow.
Is it not worth the risk?

A Shift

Flood warnings for the entire state, the radio blared. I look around, the piles of snow linger only in the shelter of dense woods.  “No danger here,” I think to myself, “All safe.”

Later, in the evening while I sit quietly reflecting on my day, I’m embarrassed by my casual reaction to the warning. In reality, lives and property are at risk and considering the extended winter we endured, the snow melt could create some long lasting issues for Maine folks.  

When I was growing up, I never got used to houses regularly being swept out to sea.  Undaunted owners would rebuild in the same spot and certainly face recurring losses.  Many years ago geologist built a jetty that created problems that no one could imagine.  The little seaside village where my grandfather built a family home has been disappearing bit by bit.  No one seems to know how to fix it.

Place.  It is important.  Through the years houses change hands, landscape shifts or is altered due to weather or man.   Yet memories are framed by place.  The tiny strawberries I picked in the lot next door where a house now sits, I can still taste. Bringing my once stained fingers to my nose, I can smell the sweetness.  I hear the rattle of the windows in the first house that my husband and I shared in Otter Creek; we began our lives together there.  Place evokes memory.

Flood warnings for the entire state. I will always pray that our memories of place remain intact.

The Finish

On my belly

I crawl like a

Snake,

Forearms raw

And

Bloody,

My heart

Scrapes

Against the pavement.

Exposed,

Vulnerable

Toward a finish,

A mirage.  

Living

Just when did fear seep into my life?  Is it the normal condition of a reasonable adult? A young colleague of mine is planning a trip across the country.  By herself.  At one point I wanted to walk the Appalachian Trail, bike long distances and to explore this country. Two summers ago, I thought about going out into the woods and camping by myself.  The thought terrifies me. All the ‘What if’s….’  begin to activate and my logical brain twists into one big knot.  Could I do any of these things by myself?  After almost thirty-five years of marriage I have come to rely on company.  My husband helps me out of fixes on a daily basis and my tall children reach things for me. Could I survive being alone for long periods of time?  Is this really all about fear?

I must challenge myself.  Although I have been in the same skin for more than ‘half-way to one-hundred’ years, there is more to discover about me. I continue to learn everyday.   There are more chances to take.  More adventures.   Trust trumps fear because I possess the inner resources and strength to live and love fully through the joys and heartbreak. I want to feel it all.  Only then will I know that I am living and bust through the fear.

Among the Lucky

After working  over nine hours, my husband walked through the door covered in sheet rocking mud. His hands white in spots.

“Let’s go!” I said. “Eddaejia has an appointment.”

He had other ideas.  “I’m not going.”

“I haven’t seen you all day,” I replied, “I missed you.”

I moved closer to him so I could look in his eyes, smile and give him a hug.

“Sometimes, the car is the only place to be quiet and alone,” I reminded. “I love being with you.”

It is true.  I love being with my husband, at least most of the time.  After decades and decades of marriage, we still like each other.

My daughter recently got engaged.  She has been asking about our wedding that took place more than thirty years ago.  While fielding questions and searching my memory for answers, I was reflecting about how very fortunate we are since our marriage came ten months after we met.  Sometimes relationships never make it to long term.  We can be counted among the lucky.

Not Your Typical Walk

Grit.  This word prompts much self-reflection.  Do I give up much too easily?  When I approach a task, do I have a preconceived notion about my abilities?  In a situation of survival would I tough it out or give up?

I had clawed over boulders bigger than my house.  My eyes remained straight ahead. I didn’t have the guts to glance over my shoulder to view the depth of the valley below.    Earlier in the day, my friend asked, “Do you want to go for a walk?” I tied my tennis shoes and we were off. I envisioned meandering through Acadia National Park's carriage paths-wide, suitable for bikes and horses. A walk.   Instead I dug my fingers into crevices in the rocks or anything that might provide a strong hold to move my body up the mountain. It had rained the night before and the trail was wet and slippery in spots.  Some transitions on the mountain provided iron rungs drilled into the face of the mountain-a vertical solid stone wall.  One of the problems was that the engineers placed the first rung at my five foot-two chest level. I had difficulty leveraging my foot in order to hoist my body onto the ladder.  It was only through grit and sheer determination that I was able to accomplish this feat.  The alternative was to proceed down the same way. I had fought my way up the sheer face of the Precipice.    Unfamiliar with this trail, I did not know if there was another way down.  My goal was to reach the top.  There was no giving up.

Striving for the Impossible

Scattered on the wooden floor,

Balls of

Half written messages,

Rejected

Discarded,

Not good enough.

How does a mere eight years

Of life,

Solidify

The need,

The desire

For perfection?

It makes for 

A

Sad 

Existence.

Always disappointed

And 

Always a

Disappointment.

The Light Within

The thin curve of my upper lip,
The nose that looks like the milk man's.
Bit by bit,
Learning to love it all
Through the Light within.

Time

Thinking about long stretches of time with internet access makes a long bus ride a bit more palatable.  I envisioned reading through the library on my Kindle immersing myself in pure escapism, really not grasping the concept of how many pages could be reasonably devoured in the time that stretched before me.  Nonetheless, it was fun planning and dreaming of all the possibilities to pass the time while riding the bus for hours; that is until my friend, my disciplined friend revealed what she was going to do.  She announced that she was going to review and delete or save the hundreds of work-related emails that had accumulated over a short period of time.

 Disbelieving I asked, "You have how many emails, Kim?"

"Hundreds," she replied "I need to clean things up."

I gulped.  She had hundreds.  I had thousands.  I couldn't read. Reading was certainly a guilty pleasure.  I needed to mend my slovenly ways.

One by one I tackled each email.  Why don't I do this daily as the junk rolls in? I am such a procrastinator!  I grumbled internally.

I inhaled slowly and deeply, attempting to infuse patience into every cell of my being.  My pointer finger started to ache with all the action deleting one email after another.  Delete.  Delete. Delete.  It took way too long to tackle a hundred emails.  Don't think about that.  Just do it.  Little by little... Have I always been this impatient?

After a few hours, my eyes averted the 'Select All' button.  It was just too much of a temptation.  Delete.  Delete.  At this rate it will take me more than a week of continuous deletion to clean up this mess!

I was determined.  Delete.  Delete.  I checked the number of emails I had left in my inbox.  I checked the time.  Delete. Delete.  That's it. I have better things to do. I can't do this!

After hours and hours of careful deletion, in one swift action all the emails turned blue and without  much thought I pressed 'Delete.'  A wave of relief swept over me and not the guilt or anxiety that I had anticipated.   I felt free.  Light.

That was two years ago.  I want to feel free and light again.  It is time.

Thrilled

It is difficult to express how thrilled I am to have a piece of my writing featured in BOOMERCAFE which is an online magazine for Baby Boomers.  It was upon the gentle coaxing from my friend Phyllis Edgerly Ring, a fellow writer that I submitted 'Yellow Flowers Blooming' a remembrance of my mother.  I had never heard of Boomercafe and have since decided to subscribe to the free publication which offers an array of topics of special interest to Baby Boomers.  (Yes, I am THAT old.)  Well, I hope you read this piece if you haven't already.  Remember feedback is most helpful, if you find the time to comment.  A big, big thank you to all my faithful readers.

http://www.boomercafe.com/2013/08/26/the-passing-of-a-parent-is-one-of-those-life-events-many-boomers-share/

Adrift

The boat is adrift,

While I wait

Ashore,

Pondering a save,

Plunging into

The dark,

The deep.

I fear

You

May not

Recognize

I just want to

Help.

I love

You.

seeking the new normal

Sabotage is a good word for what I often engage.  Why I do it, I may never know.  Perhaps it is not  as important to seek the origin of my multitude of bad choices, as it is to continue to develop healthier goals and stick to them. 

As I slid into the dentist chair this morning, I felt small and vulnerable like that third grader who despite her mother’s coaxing did not brush her teeth as often as she should.  The suggested regime is clear.  I do brush everyday.  I floss when I think of it and if the rinse is handy, I might swish.  I am a self-described multitasking procrastinator who is perpetually in a rush otherwise known as a working mother.

Is it the mothering and working part or is it something that is inherently deficient in my character?  Through the decades I have lost hundreds of pounds, only to gain and lose and gain and lose.  Historically, fall is the season that I begin to focus on my health.  I begin to walk again, make better eating choices and ease into a routine.  Does the structure of school help me to function through all the stress that life flings my way?  The analysis does not contribute to a change in behavior, but delays the actions that inch toward lasting change. 

I have been reading a lot about grit and how it is an important ingredient in success for any individual.  Today I stumbled upon my health file.  Among my written goals of a little more than a year ago was to participate in at least 30 minutes of physical activity everyday.  Nothing got in the way of reaching my daily goal.  I visited the local YMCA and announced the goal to my family and the physical trainer. They encouraged me through the lows.  Over time, I began making healthier eating choices and benefitted from increased energy.  My journey to health required grit, more than merely persistence, yet is also meant that I needed to be patient and kind to myself.  Somewhere along the way, I dropped all of it.

The realization has come to me slowly.   I no longer wish to live my days  consumed by bowls of ice cream and chocolate bar wrappers.   It works for me as well as trying to drift off to sleep with a rock as my pillow.  Try as I might, it just doesn't work.   I must seek a new normal that serves my body and soul. I must do it because of self-love.  For me, that is the hardest part.

So Much Depends Upon

So much depends upon
The warp of a wooden door,
And fat, little chickens
Who morph
Into
Escape artists,
Skinny ones,
Who will
Never
Return
Home.

(This poem is inspired by William Carlos Williams' Red Wheelbarrow)

Art or Fine Art

My Chicken Art-Winter 2013

“Just what is the difference between fine art and art, dear?” a wife asks her husband.

He replies, “The only difference between fine art and art is the price.” As I walked from tent to tent witnessing the talent of artist after artist at the Mystic Arts Festival today, I approached each with a barometer of whether I thought that I was capable of creating similar offerings.  Truthfully, I think I overestimate myself as an artist.

I have always aspired to be an artist.  In 4^th grade, I paid a quarter a week to take art lessons with Sister Mary Peter.  In 6^th grade, Sister Mary Christina’s class practiced a precise replica of lines and exact measures under her direction. Perfectionism and impatience with myself continued through high school and college killing any creativity that may have bloomed. I was never satisfied.

Working through creative inhibitions is not an easy task.  Despite my desire to impart a growth mindset and continue to develop as an artist, the struggle continues. As a writer, I have slowly come to understand that with the few decent pieces of writing comes a slew of really bad writing.  So it is with art, as well. 

Recognizing my creative self and approaching my practice with patience and playful discovery will help that young 9 year old live her dream.

Dancing With My Brother

We play the dance,

My brother and me,

Clumsily,

He links elbows with independence,

While I watch,

Wanting to help,

Offering.

He stumbles

Through

The asphalt parking lot

Then silently,

He reaches

For my hand,

The hand

He refused

Moments

Ago,

And he never

Lets go.

Gifts and Thanks

My handcrafted gift to my Writing Partner

This has been a summer of gifts due to the generosity of Trenton Elementary School Board.  As many know, in July I had the good fortune of attending a Writing Institute at the University of Maine.  My recent course work has motivated me to write daily which has only contributed to my growth as a writer and a teacher.  Over a four day span, with others in my school district, I am attending a Writing Workshop Institute presented by Columbia University Teachers College.  The strategies that we are exploring as adult writers in preparation of using them with students, has deepened my writing experience. Simply, I am thrilled and excited to be part of this process with other teachers.

Gratefully, my writing partner proved to be patient and supportive. We had worked together in the past (decades ago, but don't tell anyone), so it was fun to spend some quality time and get to know her in the present tense. There is nothing like learning and courageously discovering together to bond a pair of writers.

I would also like to humbly thank my readers.  The words of encouragement help me continue to explore my inner landscape, which can be scary territory.  To those readers who have on occasion, commented-your honest thoughts and reactions serve as a compass.  I think I am headed in the right direction.  Many thanks to all who have touched my life, in ways big and small.

Running Away

                     “Come.  Come for a few days,” my friend offered.

Silence followed.

                     “I…I don’t know, “ I stammered.  “I’m not sure I can leave.”

            “See you soon,” and my friend added, “I love you.”

            If they don’t blame me; I blame myself. I sat in the sun, closed my eyes and realized I was hidden behind the towering stand of sunflowers in the garden.  I wasn’t there long.  Muffling the sobs I moved to the large field- my arms outstretched, squinting against the sun to watch the set of moving clouds evolving into the curving muscle arm of Cape Cod. This has always calmed and grounded me. My breath slowed, but then my throat tightened. Not working.  Into the house I went.

            “Ma, you know you have been a grouch for the last month.  You know you have.” my 18 year old hissed.

            “That has nothing to do with the fact that your friend is polluting my air waves with bad language in front of your sister.  He’s a guest in my house.” I yelled back, walking out the door that slammed behind me.  I retreated to the porch. Alone

            Maybe I am a grouch.  Everything gets turned around and it is always my fault. I thought.  Suddenly, I felt that I needed to crawl into bed, alone. No one wants to be with me anyway.

            Hours later, Facebook did not prove to be the usual distraction: This planet is inline with that planet so it has been a wonky week.  How are you dealing with the wonky week? 

Is there any relief?  I mouthed softly.

My cell rang and hearing my friend’s voice let loose the tears from the tight spring that had held them back for hours. Her voice beckoned me to come join her for a dose of unconditional love.  Wonkiness embraced.

            Hanging up, I walked resolutely to the bedroom and stuffed a few essentials into a canvas bag and headed for the door. Leaving without a word. Minutes later I was in the car, barreling down the driveway, both wondering what the hell I was doing and at the same time feeling light and free.  Convertible top down, my bangs blew from my face and my vision was clear, but just for a moment.

            I could just drive to camp, I thought.  That’s not exactly running away.  I hope they remember to let the chickens in at night. We're on the last roll of toilet paper in the house.  I hope they figure it out. Supper?  'Bet they will have lobster.  They won’t miss me at all.  The tears flowed.  I drove right passed camp and headed north-manuvering the winding roads through thick forests and mountains-the views familiar, yet breathtaking.  Blinking hard the tears stopped.  I need this.  I need this.

            My friend was sitting on her porch, waiting for me with hearty hugs. I left everything in the car, but agreed to a cool glass of water.  As we sat around her table and talked, the laughter replaced the tears.  Dinner came with stories and more laughter.

            Crawling into bed, it was barely dark and I was alone. Restless, I moved from my back to either side trying to seek comfort. Was this borrowed bed facing the same way that my home bed faced? I wondered if that was why I couldn’t sleep and then I thought of my husband, my dog Rex and the extra emptiness in my bed at home that my absence provided.   Shifting on my left side, I looked out the window and into the expansive star-filled sky.  I am never alone, I thought.  Gratitude at that moment  shifted my heart toward home and all that I had left behind.  I knew that I would return in the morning- for that is where I belong.