One Day Fearless

Fear was my father's constant companion and its' dark shadow casts a chilling message that I hear to this day, "Be careful you might get hurt," or "Get off that ladder, you'll fall."  I take few risks physically and I think of myself as a klutz.  As a mother, I did not want my children to lug this message-a heavy burden with them into adulthood. Watching my children carry a confidence and an understanding of their physical strength and capabilities helps me to keep my mouth shut, most of the time.

One day, I do remember playing football with the neighborhood boys.  We hadn't begun to play yet, when two brothers started hurling insults about my weight.  I think I was about eight years old, in that chubby state that I never seemed to grow out of for long.  They always seemed to be picking on me and reminded me how inferior I was to them, since I was a girl and a fat one at that.  My backyard afforded just a big enough flat surface at the bottom of a slight slope of grass to play football.  I remember the heckling and frustration I felt as a result.  Normally, we played touch football, but we had collectively decided that we would allow tackling.  Determined and fearless, I  had a plan to tackle hard.  The youngest brother who really was a bit of a wimpish bully was carrying the ball.  My focus was to wrap my arms around his legs and trip him up.  That will send him and his brother a message to not mess with me, I thought.   The next thing I knew we both hit the ground with a thud, my nose taking the brunt of the impact.  In like motion and timing, we quickly got to our feet,  leaning forward while cupping our hands to catch the stream of red.  He ran home wailing.  I quietly stepped inside my house as I glanced out the window both teams had quickly dispersed and the back yard was empty.

Telling my father about the tackle, he applied a dry compress under my upper lip to stop the bleeding. I was prone on the couch my head propped up by pillows.  My father was patiently explaining what he was doing and why.  I was mesmerized.

"This is how they do it in the locker room," he shared, his voice seemed to be filled with pride.   That day, I felt a special connection with my father.  During those hours, he cared for me we never spoke of fear because we had it all under control. We were both fearless.

This Moment

My friend began laughing, "You.  Shy?" Describing myself as shy is akin to admitting that I can sit down and eat my weight in ice cream in one sitting.  I wish I wasn't so painfully shy in crowds and with people I do not know well, but I am what I am.  As I lean against the wall busying myself with a cup full of water, I watch others in the large room effortlessly move from person to person and group to group.  Someone rushes passed me, I am unnoticed as though I  blend in with the wallpaper.  My eyes shift along the perimeter of the room searching for a clock.  This has to be over soon, I mutter to myself.  I wasn't always this way.

It is dark when the alarm goes off.  My girls still asleep, will only rouse when the first light pierces the night sky.   I am curled on my side, just resting and waiting for daybreak.  Every morning is the same.  The gentle cooing of the birds is often the first thing I hear in the morning as I shuffle my way to the coop.  Once I open the door,  a spring of wings and feathers is released and they flood toward me.  Some begin pecking at my broken boot strap that hangs loosely.  Some mornings, I talk.  Some mornings I move through the mental list of chores for my hens in a silent monk-like state. Mostly, I move slowly and deliberately so I don't step on a bird.  They depend upon my care.

By the time I return into the house, Rex my dog has ambled out of bed and is ready to give kisses, to go out and to be fed.  Before I rush off to work, my large lap dog will sprawl across my lap, while one cat curls on available lap space while the other sprawls against my shoulder like a fox stole.  My morning has been punctuated by crowds of creatures with the only alone time recorded to be while showering.  Yet, I am in a state of peaceful acceptance for who I am at this moment.  Time might as well stop.

Unsung Heroes

At first, I wondered what was the big deal-the park being closed due to the government shut down.  Why is this any different than any other off-season visit to the park when we walk across closed gates? Although the politics of this nation locked Acadia and sent the bulk of the rangers home, it is that the safety of throngs of fall visitors cannot be guaranteed.  Yes, this is our park.  Yes, we have a right to enjoy all that this area has to offer, but frankly, the fact is that people do stupid things.  No one intends on falling and breaking a leg only to be rescued from elevations and sharp drops that necessitate a litter to be suspended by ropes and pullies down the face of a mountain.  This operation can only be orchestrated by an army of trained people.  Unfamiliar with the fury of the Atlantic and a mix of storms, spectators have been plucked off the shore and flung into the sea and tossed about like leaves in a whirlpool.  There have been drownings.  Yet there have also been rescues through the heroics of our Acadia National Park rangers and volunteers.  I am privileged to live where I live.  If I choose to venture into the park for a walk, I will use every precaution and a bit of common sense while  repeatedly mouth the words, "Thank you.  Thank you." Our rangers are unsung heroes quietly overseeing the safety of thousands and thousands of visitors each year.  Sometimes, it is only through loss that we recognize all that we once had and enjoyed.

Sunday Worship

In a cranberry bog
Hunched, picking
Garnet jewels,
Nestled amongst
Miniature tree-like
Moss.

A bountiful harvest

New England berries,

Giving thanks

For all

That is good,

On this

Sunday.

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.

Lesson in Brevity

This headshot was taken by my 13 year old.  She has taken some of my most favorite photos as she has a good eye for composition.  Along with the headshot is a mini biography three to five sentences in length.  It was not easy. Comments are welcome.  Here goes:

Barbara Keene is Trenton Elementary School's Reading Recovery/Title 1 Teacher and a mother of eight.  As a 2013 Maine Writing Project Fellow, she is among the newest Teacher Consultants. Barbara enjoys long walks in the forests of Maine, strolls along the Atlantic shore and paddling at Donnell's Pond with her dog Rex. Her writing is fueled by her love of EB White whose writing makes the ordinary extraordinary.

A Study of the Horizon

Just a smudge separates sea from the sky. Each morning, I face the changing nature of the cove often prompting me to document through the truth of a lens.  The cove never remains the same, but is modified by the pull of the tide, the hue of the sky or the direction of the wind.  However, it is the horizon or lack thereof that is intriguing and draws me to stop, stare and ponder.  Some mornings, I squint through the gray matching sea to sky unable to discern the existence of a horizon.  I know that it is there.  Why the curiosity? Days that this line is distinct and thick like the mark of a fat primary crayon, I  still stare, awestruck.