habits of memory
September 15, 2011 § 2 Comments
My grandfather was my unspoken favorite, I tagged along behind him unintentionally overlooking the woman hanging laundry, standing at the kitchen counter, or placing jars of tea in the sunshine. I found my grandmother’s friendship after we lost my grandfather.
Uprooted from her home and alone, my grandmother was a sad stranger. I was lonely in my father’s home and found my way to her door. Stepping inside her living room, I always sought my grandfather’s image over her television, setting my compass to North by the warmth of his smile. I didn’t realize it was my grandmother’s company that centered me.
I accompanied my grandmother on errands, sat beside her in church, kept her company when she was unwell; there was a comfortable quiet between us. We filled endless hours with collective moments of extraordinarily simple habits. There were always baked goods cooling on a table and a book resting half finished on an armrest. I find her company still, long after our last conversation ended, in familiar everyday habits like folding laundry, baking, or sitting with a book.
The other day, I found a smile among crumpled tissues. My grandmother was forever tucking tissues into the wrist of a sleeve, her blouse, waistband, pocket, or palm; these tiny markers would tumble recklessly behind her leaving a path and creating a smile. Little things, tucked inside old habits and stirring happy memories.
September 11
September 10, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have written this date for as long as I could write. Initially, I wrote it with the innocence of a child, proudly staking claim. It has become a date I share with strangers. My birthday a day of remembrance.
On the morning of September 11, 2001 I was watching the news as tragedy unfolded, sending ripples of shock, fear, and uncertainty across our nation. Like so many, I followed the news closely trying to grasp the reality of the moment. Horrific scenes of violence and destruction seemed borrowed from a Hollywood production, too far outside the realm of possibility to be real. The news brought the devastation into our living rooms, our homes made uncomfortable as we stood in witness of the unimaginable horror of hatred.
My mother waited to hear from her brothers; one worked near the World Trade Center and another’s wife worked near the Pentagon. My In-Laws waited anxiously for word from my brother-in-law living in Manhattan. We all waited helplessly in a place of paused uncertainty for reassurance*.
That evening my In-Laws arrived to babysit, my husband had planned a special evening out weeks in advance. The tone of the day was dark and attempts to celebrate felt forced and inappropriate. My husband trying to carve out a moment for us amidst a day that drowned joy with grief, toasted my birthday. I was sharing a moment with my husband that countless others would never again know. I could not be joyful, but I could not discard my blessings.
On a day of immeasurable loss, my blessings are countless. I have no doubt that each of the souls lost on the morning of September 11, given the opportunity, would live fully unbound by fear and mindful of each moment. On this day each year I think not of dwelling in a place of sorrow, but of living gratefully for the moment I am blessed to have.
*After a long day of waiting to hear from loved ones, I am happy to share they were all safe.
remembrance
September 1, 2011 § 2 Comments
Each of us have personal holidays, dates that seem to resonate within us. These days are typically mapped on our hearts, unmarked on calendars. Each year, on this day, I indulge in a moment of remembrance for the man I called my Bumpa. A silly name for a strong, quiet man who lived with grace, generosity, and wisdom. If I close my eyes, I see him walking tall ahead of me as I shadowed him through his day waiting for an opportunity to sit together in silence underneath a tree, an easy company in the absence of words. Humble and humorous, I miss his smile today.
between the lines
July 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
I set the book aside, knowingly. Days passed and I would greet the title with each dawn, waiting for the right moment to begin. On a cloudless day, beneath a brilliant blue sky, I sat in the shade of my backyard and slowly welcomed old memories between the lines of another’s words. With a lump in my throat and a full heart, I read The Anti-Romantic Child: A Story of Unexpected Joy by Priscilla Gilman.
Our lives have different beginnings, but our stories are hauntingly familiar. We meet in a place of beauty; kindred spirits bound by grace born of love for our children. Two mothers searching for and finding joy in our children’s extraordinary gifts and challenges.
My son, my first-born, was my homecoming. The first time our eyes met my speech failed, but my heart opened in an awakening. Large brown eyes, sage and serene, mirrored my own. Long, thin fingers wrapped around mine and centered me in a place of peace. I fell into contentment.
There were no other children to contrast my son’s development and I was blissfully unaware of heartaches and struggles looming in the shadows of our future. We toiled away hours, days, months, and years oblivious to red flags that would later signal an otherness. Endearing traits would later become cause for concern.
One doctor, with little more than an unsettled feeling, refered us to a child psychiatrist that would see what we had not. Diagnoses and abstract initials hovered heavy, stealing the air from the room as we began to understand our son in a new language. With love and hope we have found our way amidst the endless unknown determined to embrace our son for the special soul that he is.
Between the lines of a stranger’s story I have found strength and inspiration; a celebration for the unique spirits that accompany us on our journey through motherhood.
Please note: This post is my effort to capture my initial feelings as I read this very special book. I consciously did not reference the author’s words but rather my emotional connection to the experience of reading them.
my father
June 18, 2011 § Leave a comment
Sentiments and memories, unintended, pull on my heartstrings. There are moments in a lifetime when the absence of a parent seems larger than memories and love can fill. My father is alive but absent from my life, acceptance and forgiveness for the path that divided us cannot dull the pieces of the little girl nestled in my heart that wish for my father’s love. Once upon a time he was my hero. Smart and funny, charismatic and handsome, he was the person I tirelessly tried to please. Good and bad, somewhere in the shades of love there are lessons and gifts.
Sometimes our parents model examples that help us choose a healthier path. Standing on the shoulders of their mistakes we look into the horizon and try to map a path that winds around old mistakes. It is a mixed blessing, but a gift. As other’s celebrate their fathers, I am taking a moment to remember a simpler time when it was easier to love mine and to recognize the unintentional lessons I gained as my father’s daughter that guide me as I chart my journey as a mother.
tag along
March 27, 2011 § 1 Comment
When our son was four he eagerly anticipated the arrival of his baby sister. She was a peaceful baby, a quiet companion to her big brother’s active curiosity. She would silently accompany us in arms, carrier, or stroller through the course of her brother’s day from preschool to play. Our son would marvel at the sleeping tag along, waiting for her to wake, hopeful for the day she would play.
By the time our daughter was crawling, our son’s fascination turned to frustration as train tracks and Lego creations were in danger of demolition. Efforts to play were clumsy; our daughter noisily filling the space around her big brother. She spent her wakeful moments trying to find her place beside him.
At four years old our daughter would push between the older children, blocking her brother from harm. Like a beloved stuffed animal, she followed him everywhere unaware of danger, completely content to belong. Our son, aware of a shadow, could not remember a time before the sun fell on him casting a permanent companion.
This week at our daughter’s class play, our son slipped between our daughter’s friends and wrapped his little sister in a hug. He tagged along, finding his way soundly to his sister’s side. She looked at him, marveling in a moment of belonging, and held him tightly.
love
February 26, 2011 § Leave a comment
In a moment of nostalgia, I poured over my wedding photos. Not the leather-bound album our photographer gathered into glossy cliff notes of poise for posterity. Rather the binder of proofs, snap shots of a day through another’s lens. Candid moments, unposed.
Kindness, generosity, and love highlight my favorite images. My step-father calmly receiving my panic during the short waltz down the aisle. Women whose lives intertwine with mine in friendship offering strength and love in support of my promise. My mother proud and sentimental, celebrating a new milestone.
There is one photograph that I pause over. Alone on a winding staircase, overwhelmed by the organized chaos around us, I leaned into my husband. There is an unspoken plea in the language of my body. Feeling lost and vulnerable I gave all of my needs to my husband in a kiss. It is me asking for patience and seeking shelter. My husband’s image stands tall, accepting and giving in the same breath. I have known beautiful moments of romance, but love is a greater indulgence.
paper gems
February 9, 2011 § 1 Comment
A box of photographs, an eclectic collection of moments casually tossed together for safe storage. Each time I peek at the contents I feel like a small child with a box of costume jewelry; the combination of colorful jewels more beautiful for their haphazard entanglement. I extract images tenderly, the past intersecting with the present.
An undated photograph of my grandparents posed in front of their home lies on top. In the background rests the space of childhood holidays and summer vacations indulged with imaginary expeditions and fairy tale adventures. My senses are arrested with images and sounds of my youth; rows of freshly baked date nut bread protrude pregnantly from hollow soup cans on my grandmother’s kitchen counter, the air charged with the sound of my grandfather’s easy laughter, rich and generous.
Slipping my fingers between thick edges of old photographs I retrieve an early picture of my brother and I, faces red and cheeks damp with tears. We are closer apart where there is less friction between us. I love him dearly, but this is our truth. Sibling rivalry like a wool blanket, its coarseness creating discomfort and warmth.
My parents on their wedding day. There is an awkwardness in their posture that perhaps foreshadows the separation that would become a part of their future and my past. Still I am intrigued by these two young adults that seem at once foreign and familiar. Like paper dolls I am tempted to cover old hurts in bent paper wardrobes and provide them a new story.
One more photo before I tuck the past away for safekeeping. Two young girls, almost identical, peek out of the pile. My unofficial twin, my first friend. Matching clothes and long dark hair we stand shoulder to shoulder. The sentiment in the lines unspoken are greater than the space of our time together. It is learning to be a friend and the memories that linger after good-bye.
I sift through these paper gems rich in nostalgia gathering loved ones close and acknowledging my own spirit reflected in familiar faces.
karma
February 8, 2011 § Leave a comment
Fate has a sense of humor. I have proof. My youngest child lives outside the boundaries of my safe, people pleasing practices and has brought into my world a reckless fun that makes my days richer for the challenges.
At a swim lesson, my daughter’s classmates perched expectantly on the edge of the pool waiting in stillness for their chance to perform the assigned stroke. Sandwiched between other parents, I looked to my daughter hoping for just a hint of conformity to the class structure. No waves please. My daughter eased into a gentle back float and I closed my eyes in silent thanks. “You’re welcome” came in the form of flapping and sputtering, her peaceful form assaulted by her own perfect whale spout. I caught myself smiling as a chorus of giggles rippled across the water. My daughter lives fully in the moment embracing an opportunity to enjoy the space around her, while I sit on the sidelines hoping to go unnoticed, but vicariously enamored with the display.
Dining with family, a member of our party loudly criticized a small child’s messy manners at a nearby table. I cringed, physically arranged my body to remove any trace of support for the admonishment and sent the mother an apologetic look. Two years later, my youngest child embarked on a never-ending mission to challenge the same family member’s patience with poor manners. I should have named her Karma. Aware of the harsh judgment held against her by a loved one, she makes little apologies for imperfection. She offers love without conformity.
In her first soccer class, my daughter fell into the practice drills with an ease and interest that suggested she may have found a comfortable space where conformity was not a challenge. On her second day of class she took over the teacher’s role with the self-confidence and firm guidance of an adult authority figure; peers wobbled behind her like baby ducks. The teacher was unamused, but I was in awe of my daughter’s comfort in her own skin.
There is no shadow to hide behind when so forcefully thrust into the limelight of my daughter’s world. I am learning to wear shades.
scribblechic 