sticks and stones
February 10, 2011 § 1 Comment
When we are little, adults encourage us to dismiss hurtful words, to brush off unkind sentiments like powdered snow on pant legs. Still, feelings are bruised sometimes before we recognize the wound. Other times we lash out in pain creating new wounds. These sticks thrown in anger or defense land heavy with the weight of stones.
Momentarily lost to hurt feelings some hurl unkind thoughts with an unintentional belligerence similar to indiscernible curse words muttered over a stubbed toe. Hurt and anger radiate outward creating secondary wounds. The victim inflicts new pain making sorry too small a word to bandage two wounds.
When sorry doesn’t fit we stretch our thoughts to cover the space between injuries; each person sharing in the hurt, bonding broken feelings with understanding and compassion. If not properly cared for the wound does not heal in good health, but scars leaving ugliness.
Pain is unavoidable in a life filled with unknown challenges. People are fallible; words hurt and cannot be unspoken. Healing is something shared, a nurtured kindness.
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.
mementoes
February 7, 2011 § Leave a comment
In the space of a day the signs of a dog-weathered house have gone from endearing to mementoes of a loved one no longer weaving between our legs. Deep breath. Today we will find our way through this difficult new experience of saying good-bye.
dog house
February 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have abandoned the fantasy of a clean, unmarked home. Instead, I overlook the rumpled duvet with lines that conform to the dog’s sleeping shape. I accept my clothing carries fine strands of dog hair like a name lovingly penned on a child’s garment tag. Tiny scratches from four energetic legs are accidental mementos similar to a toddler’s sticky hand print on glass. I live in a dog house.
Cursing such inconveniences as dog hair and tiny scratches are done in tones of endearment. That Dog is, after all, ours. She is the one that chases through our legs and nuzzles an open palm to be near us. She roughhouses with my husband and children, but curls into the side of my back in the middle of the night. She waits patiently each time we leave and greets us with unbridled enthusiasm for no more than returning.
There’s no doubt we’re in trouble, our hearts have gone to the dog.
private seeds
February 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
After a swim lesson, absorbed with my daughter’s transition from mermaid to winter wear, I over-looked the naked woman.
Between the hair dryers and our belongings my daughter stumbled into a middle-aged woman undressing; a breast swung free from an indiscernible bra barely missing my daughter’s form. Questions and confusion danced across my daughter’s face; a stranger, someone she wasn’t allowed to talk to, was exposing parts of herself my daughter had been taught to protect with privacy.
I shifted my body providing a curtain and gathered the rest of our items. I thought back to my daughter’s earliest insistence of respectful space, private seeds as her young mind termed privacy and realized she had grown into new questions and my responsibility to meet them with an open mind and important truths. In an unexpected moment I had an opportunity and obligation to embrace the naturalness of nakedness and private seeds.
forget me not
February 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
As I began to scribble my stories, one character abided quietly in the margins.
In the beginning my husband was a classmate, our time together was limited to the space of a college English class. I was endeared by the undertones of kindness and love that were threaded in personal stories he shared, I noted his confidence and easy humor, but my attention was absorbed by classwork and multiple part-time jobs. Our class ended and we parted ways for the next two years, never to cross paths on the small, private campus we shared until one evening late in his Senior year.
Drawn away from my books by a phone call from a St. Patrick’s Day celebration I begrudgingly set my studies aside and made my way to the festivities. Slurring speech and green beer flowed around me while I kept an eye open for an opportunity to excuse myself. Then, a familiar face offered me a chair in a quiet corner and took a knee settling in to catch up on the years between an old class and that moment. I was happy to see him and our conversation was easy.
Months later, he was long graduated and , unbeknownst to me, traveling across numerous states to serve as a groomsman in former classmates’ weddings. With little more than a wish for friendship I sent a note to his home address listed in our college directory. After a spell I forgot about my note.
Then, out of the blue, he called. We slipped naturally into an ongoing, long distance conversation. We filled the distance with details of each other’s days. Notes and flowers punctuated our phone calls and I recognized there was something beautiful between us.
Still, I was entering my Senior year and not sure a relationship could grow in the demanding space of school work and an uncertain future. My concerns were balanced by his determination, patience and respect formed a foundation that supported all that we shared. We moved forward together and have ever since. The conversation is still easy, respect and patience constant companions.
early bird
February 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
I wish I could paint the moment I met my son. He looked at me with large brown eyes and I could not speak for the overwhelming beauty of his tiny soul. I slipped my fingertip into his firm grasp and pleaded silently that he know what I could not say. It was a handshake of sorts, a new partnership in my endeavor as a mother. I promised to do my best if he could hold on tightly and know that he was loved.
I stumbled through my first months as a new mother. The book What to Expect When You’re Expecting was unfinished and my first Lamaze class a date yet unmet when my son came into this world prematurely. I was intimidated, unprepared, and overwhelmed.
I counted my blessings between emotional greetings and departures from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit that was my son’s first home. Hospital visits were weighted with the worry of first time parents and magnified by monitors hovering over sleeping infants where musical mobiles ought to have been. Oblivious of our audience, my husband would sing What a Wonderful World in the gravelly tone of Louis Armstrong to the tiny bundle tangled in tubes and I would nestle our son against my skin feeling more complete with him near.
While I felt helpless and weary for my inability to make everything better, my son met his challenges with energy and strength. Tiny hands repeatedly removed the breathing tubes until doctors understood he could breathe on his own. My husband and I had sought his bedside hoping our love would give him strength, but it was his strength that gave us hope. It is this memory I recall each time he faces a new challenge. I watch my son and wait for signs that he is okay; eager to help, but aware of his strength.
special delivery
February 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have never outgrown my enchantment with the mail. Each day I look forward to the sight of our mail lady; I am eternally curious and hopeful for unknown treasures within her shoulder bag.
For some, brown paper packages are the hallmark of special deliveries. I am endeared by simple, sometimes unexpected notes. Indulgently thick card stock and whimsical pen strokes become tokens of friendship. Each message is intimate, a moment in time captured and tangible.
A letter’s author casts a sentiment into the future while the recipient reaches back gathering a moment of reflection; lives overlapping on paper. Wedding and birth announcements bring joy and celebration, drawing me into another’s exuberance. Family photos collected during the holiday season freckle my fireplace with well wishes. Thank you notes resonate as moments of gratitude and respect, gestures of appreciation.
Still, my favorites are unexpected love notes from my husband, a sentimental overture reminiscent of early correspondences when our affection stretched across miles and busy schedules weaving us into one another’s days. I am saving many of these in hopes one day they will offer our children an authentic snapshot of their parents’ love for one another. I am saving these pieces of our past in an envelope for the future.
