The sun and warmth of this fall on the coast have made me nostalgic.
I’m taken back…. to a time long ago when I was eighteen and on a first date with a boy who was gasp five years older than me.
One warm Sunday afternoon, he picked me up in his mother’s car, a white sedan with a burgundy interior. The day before, he had told me,
“Wear something you don’t mind getting wet.” he smiled as he lazily leaned against the counter of the “Pic-a-dilly Malt and Donut Shop” where I worked for the summer.
After hours of sorting through my closet the next day, I finally wore jean shorts and a tee shirt over a tank top. The tee shirt was grey.
And off we drove to the river. Where we floated and talked and enjoyed the silence and the sun.
There was only one inner tube, so we had to sit close.
The water was shallow and slow, and the afternoon was filled with hope and promise.
In three weeks, I was leaving home for university. I was nervous and excited to be off on my own and have the entire world open before me.
The future seemed filled with all sorts of possibilities and promises.
I wonder how I can capture this same feeling decades later, when the year is coming to its end when it seems that I must “return” rather than “go forward.”.
But,
I guess,
if I look closely enough, what lies ahead are promises of another kind.
Category: My Writing
Those Crooked Days
Some days just seem crooked.
When everything is askew.
Walls look slanted. Stairs are tipped.
You walk as if you’re missing a heel to you shoe.
Conversations seem unfinished or convoluted
and you can’t hold a thought long enough to keep it on any rails to speak of.
You cry when you should be laughing,
(you spell should “shood” when you know better)
and you’re awake when you should be sleeping but yet your alarm wakes you.
It’s snowing when there should be sun.
And it’s not as though you’ve been partaking in any libations,
no, (unfortunately)
it’s just the way the world seems to be this week.
And you wonder if it’s perception or reality. Or your perception of reality clouded by exhaustion (or overthinking…or both)
And you hope for the curtain to be lifted and things to be clear and aligned so that tasks can be accomplished without befuddlement,
crisp
and clean
and complete.
By Brain is Like a Runaway Train
Sometimes, my brain is like a runaway train.
Not the little namby-pamby one you see in some theme parks where it pretends to be out of control, and children squeal. No, in that one, you know you’re on a track that will take you safely back from whence you came. Instead, my brain is like an old, rickety locomotive carrying a full, heavy load of worries, fears and thoughts that have no apparent reason for existing and cannot be explained.
This locomotive uncontrollably plummets down the side of the mountain, scooping up wayward cattle in its cowcatcher or busting through landslides that have covered the rails.
Nonstop
on a maniacal mission.
Lurching and bumping and veering around corners at breakneck speed.
Any attempt at slowing down, let alone breaking, is ineffectual and a waste of time.
No distraction works.
As it turns out, the thing to do is to wait it out. To go with the momentum. Follow gravity without fighting. Trying not to get dizzy from the inability to focus on the landscape. Until I get to the bottom of the mountain
where I move from perpendicular to horizontal.
The train loses speed gradually until it comes to a complete stop, and I arrive at a resolution or at least an acceptance of sorts.
And I get off not too bad for wear.
In A Day
What a difference a day makes. Is this phrase a societal cliché? A lyric from an old song? Or maybe it’s a remnant from an old wives tale? Whatever the case, it seems to manifest itself often throughout life. Ten cases in point:
- In a day, you can go from being in love to suffering a broken heart.
- In a day, you can move from the whimsy of the summer holiday to the seriousness of work.
- In a day, you can go from feeling exhilarating independence to profound loneliness.
- In a day, you can be jolted from the complacency of routine to the anxiety of change.
- In a day, you can go from an empty page to reams of handwritten prose.
- In a day, you can mend fractured friendships.
- in a day, you can lose respect for someone you admire.
- In a day, you can find yourself halfway around the world.
- In a day, you can lose (and gain( the salt bloat caused by consuming a family-sized bag of potato chips.
- You can go from feeling insignificant and ineffectual to initiating incredible change just by facing everything that comes your way with grace.
24 hours can hold a lot of power. Power to cause a myriad of emotions surrounding a hidden lesson. How profoundly human.
For Grace to Be in All My Steps
“Grace was in all her steps, Heav’n in her Eye, In every gesture dignity and love.” John Milton
I’ve never wanted to be introduced as “the life of the party”. No. I’d rather be viewed as someone who is graceful and dignified and kind. With glimmers of sharp wit flashing when you least expect it. Sometimes graceful and dignified seem to be easy enough to cultivate but not so easy to maintain. I have a quick temper. And I can fall into a state of grumpiness that can last for days.
Why is grace sometimes difficult to sustain? Why is it so easy to let the emotions of anger and pettiness rear their ugly and pitiful heads? Most often from insecurity I’m sure. The misconception that everyone is judging you. And so what if they are? Ever known people who have gone through friends like a box of tissue? The ones who have defined themselves so stringently that misinterpret the actions and words as others as a direct attack on their view of themselves? The people you just want to shake by the shoulders and say “it’s not them! It’s you! You are the common denominator.”
I know I don’t want to be one of those people.
I think most of us default to defining who we are by confidently knowing who we don’t want to be.
But back to grace and dignity.
How to make a response to a perceived indignation less visceral. Stop. Breathe. Lower the voice (not menacingly so) but in a controlled manner. Easier said than done. Especially the breathing. Difficult when all you want to do is rip someone’s head off and spit down his/her neck. Which in itself is not very dignified.
And through it all to be consistent. To be consistently graceful and dignified and not haphazardly so. Possessive of a calm, unruffled center. Anchored in security of self.
This is what I’m working towards.
This is what I want to be.
The Pertinacity of a Dandelion
I want the pertinacity of a Dandelion.
I do
It’s true.
I want to, when cut down by sharp blades of insensitivity and criticism,
be able to duck my head and avoid the fatal stroke
and instead
pop my head back up
in spite.
I want to look bright and obvious
an in-your-face “look at me”
all sunny disposition and obnoxious cheeriness.
I want to have deep stubborn roots
that grow
reaching places that are cramped and stifling
lifting me up
breaking through stone.
And
when I’m old
I want to bring laughter and amusement
my grey head of fluff
blown
little story seeds
dancing in the wind.
My Grandmother’s Kitchen Table
I remember the colour of my grandmother’s kitchen table.
It was an institutional green with little gold stars
and a splattering of tiny pin prick polka dots.
The matching plastic chairs were cushiony and comfortable…
unless you sat on them for a long period of time wearing shorts. Then getting up from the table was difficult
and somewhat painful.
I would visit that table every Friday evening after school was finished and piano lessons were completed.
Because we were “good” Catholics, most Friday’s we’d eat salmon casserole
accompanied by canned string beans, and mashed potatoes.
Some Friday’s were special and Grandma would serve fish sticks and Rice-A-Roni
both tasting scrumptious on my little girl palate.
We’d gather around that table on Sundays as well. On that day Grandma would serve her after church special
of fried chicken and rice.
Our feast would end with chocolate chip cookies or butterscotch pie.
Friday after Friday
and
Sunday upon Sunday
I’d sit at that table and eat and visit and “be” with my family.
Until Grandma got too old and frail to cook.
Then we’d go for burgers
or hotdogs
or the Motor Inn Breakfast Buffet.
But it wasn’t the same
as sitting around
that green kitchen table.
Glass Shards
“Because even the smallest of words can be the ones to hurt you, or save you.” ― Natsuki Takaya
Months ago I dropped a little glass desert bowl on my tiled kitchen floor
and tiny glass shards shattered at an impressive radius around the drop site.
I swept and vacuumed.
Then swept some more.
Then vacuumed.
Then mopped and then vacuumed some more.
Still I found shards
clinging to the bottom of my sock,
and sometimes, to my chagrin, embedded in the heel of my foot.
No matter how hard I looked for the miniscule bits -the remnants of my clumsiness ,
I could never find them.
But,
I would come across them at the most inopportune moment –
when I was hopping out the door, one foot shod, the other bare,
or when I was shuffling to get a glass of water before going off to bed.
And I’d have to find pair of tweezers and perform minor surgery and then find the broom and give the floor another going over.
When we throw out insult or hurt someone we love,
it’s like breaking a little glass bowl.
Instead of a slip of the hand it is a slip of the tongue.
A clumsy handling of emotion.
And no matter how hard we try to pick up the pieces and make amends,
there will always be little sharp glass grains of sand
that will hide in wait.
Reminding us that what we say, or don’t say, can haunt us for months.
Little Christmas Memories
Happy, happy Christmas that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fire-side and his quiet home! ~Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers, 1836
As a little girl
Christmas on the farm was simply wonderful.
Because we didn’t have much growing up, my parents made to make the holiday chock-full of special experiences. These little gold nugget memories have stayed brightly glittering as remembrances of my childhood.
There were years when Dad would fire up the tractor, attach a sleigh and slowly drive up to the bush along the perimeter of the far field, taking his daughters, bundled and bouncing, along with him on the all-important mission of finding the Christmas tree of Christmas trees. The dogs would try to race the tractor, but the snow would be too deep and finally, they’d wise up and run along on the track made by the runners on the sleigh.
When we’d reach the bush, we’d tromp through (not an easy feat when wearing leotards, pants snowsuit, ski-doo boots, scarf wrapped around your face and hood tied tight) and look, and evaluate and debate which tree would make the cut and be “the chosen one”.
Finally, deciding on one we could all agree upon, we’d then make out way back to the house where mom would be waiting with all the decorations dug up from the trunk.
The “trunk” was a treat in and of itself and was only ever opened at Christmas. It was a brown steamer trunk with rusted metal brackets and leather fasteners. When she lifted the lid, it emitted a smell that was assuredly mothballs but, to me, smelled of history and memories that were not my own. Inside were glass ornaments of varying colours, a string of blue lights, silver tinsel, white gold and blue tinselled ropes, and the most special of pieces,
the angel.
The angel existed of gold star that held the most beautiful of ethereal beings, wrapped in clouds of white spun silk,
There she would stand on top of the tree, witnessing the love of the little family below.
We didn’t have “stockings” that were “hung up with care”. No, mom would pin our leotards to the side of the chair that faced the tree. Do you know how many oranges fit in a pair of leotards? Santa was able to fit at least half a dozen.
And then the nativity scene.
The crèche Mom made by hand.
My sisters and I found it enchanting. Mary and Joseph and Jesus. The three wise men and shepherds all made from plastic baby dolls bought at Woolworths. Mom would glue cotton balls on their heads and chins for hair and beards. She’d sew a veil and dress for Mary, brown and beige plain robes for Joseph and the shepherds. The wise men got bright red and purple robes trimmed in gold. And animals! Camels and sheep and a cow or two. (Totally out of proportion from the “people”, but we never noticed). One year my sisters and I, at a moment of bravery, peaked under the kings robes where we found feet and legs stuffed in glass mason jars so the dolls would stand up straight. They looked like preserved lab specimens, making the nativity scene even MORE intriguing!
And throughout it all, Mom would play her records. Something she only did during the holidays. We’d listen to Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas”, Julie Andrews “My Favourite Things”, and Tchaikovsky’s Christmas Concertos.
As a little girl, I loved Christmas not necessarily for what “Santa” brought (although I really, REALLY liked my Sweet Sixteen Barbie) but for all of these activities I did with the family.
The bumping along with my sisters and my father on an excursion, the unwrapping of the angel, the “pickled” feet of the wise men and the crooning of Bing Crosby.
Wonderful.
Warm.
I feel truly blessed to look back at the Christmases of my childhood and feel nothing
but excitement
and love.
From Another Planet
Some days I feel temporary.
Like I’m just a visitor from another planet. Just here until the Mother Ship comes and takes me home.
And I think, “I have so much to do in such a small amount of time”. Spending more time making a list of all the important things that need to be done before I go.
Just to lose the list.
Or a holographic image. Seeming lifelike and tangible from a distance, but the closer you get, you see the fragility of my existence.
An image without substance.
On other days I feel sturdy and rooted and permanent. Absorbing information. Dendrites growing. Emitting my learning and my expertise. Building something of importance. Strong and sturdy for those who need to use me for support or for reference, or for ingenuity. Creating stories, strengthening relationships.
Contributing more than just carbon dioxide.
Neither feeling upsets or confuses me. I merely note the incongruity between the two and wonder what I will feel tomorrow and if anyone ever feels the same.
But most days, I feel as though I just think too much about how I feel.
And I’m tempted to be “sexist” and blame it on my gender.
Or “Freudian” and blame it on my upbringing.
Or “Catholic” and blame it on an examination of conscience.
And I realize that there is no one or nothing to blame.
When We Stop and Blink
Sometimes there are small quotes from books, another person’s gift of weaving images and metaphors in such a way that sums up exactly what is going on in the readers reality without clinically spelling it out.
One of the most poignant novels I’ve read is The Secret Scripture by Sabastian Barry. It’s the type of novel that must be read slowly, each paragraph sipped and held in your mouth until you really taste and appreciate the significance and intricacies of its style. The novel is filled with beautifully written paragraphs that cause the reader to stop and actually wonder how an author can so eloquently present a truth.
One such paragraph is:
“And the river itself, the Garrovoge, swelling up, the beautiful swans taken by surprise, riding the torrent, being swept down under the bridge and reappearing the other side like unsuccessful suicides, their mysterious eyes shocked and black, their mysterious grace unassailed” (page 125).
How often in life are we like these swans where we’re taken by surprise, and are uncontrollably swept under a bridge of sorts, tumbled and shocked and surprised to have actually made it to the other side? An event, or a circumstance in our life where, while in the midst, we wonder if we ever will make it through without crumbling and shattering to pieces?
But we do.
What I find to be the beauty of the paragraph is the image of the swan at the other side of the bridge. The harrowing tumultuousness of being sucked under, out of control and at the mercy of someone or something else, but yet making it through with an “unassailable” grace.
At the moment there are several people in my life who are being swept under bridges.
But in every case, EVERY case, each person I know will be like the swan and make it through to the other side. They may blink their eyes in surprise, but they will maintain a sense of grace through it all and be all the stronger.
Grace.
Memory as Metaphor
Memory is a funny thing.
Multi-metaphorical.
It’s like a tiny alligator. Lurking in shallow water leisurely swimming by moving it’s tail. You wade tentatively in life feeling warmth and security. Going further out and away. When suddenly it grabs your ankle in it’s sharp pointy teeth reminding you it’s there. And then leaving little pointed pricks in your skin.
Prickly, pint points of blood. Distracting reminders.
Or it’s like a shroud that falls over you when you’re going about your business. In the middle of routine. And suddenly a smell or a taste or an image will act the trigger release of a safety catch. Letting drop a black and suffocating shroud. That settles on you for an hour, or a day, or sometimes a week.
Until you’re destracted by an occurrence or
a conversation or
a making of another memory that will not take it’s place but rather act as a distraction. Strong enough to put shreds in that shroud.
At times its like a Tuesday bruise on your knee on Thursday. Not as sore and tender to the touch as the day you received it, but now dark and purple and obvious when you lift your pant leg to view it. Only to cover it up again. Then have it glare at you in the face when you’re in the tub, knees popping up through the bubbles reminding you that you fell.
A small injustice or failure.
And every once in a while it’s like a little spot of sunshine that moves about a room. You have to consciously see it. Move towards it. Plant yourself in it so that you can have it warm you. If even for a little while.
Like a cat.
Until it’s time to move on and out of the sunshine
and back into the momentum of life.
Only to experience new alligators, shrouds, bruises
and blessed patches of sunshine.
Purging in Purgatory
You know that place you sometimes go where you feel all itchy and unsettled inside. Like you don’t know if you should go out and run a mile
or just sit down on the floor in a puddle and try to cry?
You’re feeling something but you can’t quite name it? You’re not happy, you’re not sad, but somewhere in between and it’s definitely not content. You’re just feeling displaced and well,
feeling as though you’re visiting purgatory.
I visit the purgatory, in no way under my own volition, whenever get a little stressed or feel slightly out of control. And when I’m here, I feel the need to clean my house. To be the mistress of my domain. Participate in something, even if it’s something as insignificant as washing my kitchen floor, and feel as though I’ve facilitated change.
Accomplished something tangible.
Completed a task.
Success I can see.
When I linger in this purgatorial emotional space for a bit longer than usual, I start purging. But unlike Dante’s purgatory where time is spent purging sin, I purge articles and objects I’ve accumulated. I toss out plants that annoy me for needing more than water to survive. I pack up and donate clothing to the Salvation army (in one purging zeal, when I concluded that I had far too many black boots, I threw out several pairs, unintentionally including an expensive pair I had bought a month before…Now I’m a more discerning purger).
I will determine who, er I mean what will stay and what will stay within the walls of my sanctuary and what will go.
Today, frighteningly enough, I even tippy-toed my fingers through my three bookcases in an attempt to weed my library (almost two-hundred volumes) settling on only two that I could part with. So I must not be too far past the threshold of purgatory to feel compelled to part with my beloved books.
Fortunately (unfortunately?) I don’t visit this “purgatory” very often. At least not often enough to keep on top of a collection of shoes and magazines and club soda cans that accumulate at a rapid rate in my home.
But when I do, the mindless organizing
and tossing
and cleaning
takes my mind off the unsettledness inside and as an end result I have a spotless abode free of some clutter,
and a mind blessedly free of a bit of clutter as well
if only for a little while.
Ink And Spine 