And I thank me very much.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
And these moments become what's taken from the day
A piece of Tyvek paper flaps in the wind on the third level of the new construction down my street. It is a cold sound, lonely, telling.
The red lights blink back and forth, back and forth, in balanced rhythm with the slice of steel wheels of the train delaying me from getting home. It is a pulse, loud and urgent.
A receipt is snagged by a leaf in the puddle along the curb. It is out of place, on a journey.
I turn back, think I should have held the door open for the elderly man. My arms were full, I was a moment too late. I sigh at the missed opportunity.
A drop of water on my windshield connects with another and another, a stream across the glass. I watch the streams form, connect, separate. They look like veins. I feel detached.
She curls on her side, her left hand on the pillow, palm facing upward. She sleeps. Peaceful and painless.
I sit beside her, watch her chest rise and fall. To be sure. Loving and fearful.
The red lights blink back and forth, back and forth, in balanced rhythm with the slice of steel wheels of the train delaying me from getting home. It is a pulse, loud and urgent.
A receipt is snagged by a leaf in the puddle along the curb. It is out of place, on a journey.
I turn back, think I should have held the door open for the elderly man. My arms were full, I was a moment too late. I sigh at the missed opportunity.
A drop of water on my windshield connects with another and another, a stream across the glass. I watch the streams form, connect, separate. They look like veins. I feel detached.
She curls on her side, her left hand on the pillow, palm facing upward. She sleeps. Peaceful and painless.
I sit beside her, watch her chest rise and fall. To be sure. Loving and fearful.
Friday, January 12, 2007
What's that you say?
I've known him since I was seven years old. In fact, he was my first crush. Though I was absolutely sure at the time that what I was feeling was love blooming in my heart. For the tall and skinny boy with ratty blond hair who lived down the street.
He's a jack of all trades, this one, a renaissance man in dirty jeans, if you will. He's hunted bear, befriended Dusty Hill, given the most poignant eulogy I have ever heard, and run a shooting range in Juneau, Alaska. He has done several stints as a bouncer in the roughest territory, has transported jailed criminals from jail to courthouse and back, has taught numerous self-defense classes, and held (still holds) more shooting medals on a local, state and country level than I can recall. He built a small plane from a bicycle and gave his younger sister the aerial tour of Juneau on that plane. He has drifted his canoe beneath glaciers and sent me images of a blue not found in RGB or Pantone. He was the only person outside immediate family to ride with and sit with the family at my father's funeral.
Today, he lives about 30 minutes outside of Houston where he runs a shooting range that he designed and built. Over time on that range he has collected several goats, a donkey and a llama. Because that's who he is. Not a dog, mind you, he has a llama.
So when he came over the other night for dinner and a visit, and he brought out his new laptop to show off, I should not have been surprised when he said in a completely untroubled voice that he had to get a new one, because the damn goat ruined my other one.
Simply, that's who he is.
He's a jack of all trades, this one, a renaissance man in dirty jeans, if you will. He's hunted bear, befriended Dusty Hill, given the most poignant eulogy I have ever heard, and run a shooting range in Juneau, Alaska. He has done several stints as a bouncer in the roughest territory, has transported jailed criminals from jail to courthouse and back, has taught numerous self-defense classes, and held (still holds) more shooting medals on a local, state and country level than I can recall. He built a small plane from a bicycle and gave his younger sister the aerial tour of Juneau on that plane. He has drifted his canoe beneath glaciers and sent me images of a blue not found in RGB or Pantone. He was the only person outside immediate family to ride with and sit with the family at my father's funeral.
Today, he lives about 30 minutes outside of Houston where he runs a shooting range that he designed and built. Over time on that range he has collected several goats, a donkey and a llama. Because that's who he is. Not a dog, mind you, he has a llama.
So when he came over the other night for dinner and a visit, and he brought out his new laptop to show off, I should not have been surprised when he said in a completely untroubled voice that he had to get a new one, because the damn goat ruined my other one.
Simply, that's who he is.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Today I wore pearls
Beneath a blue camel, beyond flickering neon lights, I sit. This was my choice, this beer, this pizza, this escape. There were other plans, calmer plans, but my other half, my not-so-calm half, requested to change the plans.
Where are you?
She screams it.
I've lost everything... everything.
She sighs it.
She looks at me. She looks beyond me, beyond the ceiling, the room, out the window and beyond the tree tops, the sky. What she sees I have no idea but she is focusing there. There, mind you, not here.
Mom, I'm right here. Can you see me? I'm right here. You're okay.
She slowly turns her head to me, towards my voice. With little concern but great effort.
She looks right into my eyes and breathes her words with great concern, I don't know when your father is coming home. Sometimes I think he won't come home at all.
I take a breath, shut the door on her words, on my tears.
Be brave, I hear my father's voice tell me, be brave.
I think he is home, Mom.
Whispered, like her words, resigned like her words, I think he is home.
And I do, I really do. But how do I tell her? I look upward beyond the ceiling, the tree tops, the sky. I look upward to him.
Later in the car I tire of feeling, of bleeding. I sit rigid. Everything is fine, she's okay, I'm okay. No, really, I'm okay.
I look down at the cast on my arm. Foolish girl. I'm so angry with myself for how I handle (don't handle) the pain. But for tonight there's no room for the anger, or sorrow. No room to take it out on myself. Don't do it again, I tell myself. Painful lesson I've learned. Painful to hate and blame inward, and take it out on yourself. It occurs to me that no matter which direction I take, there is pain. I hear Be brave, but I want to scream, FUCK IT ALL. I mean, seriously, I do. Scream it out loud to the skies. But what would that do but startle the stars? I will not scream because I cannot. Because letting it go would be letting go. And that can't happen.
Instead I choose change. I choose a beer, a pizza, a blue neon camel flickering in the window. Simultaneously passing by and joining in is the circular rhythm of red ambulance lights. I watch the patterns across the room, think that beneath those lights are troubles belonging to someone else. I take a breath, feel the red circle through me, think about the lives passing by, think about Mom, think about quitting.
And then she walks through the door. To see me.
A friend. A smile. Her love, her laughter. Her. Compassion is given, understanding is inhaled, stories shared. In the moment I feel healed, alive, present. For the moment I feel joy. I look upward, thankfully. Friends. She feeds me with her presence, she feeds me with her laughter. I breathe her gifts. That she exists and I know her, that gift is all I need to feel good again.
I close my eyes and inhale it all, willing it to stay but knowing it will pass.
At home I tell myself that nothing has changed because nothing can change. But I'll tell you this much: Tonight a friend showed up. Just because she loves me. And her presence warmed and soothed me. It felt good and right and like the days when tomorrow wasn't a thought at all, much less a concern. She balanced the reality. She made it comfortable to breathe.
Tomorrow I'll be bedside again. I'll read Winnie the Pooh to my mother, because that's what we do these days. It's okay but it breaks my heart. Tonight I'm alright. I swing sleepily between the balance of the friend reaching in and the daughter reaching out.
This is what keeps me from the cliff's edge. Because it's enough. Because it has to be.
Where are you?
She screams it.
I've lost everything... everything.
She sighs it.
She looks at me. She looks beyond me, beyond the ceiling, the room, out the window and beyond the tree tops, the sky. What she sees I have no idea but she is focusing there. There, mind you, not here.
Mom, I'm right here. Can you see me? I'm right here. You're okay.
She slowly turns her head to me, towards my voice. With little concern but great effort.
She looks right into my eyes and breathes her words with great concern, I don't know when your father is coming home. Sometimes I think he won't come home at all.
I take a breath, shut the door on her words, on my tears.
Be brave, I hear my father's voice tell me, be brave.
I think he is home, Mom.
Whispered, like her words, resigned like her words, I think he is home.
And I do, I really do. But how do I tell her? I look upward beyond the ceiling, the tree tops, the sky. I look upward to him.
Later in the car I tire of feeling, of bleeding. I sit rigid. Everything is fine, she's okay, I'm okay. No, really, I'm okay.
I look down at the cast on my arm. Foolish girl. I'm so angry with myself for how I handle (don't handle) the pain. But for tonight there's no room for the anger, or sorrow. No room to take it out on myself. Don't do it again, I tell myself. Painful lesson I've learned. Painful to hate and blame inward, and take it out on yourself. It occurs to me that no matter which direction I take, there is pain. I hear Be brave, but I want to scream, FUCK IT ALL. I mean, seriously, I do. Scream it out loud to the skies. But what would that do but startle the stars? I will not scream because I cannot. Because letting it go would be letting go. And that can't happen.
Instead I choose change. I choose a beer, a pizza, a blue neon camel flickering in the window. Simultaneously passing by and joining in is the circular rhythm of red ambulance lights. I watch the patterns across the room, think that beneath those lights are troubles belonging to someone else. I take a breath, feel the red circle through me, think about the lives passing by, think about Mom, think about quitting.
And then she walks through the door. To see me.
A friend. A smile. Her love, her laughter. Her. Compassion is given, understanding is inhaled, stories shared. In the moment I feel healed, alive, present. For the moment I feel joy. I look upward, thankfully. Friends. She feeds me with her presence, she feeds me with her laughter. I breathe her gifts. That she exists and I know her, that gift is all I need to feel good again.
I close my eyes and inhale it all, willing it to stay but knowing it will pass.
At home I tell myself that nothing has changed because nothing can change. But I'll tell you this much: Tonight a friend showed up. Just because she loves me. And her presence warmed and soothed me. It felt good and right and like the days when tomorrow wasn't a thought at all, much less a concern. She balanced the reality. She made it comfortable to breathe.
Tomorrow I'll be bedside again. I'll read Winnie the Pooh to my mother, because that's what we do these days. It's okay but it breaks my heart. Tonight I'm alright. I swing sleepily between the balance of the friend reaching in and the daughter reaching out.
This is what keeps me from the cliff's edge. Because it's enough. Because it has to be.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Sounds logical
A portion of the email I received from my niece last night:
It shot me back more than several years ago when my Logic professor walked into class on the first day. He stood before us and asked what color shirt he was wearing. It was red and we collectively said as much. He responded that in an alternate world red could be white, or yellow for that matter. And in a perfect world, which did not exist, any answer would be correct for all colors exist in part in other colors. He then told us we were incorrect to say it was a red shirt. I had thought that class would be Venn Diagrams and such, and I still remember sitting back in my chair and realizing with a bit of trepidation that it would be about much more than circles and commonalities. Indeed it was at trip that kept me on the edge the entire semester, one that involved art and math and a healthy dose of Plato. And throughout the way, instruction on thought.
There's some good stuff going into her head.
My history class is a group lecture. It was the weirdest class I have ever been to. The Professor had us move the chairs around so we would all face him in a U-shape. He said his purpose was to make us think and figure out what and who we really are. Stuff like that. But then he pulled a flask out of his jacket and this girl started coughing at the same time. She took a sip from her bottle of water and he told her she should stop drinking vodka. She was all What? He said sometimes people put vodka in water bottles to make it look like they're drinking water. She asked him if she could have a sip of his vodka then. And he said he didn't drink. He was trying to point out our assumptions. It was a bit crazy.Mind you, that's her history class.
It shot me back more than several years ago when my Logic professor walked into class on the first day. He stood before us and asked what color shirt he was wearing. It was red and we collectively said as much. He responded that in an alternate world red could be white, or yellow for that matter. And in a perfect world, which did not exist, any answer would be correct for all colors exist in part in other colors. He then told us we were incorrect to say it was a red shirt. I had thought that class would be Venn Diagrams and such, and I still remember sitting back in my chair and realizing with a bit of trepidation that it would be about much more than circles and commonalities. Indeed it was at trip that kept me on the edge the entire semester, one that involved art and math and a healthy dose of Plato. And throughout the way, instruction on thought.
There's some good stuff going into her head.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Saturday, January 06, 2007
One hundred and sixty miles away
When we left Houston late Wednesday afternoon, it was raining. When we turned north from I-10 onto 71, it was still raining. And dark. That rain stayed with us all the way into Austin. It made a two and a half hour drive a bit edgy for me, with my eye equally split between the road and the rear view mirror checking to be sure that she was safely behind me.
Symbolically, I was thinking how the rain washes clean, how water renews.
Before we drove out, we visited Mom in the hospital. I've not seen my mother smile in months but when we stood beside her bed and told her that we were leaving to Austin, getting Cat registered and moved into her dorm at the university we all wanted her to attend, the smile on Mom's face was one so bright and pure and filled with love, that I will carry it my heart for the rest of my days.
Her dorm room was a sad site when we opened the door, like all dorm rooms are before move-in: grey and cold, waiting for personality to be taped, tacked and draped across it, waiting for life. And that it now has. In her usual way, she has made it her own. When she refered to the space as her new home, my heart lurched. But then she gave me her full moon eyes when I left her to sort through what she didn't want my help with, the same huge eyes she gave me when I took her on her first Merry-Go-Round. It'll be fun Peanut! Fear and excitement. Hanging on, moving forward, letting go.
In her wallet is her student ID and her class schedule. In my wallet is the receipt for dorm, meal plan and tuition. It is pressed against the receipts from Target and Linens and Things and the campus bookstore. In her wallet, her class schedule. On the back of my car, a decal of her school letters.
Last night we had big plans to hit 6th Street but I am no longer an eager 20-year old on the weekend before 2nd semester sophomore year, so at 6:30 when I realized I am instead age-appropriately drained from all our activities of the day, I called her and we decided it best that she come to the hotel and we have room service and watch a movie. Which we did. An obscene brownie for her, herb chicken for me. A bit of champagne (me) and a bit of Dr. Pepper (her). The movie? Jackass II. She laughed; I cringed. When she left, I hugged her a little longer than our usual hug length. For old time's sake, I asked her to call when she got home so that I'd know she got home safely. We laughed. Ten minutes later, she called.
This morning we went for breakfast and then to the Farm to Market organic grocery store near her school. She walked through the store happy and relieved to find all her favorite organic and vegetarian brands, and smiling at the fresh produce and fresh flowers. Two Gerber Daisies later, we returned to campus. As we drove along the winding drive up the hill to her dorm, I wondered what I would do in the next moments. Would I cry? Would I bite my lip? I had no idea.
What we did was walk to her dorm's front door, arms around each other. I reminded her to enjoy this time, to show her colors, to work hard. I told her that her family loves her, and that her Grandfather would be very proud of her, and to remember how very much he adored her. Then I held her face in my hands, looked her in the eyes and told her I loved her and I believed in her. And then I kissed her cheek and let her go.
And walked down the hill to my car with a smile on my face as big and wide as the Texas sky above me.
Symbolically, I was thinking how the rain washes clean, how water renews.
Before we drove out, we visited Mom in the hospital. I've not seen my mother smile in months but when we stood beside her bed and told her that we were leaving to Austin, getting Cat registered and moved into her dorm at the university we all wanted her to attend, the smile on Mom's face was one so bright and pure and filled with love, that I will carry it my heart for the rest of my days.
Her dorm room was a sad site when we opened the door, like all dorm rooms are before move-in: grey and cold, waiting for personality to be taped, tacked and draped across it, waiting for life. And that it now has. In her usual way, she has made it her own. When she refered to the space as her new home, my heart lurched. But then she gave me her full moon eyes when I left her to sort through what she didn't want my help with, the same huge eyes she gave me when I took her on her first Merry-Go-Round. It'll be fun Peanut! Fear and excitement. Hanging on, moving forward, letting go.
In her wallet is her student ID and her class schedule. In my wallet is the receipt for dorm, meal plan and tuition. It is pressed against the receipts from Target and Linens and Things and the campus bookstore. In her wallet, her class schedule. On the back of my car, a decal of her school letters.
Last night we had big plans to hit 6th Street but I am no longer an eager 20-year old on the weekend before 2nd semester sophomore year, so at 6:30 when I realized I am instead age-appropriately drained from all our activities of the day, I called her and we decided it best that she come to the hotel and we have room service and watch a movie. Which we did. An obscene brownie for her, herb chicken for me. A bit of champagne (me) and a bit of Dr. Pepper (her). The movie? Jackass II. She laughed; I cringed. When she left, I hugged her a little longer than our usual hug length. For old time's sake, I asked her to call when she got home so that I'd know she got home safely. We laughed. Ten minutes later, she called.
This morning we went for breakfast and then to the Farm to Market organic grocery store near her school. She walked through the store happy and relieved to find all her favorite organic and vegetarian brands, and smiling at the fresh produce and fresh flowers. Two Gerber Daisies later, we returned to campus. As we drove along the winding drive up the hill to her dorm, I wondered what I would do in the next moments. Would I cry? Would I bite my lip? I had no idea.
What we did was walk to her dorm's front door, arms around each other. I reminded her to enjoy this time, to show her colors, to work hard. I told her that her family loves her, and that her Grandfather would be very proud of her, and to remember how very much he adored her. Then I held her face in my hands, looked her in the eyes and told her I loved her and I believed in her. And then I kissed her cheek and let her go.
And walked down the hill to my car with a smile on my face as big and wide as the Texas sky above me.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Out of the mouths of adults
Said to my niece earlier this morning:
Before we go to the orientation, I'd really like it if you put a brush through that hair.
It's no big deal, those words, not really, but they are parental and adult enough to make the college student I used to be take a step back and kick the adult I am now. In the shin.
I'd really like it if you put a brush through that hair? When did I become someone who says that? I guess the answer to that is this morning when I saw the tangled mess of her hair and watched her sort of pat it down and look at me in her way that says, Okay, I'm ready. And the sentence just came out of my mouth. I didn't tell her to do so, mind you, just told her I'd like it if she did.
And she did.
Parental manipulation skills? Check.
Before we go to the orientation, I'd really like it if you put a brush through that hair.
It's no big deal, those words, not really, but they are parental and adult enough to make the college student I used to be take a step back and kick the adult I am now. In the shin.
I'd really like it if you put a brush through that hair? When did I become someone who says that? I guess the answer to that is this morning when I saw the tangled mess of her hair and watched her sort of pat it down and look at me in her way that says, Okay, I'm ready. And the sentence just came out of my mouth. I didn't tell her to do so, mind you, just told her I'd like it if she did.
And she did.
Parental manipulation skills? Check.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Slowly
Taking one step at a time, including the steps on this morning's walk. A bit inspiring, a lot soothing. And accompanied by the best and cutest bottled water carrier ever.
Note: Her concerned face is because she's afraid of this bridge and I have asked her to stop and turn around for a photo.
Note: Her concerned face is because she's afraid of this bridge and I have asked her to stop and turn around for a photo.
Monday, January 01, 2007
1-1-07
The first thing I did this morning was your laundry. I want to have all your belongings gone when you return to gather your things. My fear is that I'll live in a home that has become a minefield, and stumbling upon one of your shirts or socks could rip me apart further. In some way, though, as I transfer the wash to the dryer, hang up your shirt, I am comforted by this little chore, this small and basic gesture, doing your laundry. Like pouring the cream into your coffee for you, or drying your back. In some ways, being comforted like that makes me sick.
Last night, I dreamed you were telling me your dream. I didn't pay attention to that as much as you were sleeping beside me. When I woke, there wasn't that gift of a few moments of being awake and forgetting how much pain I was in. Each time I woke up during the night, I knew you were gone.
I prayed last night, prayed for the strength to get through this and everything else. To be able to carry on, face the challenges on solid ground. Right now, I have no idea. I begged for it. Friends tell me I'm strong, I'll get through this. I don't feel that strength; I feel run over, and weak. I feel tired and I feel that walking is more like crawling. I feel shocked and gutted and broken. I feel as if I've lost my father all over again - something I believed in and someone I love is gone. Just like that.
I threw your strawberry jelly away, took the photos down. I'm trying to convince myself I never really believed it in the first place.
It's hard to breathe; it's hard to eat. Especially because while I'm able to stomach toast, I've managed to burn it three times already this morning.
Yesterday when you called I asked you if you when you were flying back. You said that your ticket was for Monday. I shook my head at your non-committal response and asked you if that was when you were coming. You told me you weren't sure, that you had to talk to a lot of people, you had a lot of talking to do, that you just ran when you came here and you have to fix a lot of things. You were crying. You named several names but my own name was not mentioned. I was crying.
This morning when I walked Cheyenne, under the blue skies of a brand new year, I thought of you and the times we've made that walk. I missed you so. My heart could not lift up to the beauty around me; I felt that I was somehow darkening my surroundings. How something that has been my ritual and inspiration for five years can in such a short time turn over and become sadness for me, saddened me more so than I already was. I have no idea how I can reclaim it and make it mine again.
I'm terrified of now. I'm terrified to be in this new year and to have so much pain and know there's more coming. I know I'll lose Mom this year, and I know I'll stand alone. I know you'll be back today or tomorrow or someday soon and you'll pack up your stuff and get on the road back to your home. I know that will be the last time I see you.
So much has happened in such a short time. It's a fall from happiness, a fall from grace, a fall into darkness. Friends say I'm strong, but I just don't know anymore.
Last night, I dreamed you were telling me your dream. I didn't pay attention to that as much as you were sleeping beside me. When I woke, there wasn't that gift of a few moments of being awake and forgetting how much pain I was in. Each time I woke up during the night, I knew you were gone.
I prayed last night, prayed for the strength to get through this and everything else. To be able to carry on, face the challenges on solid ground. Right now, I have no idea. I begged for it. Friends tell me I'm strong, I'll get through this. I don't feel that strength; I feel run over, and weak. I feel tired and I feel that walking is more like crawling. I feel shocked and gutted and broken. I feel as if I've lost my father all over again - something I believed in and someone I love is gone. Just like that.
I threw your strawberry jelly away, took the photos down. I'm trying to convince myself I never really believed it in the first place.
It's hard to breathe; it's hard to eat. Especially because while I'm able to stomach toast, I've managed to burn it three times already this morning.
Yesterday when you called I asked you if you when you were flying back. You said that your ticket was for Monday. I shook my head at your non-committal response and asked you if that was when you were coming. You told me you weren't sure, that you had to talk to a lot of people, you had a lot of talking to do, that you just ran when you came here and you have to fix a lot of things. You were crying. You named several names but my own name was not mentioned. I was crying.
This morning when I walked Cheyenne, under the blue skies of a brand new year, I thought of you and the times we've made that walk. I missed you so. My heart could not lift up to the beauty around me; I felt that I was somehow darkening my surroundings. How something that has been my ritual and inspiration for five years can in such a short time turn over and become sadness for me, saddened me more so than I already was. I have no idea how I can reclaim it and make it mine again.
I'm terrified of now. I'm terrified to be in this new year and to have so much pain and know there's more coming. I know I'll lose Mom this year, and I know I'll stand alone. I know you'll be back today or tomorrow or someday soon and you'll pack up your stuff and get on the road back to your home. I know that will be the last time I see you.
So much has happened in such a short time. It's a fall from happiness, a fall from grace, a fall into darkness. Friends say I'm strong, but I just don't know anymore.
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