FLYING BACKWARDS!

 An hour ago my daughter moved away.  She is the last of my three children to do so.  I would rather be writing about her, about how lovely, gracious, beautiful and unnaturally wise she is and how profoundly I will miss her presence in the every day of my life, but she has asked that I not write about her in my blogs, and so apart from this necessary introduction, I will continue to respect her wishes.  

But my heart is breaking off just a bit now, and will not fully accept silence until I mention how much I love her.  

She and I are very much alike and she'd often refer to herself as my 'sequel' after we'd spent another marathon of hours conversing about life, being, purpose, faith, and love in a deeply reflective and philosophical manner which most people would consider over-thinking.  But to us it is life-bringing.

Last night after a full day of loading the contents of their apartment onto the Uhaul, she wanted us all to go to the movies to see a new comedy that was just released. We sat together in the dark theater flanked by our husbands and where once our arms would be linked and our heads inclined in conspiratorial laughter, this honor now went to her husband.  And as I watched them leaning into and upon each other and their hands as they remained clasped tightly together throughout the movie, I knew she was going to be alright in this new life of hers.

And this morning when they drove away just after sunrise, in spite of the tears that quite naturally fell and the part of me that she took with her, tucked inside the corners of her dreams for the future and her memories of the past; I knew I was going to be alright, too.  It is all part of the gig; the flight school of life.

Who am I?  When do I officially become old?  If I am no longer mothering, should I say I'm retired?   

How does one negotiate a successful departure from hands-on domesticity to that of a maternally-funded remote viewer?  

Should I have known this was coming and have padded the void with more solid, long-term distractions well beforehand?  Am I thinking too much?

All last night these questions droned through the background of my mind like the uneasy chatter between strangers on a train straining to hear one another over the productive noise of locomotion.

The monotonous undertone in the restless murmuring of all these unresolved thoughts gripped my body in a tense hold of anxiety until my pillow felt like the steel side of a boxcar, and all I could do was go along for the ride and pray I reached the station of full consciousness at daybreak.  I struggled to get this iron horse airborne. 

However, this is not a routine nocturnal condition and I attribute it to my current stage in life; the one that now surfaces as the sum total of past actions, and the unrealized personal visions which have been necessarily sublimated by a demanding life of conformity and cooperation.

A life that presently rests at the halfway station between pride and regret and thrives on the indecision that dwells in the space between habit and hope.

It was a similar, purgative pause between what has been and what could still be that settled around me, as I walked back into the empty house early this morning after watching my daughter and her husband drive their U-haul off into the world and their new home several states away.

And now for the first time since gravity turned against me, I am forced to reconsider my options; fully recognizing the diminishing potential for making changes, if I don't act quickly.

Unlike the last time I faced such expansive choices decades earlier, the years have advanced enough to clearly reflect their gravitational consequence on my form narrowing my physiological margins. 

Fortunately, they have had quite the opposite effect on my mind and inner countenance and have only heightened my enthusiasm.

Of course, there is the fear whose presence is now more obvious and challenging without the worried enterprises of maternal and domestic obligations to distract me; the ones that once forced my heart to cower in shame for considering 'self' over 'family' and for the idea of forging an identity which was solely my own.

But now without those very real and valid priorities of motherhood and domestic arbitration, there is nothing to prevent me from taking those willful strides into autonomous action.  Is there?

Well....is there?

For the first time in nearly twenty eight years not one of my three children is living either at home or in close physical proximity to me, and I find myself greeting this upcoming passage with a confounding mixture of absolute ecstasy and a niggling sidedish of abject terror.

On the one hand I am thrilled at the prospect of re-acquainting myself with myself and investing the majority of my time and energy into my Work (whatever that is); yet on the other, these are  the very things that terrify me because I know that by engaging them, my life will morph into something else and there will be no turning back once it does.

In those early years of marriage and motherhood I found myself in an internal struggle because I could not fulfill my personal dreams as an artist, poet or writer and be the kind of interested and available mother that I wanted to be for my children.

I kept up with my artwork, filled journals with my ramblings, and took on the occasional freelance illustration job only to the point that it would not interfere with my availability to my family.  

It was enough to keep me from imploding.

Yet it also took me years to settle my restlessness enough to stop focusing on some sublimely creative future that could exist for me once they were all grown and even more time to banish the brooding undertow of artistic discontent until I finally was able to be that kind of mom.

But I did it.

Was it a sacrifice?  I suppose in a way it was, but because I loved my kids more than what I dreamed to do, it really didn't feel like one at the time.

So now what?

I feel like The Fool in the Tarot.

The Fool represents new beginnings and the unknown but also the elements of impulsivity and risk.  The illustration shows a figure walking with his head held high, eyes half closed carrying a stick and satchel (his worldly possessions) and holding a rose. The sun is behind him and a frolicking dog is at his heels.

He looks to be the epitome of carefree abandon and joie de vive, until you realize that he is blithely unaware that his next step will take him off the edge of a high precipice, possibly to his death.

But possibly not.

We aren't really privy to the entire picture and for all the viewer knows, what we assume is the edge of a cliff could very well be only a small gap between the ground he is on and another patch that we cannot see.

This, of course, is the whole meaning and promise of The Fool.  It is the ability to take risks with the innocent trust of a child and the deep knowing that everything will be alright if you have faith.

It is also a warning to us not to merely assume that the future will support our dreams just because we want it to but that there needs to be some practical planning; a road map or, at the very least, a compass and an extra bottle of spring water.

I've got a lot to process in the coming weeks and months now that I've launched these crazy birds of mine out of this tidy but dysfunctional nest.

Still,  I have faith that we will all take to the skies like naturals.

Fear and failure are not options for any of us despite the naysayers who try to hold us down.

My husband has a saying that I've never liked but one I've heard repeatedly directed at either myself or the kids:

"If a bird had your brain, it would fly backwards."

I never knew quite how to respond to that.

But in the growing clarity of this blessed silence and with the ever-expanding view through my endless hope;  in my opinion, that would be one friggin' awesome bird.

And now if you will please excuse me, I have some latent soaring to do.

Up, up and away...........

Get Out Of Bed and Get Over It

I find it remarkable how, despite the scathing inefficiency of my emotional compartmentalization skills, I am able to continue getting out of bed each morning without pharmaceutical aids or some other form of sentimental cauterization.

This stage of life can be a bitch; this interim between heaving the productive burdens of motherhood over the smooth shoulder of devotion and duty and those first token steps onto the foreign shore of obsolescence and aged infertility.

And as I separate the expired dream from the present dreamer, it becomes clear where the new load of compromise will have to be deposited:  Right on the doorstep of 'Get Over It.'

My hope is that this stasis will not long remain and that as I visually register the sight of my daughter and her husband driving away in their  Uhaul to their new home two states away in three days, I will feel the shift towards rediscovery and actively begin deconstructing my domestic persona.

 That soon I can stop having to try so God-damned hard to recognize normal.

I shouldn't have to try so hard, you know, and had I paid closer attention to the fact that for the past 28 years my chief interest has been the preservation of the sanity, normality and happiness of those around me, I might have amended my focus just enough to allow for the same consideration to be applied to my own.

As it stands now, I have no one but myself to blame, which doesn't make the current trip I'm forging down memory lane any less nauseating.

For the past three days I have been conjoined at the conscience with my husband as we have undertaken the massive job of clearing out the attic of our home, and it has become regretfully apparent that when even one of your children has for whatever reason, bailed on their pact with integrity and folded into the dark, the one place in which you don't care to spend an abundance of time is among the recollective triggers of the past.

Now who in the world does not have an attic housing the past?

Ours certainly falls into that category serving as a repository for everything from ill-conceived hobbies involving all manner of mediums that never made an inroad of more than half a project; instrumental passions that were best left to those who actually are musically inclined; articles of clothing whose best days were well after the Beatles first landed at JFK and well before Lindsay Lohan landed in jail;
piles of books that provided fodder to no one other than the resident mice who fed upon them;
visually heinous pieces of furniture that seemed like such a good idea at the time of purchase; to the dozens of boxes, bags and trunks full of photographs that would be best viewed without the scrutiny of the regret that I now hold at bay through sheer denial.

This stage of life should come with anti-depressants or at the very least a letter of reassignment replete with detailed instructions as to the new protocols and expectations.  And for those of us whose foray into domesticity and parenthood was not overtly successful, it should come with an automatic reprieve.

But the sun is rising now and the birds are hailing the new day with their chirping enthusiasm, which I must admit is catching.

And so once more I will make my way into another undefined 24-hour crucible of inconsistencies, unpredictability, grating apprehension and complete amazement until the cycle brings either clarity or exhaustion.

Because as long as I keep getting up and out of bed, I am making progress.

SUMMER HOLDINGS

There is an ease with which summer wraps it's languid, lazy heart around my own that holds me in.  It begs me to look more deeply into my troubles and to resettle them to reflect a more provisional despairing; one that will dissipate gently at the season's close.  Like a summer romance that has made it's gracious truce with melancholy by Labor Day.

It is that quiet, manageable forfeit of will that sends all anxieties to the ground with assurances that they will not sprout again next spring because by then, surely, everything will be different.

And therein lies the prayer of every summer night:  That by the time winter has cowed my barefooted insouciance into snow boots and frosted ambivalence, I will have found enough peace within myself to sustain hope within the barren curse of cold.

I have been holding fast to a certain measure of promise inside of my restlessness (a restlessness I've come to understand may never leave me), more so this summer than in any other I can recall.  But I've noticed, too, that I no longer want to remember summers gone by with the same sentimental tangle of heartbeats that sends other mothers lifelines of comfort.

I don't yet know whether that is because of the unarguable loss of innocence and pretense that branded its dark truth upon me with the doleful fate of my imprisoned son or the ceaseless isolation and conflict of my soul as it searches for that hard knot of purpose within the challenging vow of principle.

Perhaps it is simply to avoid the pain of contrast and the power it contains to illumine my maternal failings in the hard light of retrospection.

Whatever the source, frivolity has certainly been blanched from my expectations.  At least for this intolerant moment.

 I am very fortunate, however.  I own an outer countenance of buoyancy that stabilizes my heart during the day and allows me to conduct a fair and pleasantly regulated existence from dawn to dusk.  It has been my salvation; this happy, eye-winking sparkle.  It keeps the curious satisfied that there is no sorrow here and questions remain unasked.

I have banked on my veneer of gracious forbearance to keep the darkness from crushing me, too; knowing that darkness can only be informed by what you yield to it.

I smile, darkness winces.  I cry, it owns me.

But there have been summers similar to this before.  The ones whose dynamics are aligned with trepidation and make me question the very heart of everything in every tense: past, present and the ominous future.  All have been survivable.  All have been enlightening.  I don't doubt this one will be any different.

There was one spent on the beach at my parent's then summer home.  I was feeling especially tormented by the randomness in which my life had evolved to that point, specifically how my lack of forethought had impacted the lives of myself and my firstborn.   I drew the accompanying picture for him and he has asked that I never sell it or give it away.  Someday it will be his.  Someday, when he is once again in full ownership of his life.

But for now I will share it because tonight I am holding it in as closely to my best intentions as the sultry summer has held me to it's best promise.

Side by side
by oceanside

we spied the tide

that never died

but scored my pride

with tiny scars

that fell inside

like wounded stars

and while I chide

the sin that mars

I cannot hide

which one is ours.

The holdings of summer are warm, indeed.

THE UNWITTING CONTENDERS ON OS

No matter how frequently and seamlessly they happen, I am continually amazed at the serendipitous confluences of life.  Oftentimes they can only be realized in retrospect because the web extends so far and wide we cannot see it from our spot at the center; but the cohesive fibers have woven another mandala of life lessons in spite of our inability to recognize them right off the bat.

I found another example of this during the "Cool Kid" debate on OS.  I don't know specifically how it began or what the underlying motivation was because I am too new to OS to know many of the snarky backstories and too focused on my own literary microcosm to care.  And so I read the posts and reciprocal comments with both confusion and fascination.

I also read them with a penitent gnawing at the back of my waning self-righteousness because I knew that I, myself,  had recently extracted my big toe from my big mouth and dipped it into a similar fracas.

I had let myself become wounded and offended by a posting and the subsequent comments of a fellow OSer and rather than extend an invitation to reason and question or disclaim them quietly and privately, I welcomed the big boys of vindication and unleashed a wild punch right in the center ring of the OS training camp.

Given the wide birth I have always extended to compromise over the years, I must say it felt good to be the one doling out the vitriol.

At first.

But quite soon it became a hollow satisfaction, which surprised me and it was definitely not the sort of gloating that I was willing to accommodate.

Within twenty-four hours I had PM'd my perceived antagonist with a very contrite and sincere apology for calling her out in such a public way and a couple of hours after that the two of us were exchanging animated PM's full of both relief and happiness that our conflict had such a positive resolution.

We even took it a step further, at her brave initiative, and made our peace in the same public forum in which we had enacted our jaundiced exchange only the day before.

Ironically, we are now becoming friends enjoying a mutual admiration and respect for one another, as well as the discovery of several life similarities that are as striking as they are unifying.  It is an example of the power of humility and forgiveness in action and it is a necessary though, sadly, all too infrequent occurrence.

And that evening as I took another late-night perusal around OS, I began to see the seeds of that principle sprouting in various forms everywhere, from the comments to the blogs; and I couldn't help but wonder what sort divine canopy of goodwill and grace must be hovering over our destructive heads which keeps us from committing all-out verbal OS genocide.

I'd like to think that it is one of our own making; that it is constructed from the inherent etheric nodes of decency and kindness that lie at the core of our collective souls; that it is our own better humanity just trying to inform us that pain is never a welcomed verb to either inflict or to feel; that it exists as a reminder to look up to the heavens and to our ultimate destination before we furnish our discontent with enough power to provoke us so that we lash out in anger first and ask questions later.

This world is a training ground, with OS being merely a minor match within a much larger event; the one we all struggle through with hard work and conditioning in the hopes we will just survive our daily bouts.

And like everything else, it comes with choices.  We can choose to serve as compositional cut men and dispense articulate, wordy bandages or as predatory bullies feeding off the trepidation of the floundering lightweights circling this prolific ring.

For myself, I have to admit that even though there was a moment when I felt I needed to express my displeasure in a way that could be witnessed by all, that moment was brief.  And had I just waited out my immediate compulsion to flail away with fisted vowels flying, I would have been the better for it.....because I probably would not have done it at all.

So I learned some things.  I learned them as a result of my own flawed actions, and I learned from observing the interactions of some others.  I didn't feel good about myself until I made good with the person I clobbered.

Hopefully, the conciliatory trend I witnessed elsewhere had the same restorative calm upon those others who selected that option.

Of course, I'll never really know, but being a firm believer in redemption and in the existence of a story much greater than the ones we tell ourselves, I think there is a lot to cheer about.

The next opponent I take down is going to be my ignorance, so grab a seat.

The gloves are on.

THE FRUIT OF COMPROMISE

In the hours that follow any despairing revelation there is usually that moment of compromise.  Compromise with life, with God, with convictions and with the pitiless parade of circumstances that place us where we stand from moment to moment.

That compromise came to me the morning following my calm but adamant declaration of cerebral and sentient liberation from the current dynamic of my marriage.

There is no rancor here.  When you stand in your truth, there does not need to be.  In fact, that is often the hallmark of veracity because when truth is untainted by emotion, it is pure; and purity has no agenda nor does it have a preference for sides.

However, what truth does contain is peace.  It is not the kind of peace promoted in wartime nor the sort sung about in churches and temples.  Those apply to outwardly mobilized forces of human interaction and the championing of decency as the collective standard; and while they are equally as profound and crucial, they are shared as an objective goal and often a great struggle is necessary to accomplish the ends they promise.

The peace that I am referring to is one that is so subjective and held so deeply within the unique character of its human vessel that not only does it immediately benefit only that person, but it is only applicable to that person.

Quantum physics being applied, of course, insists that the truth and peace of one will eventually benefit all.  Unfortunately, that theory cannot be proven because in order for it to work to its perfection, each one of us would have to be aligned with our own truth all of the time, which we are not.  That being so, people are bound to get hurt in the wake of our stridency.

This brings me back to my point about the necessary human invention of compromise.

In a marriage the 'two may be joined as one' but that does not imply that they actually are one.  In fact, in many marriages the diametrically oppositional forces are so pronounced that it is astounding to both the couple themselves and any cognizant outsider that they are even able to get within a mile of one another without a significant conflict arising let alone sharing the same bed.

But there are forces of attraction that have no logical explanation and purposes behind situations and circumstances that will never be fully known or understood as long as we still need to hold air in our lungs order to live.

This would adequately describe the context within which my marriage falls.  Speaking for myself, I am a willing participant in the category of oppositional attraction.  At least some of the time.  The rest of the time I am watching reruns of "Snapped" and "Forensic Files" and taking notes.

But in terms of compromise, in nearly every relationship I have either observed or been involved in, there is an inequitablility within the partnership which is seldom overtly acknowledged but accepted in vague undertones.

I don't know whether to characterize it as a being a greater need of one for the other, love of one for the other or hold over one by the other; but in any case, there is always one whose upper hand is apparent and heavily laden over the faltering fingers of the other.

Early on in our marriage, the upper hand belonged squarely to my husband.  He was older than I, had a respectable job as a school teacher, owned his own home, was an exceptional local athlete often featured in the town newpaper and was extraordinarily handsome.  In the prominent Connecticut town in which we lived, he was considered quite a catch and made himself even more appealing by his confirmed bachelorhood.

When we met I was twenty-five, just coming off a disastrous eight-month marriage to an abusive misogynist, a college dropout working at a despicably barren temp job, a closet artist and writer living with my parents and, while I did not yet know it, very newly pregnant from an ill-conceived rebound romance.  By my own critical assessment, I was a consummate loser.

Within a year and when my son was three months old, my husband and I married.  I adored the man.  I also felt indebted.  I need not have, but I did.   I knew at the outset that we were extremely different that if this marriage were going to work, compromise was key; and since I was the beholden loser, I was willing to do nearly all of it.

Until recently, that dynamic was the basis for and the adhesive of a marriage that at its best is challenging.  At its worst, insufferable.

Yet this is not a blame game.  It is not a question of one being good and the other, bad.  It is a question of being different; of there being so little common ground between our interests and personalities the dirt of it would hardly fill an ashtray.  There are no bad guys here.

And what has happened with the children now gone is that my commitment to compromise for the sake of unity is waning.  It is not a question of desiring change on his part.  People can't do that.  I am still willing to sacrifice conversation to the alter of ESPN; and I understand that I will never be understood and, therefore, will continue to do the lion's share of listening only.  I also realize that I will only be supported in what I do in as much as he can comprehend what I do, which is fairly slight.

All I am announcing is that I WILL do what I have waited a cycle of child rearing to do and that it would be best to stay out of my way while I'm doing it.  Lack of support I can handle because I understand why it is not forthcoming, but obstruction?  No way.

Beyond that my commitment to compromise within the marriage remains intact.

I don't have time to upset and reconstruct the whole apple cart and still meet my goals.  I'd rather make friends with the occasional worm and keep pushing the wagon.  Bad fruit is still edible.  You just have to know where to make the cuts.

And sometimes overly-ripe apples yeild extraordinary pies.

You take your piece and find your peace.

VERACITY, A SORDID OPTION

In a world whose usual method of exposing irony and dispensing reality checks is by pure devastation, I must say that the gentle evisceration I've experienced tonight has brought courage to this faltering heart; for while the layers of padded denial were being peeled away, there was substituted a lovely blanket of support in the unified spirit of the OS commenters.

This afternoon I was feeling quite invisible.  Not only as a writer on OS but as a salient human encased in flesh and bone.

On a pedestrian level you could say that the empty nest syndrome has sparked my descent into self-doubt and second-guessing by proffering me the gift of uncommitted time  in which to reexamine my soul, but it is much more than that.

This biological pause in the rat race of evolution has brought me to the edge of a precipice that has no logistical orientation or psychological categorization.  I am just here.  Merely apparent.  Faintly alive and barely grounded.  My children are gone.  My house is empty.  My marriage, in an advanced stage of dysfunction.

Truth and probity are sober concepts in that they belie some sort of cosmic redemption.  They speak to stalwart souls and honor and sainthood and they hold the promise of perfection.  The part of me so deeply aligned with Don Quioxte resonates with these connotations.

But none of these attributes can be gained without having first been held fast over the fires of the mundane coals of everyday life, and no truth is ever revealed without bone grinding suffering; whether by the principle or of the supporting cast.

And yet truth is called for if advancement is aspired to.

What can I say?

I can't reveal the soiled character of those around me who beg off such exposure.

I can't slam the ignorant who have no notion of the impediments that litter their objectivity and prevent balance from being achieved in their lives.

I can't hurt the fragile who cling to their feigned reality as though it were sound.

I can do nothing but offer the vague depictions of my life insofar as it remains solely mine.

You want truth?  From my vantage point truth changes moment to moment.

Tonight?  Tonight my truth is bartering with my conscience and my sense of obligation.  Tonight my truth tells me that my marriage is over; that it has been over almost since it's inception but has maintained its status for the past twenty-eight years through sheer force of will and a fear of failure; both at my moralizing insistence.

I wanted to comment earlier to all those who took such time and such care to address my post this afternoon, but I was called away by life.  Some friends of ours, my husband's and myself, invited us to an impromptu cookout at their home late this afternoon, so rather than address the comments, I addressed my life.

By all ostensible accounts it was an uneventful evening spent in the company or our friends and some of their young neighbors.  There were burgers being grilled into oblivion, hotdogs verging on cremation and all the predictable condiments to spice up the midsummer fare.  There was even a testosterone-funded croquet game unfolding on the verdant surface of a level and suburban-ly compliant backyard.  And a couple of the neighbors ferried newborns under two months old, which lent that unavoidable air of beginnings and morbid awareness of endings to the gathering.

 For me it was the same untenable game of screening and borderline socializing that I have been practicing since I was twenty-five years old and the "two shall be as one" principle was thrust into my formerly highly rebellious and autonomous field of play.

For every word I spoke tonight, I could hear the muffled and displeased voice of my husband as he hovered nearby directing me to either shut up, change topics, slow down or cease fire.  But this is the status quo between us.

If I laugh, it is too enthusiastically.
If I don't participate, I am anti-social.
If I speak candidly of my life, I am revealing too much.
If I praise someone, it is not necessary.
If I fail to address or acknowledge something he deems important, I am negligent and indifferent.

But on the way home as he was criticizing my driving although too impaired to drive himself, I felt a surge of regret gathering in my gut; mile for mile reconstituting into exasperation until I heard myself saying to him out loud but without any venom whatsoever, "Enough!"

"I am done!
I am done being censured for speaking my truth!
I am done being edited for my sincerity!
I am done being defined by my tits and my acquiescence to your demands!
I am done being accepted on conditions I did not design!
I want to be loved for all of who I am and not for what I appear to be or how well I perform!
You cannot dominate me anymore!  The children are gone.  I have no reason to remain.
If it is too trying for you to cope with me, then I beg you to let me go because I am not going to submit to your anal imperatives anymore.  I no longer need to.  The choice is yours."

Being a short distance from home I was concluding my statements when we turned into our drive.  Once, parked, he exited the car faster than I have ever known him to move and went directly upstairs.  By the time I put the car in the garage, turned off the house lights and made my way upstairs, he was already in bed and asleep.

Apparently, anger and denial are both agents for somnolence.

You want truth?  This is my truth and my current reality.
What becomes of it tomorrow is as much an unknown to me as it is to heaven, but I'll keep striving to get there nonetheless.

So now, at 1:42 on Sunday morning this is as raw as I can be.

Truth?  Truth is no longer eloquent or polite.  It does not round out sentences with juicy adjectives or smooth jagged inferences with soft allusions and gentle vowels.  It is dry, humorless and utterly despairing.   It is real.

You can take it or leave it.

I don't have that option.

When the sun rises at dawn, I remain embedded in the circumstances that surround me.

But I refuse to be defined by them.

And so it is.
For now.

THE PROBITY OF NOW

With the last of my children resettled in a distant state, I have returned home and now face the lame inconsistencies of my humanity confronting me like

greedy urchins in this childless domain.

Am I still "domestic?"   Am I allowed to retain the inferred deep, reverential honor of

"motherhood" although retired from the daily child-rearing duties of the firm?

 Or must I pass my days sedately clutching the gold watch of service as an honorary member

of my now disbanded family enterprise?

These were the thoughts that frantically raced to claim my attention last night as I stood in the doorway

of my youngest child's now empty bedroom and the same ones that greeted

me again this morning in this disturbingly silent house.

I did cry in that doorway last night and as I moved through her hollowed-out room, those gentle, ambient 

tears rooted down to my soul until they became low, mournful sobs bordering on mordant

wailing.  Yet within the keening there also existed a strong dose of relief, 

which shook my grief by the shoulders until I

recognized my anchor of hope as it stood grinning

 in the corner of newness,

beckoning me with its promise

 of anything 

and

whatever.

I can do this.

Sonnet Smackdown on OS

Dream Interrupted Extracted from my sleep I disavow The conjugal mystique behind his bliss What alabaster prayer can stop it now; that trace of rage unfurled within my kiss? This life, with dreaming dormant through the day, has sanctuary sacred in the night Whose funding of forgiveness strips away the rancor I exhibit as delight. But now redemptive pleasure takes me in and holds tomorrow as I hold my breath Recovering the mask beneath my sin I dance with silence like I'd dance with death. Yet in the prick of dawning I atone Tis best to dance with sorrow than alone.

WATCH YOUR STEP

Why am I posting this?  Sometimes I have more questions about my own actions than anyone else could possibly have about them.  I suppose this is one of those times.

It is very hot in Arizona.  I've been here for five days and this sojourn is beginning to resemble hell in more ways than merely the searing temperatures; but it would take too many years in therapy to unravel the genesis of that condition, so I'm not even going to try.

But today was good.  Orientation is over.  The child is officially in school and wholly moved into her apartment.  

Did I mention that making multiple trips from the car in the parking lot up two flights of stairs to the apartment, carrying boxes, suitcases, several bags of purchased necessities from Target and an oversized stuffed platypus in 115 degree temperatures is an awesome workout?  It covers weight resistance and aerobics along with the same benefits of a purging, purifying sauna.

I call it the "Near Death" workout.

 Other than that I have a lot of family here with whom I've been spending all of my time.

I'm resting now.  

More or less.

Okay....

Less.

I'm really just hiding.

To most, this requires no further explanation.

However, I've moved beyond the disquieting voices in my head (Or are they from the other room?) and  I've posted.

When you hear from me again, it is quite possible I will be under a doctor's care and heavily sedated.

In the meantime, keep me in your prayers.....

What is my name again?

Watch Your Step

Reach long and hard

to scratch the surface

linger there 

without a purpose

grasp the hand

a stranger bids you

go beyond the

 locks and grids

they set you up 

to go down fighting

watch you screaming

scratching, biting

rolling down

 the hill

of plenty

off the edge

 for less
than twenty
bucks 

to think

the barmaid

 hands you

all you'll drink

in half the time

it takes to rise

and knock on 

heaven's gate

SURPRISE!

you came

 too late.

ODE TO A LITERARY MOTHER

It has been only slightly more than a day that I have spent in the company of my mother and father, yet in being more fully washed in the status of 'daughter' (while at the same time helping to launch my youngest child as she moves into her first apartment to commence the first chapter of her adult/student life), I am taken back to the days when I was a young mother of small children.  

To say I was frustrated because the demands of mothering prevented my being able to write would be an understatement.  While I regret none of the sacrifices, I did at the time pen my angst in this poem as well as in the accompanying illustration.  I recall it wound up being widely distributed from mother to mother/friend to friend at the time.

But it is good now to be here in the company of those who knew me and loved me before I knew or loved myself and even more wonderful to know my daughter will be watched over by those same true hearts.  And while I cannot commit to writing a full post during this time, I can share a bit of what was once my reality.  I don't doubt there are young mothers today pacing in those same shoes of sacrifice for their families.  Perhaps they can relate and can take heart not to give up the dream even as they feel compelled to set it gently aside for a time.

The dilemma with my writing poetry these days

-apart from sporadic writing malaise

and trying to make sense of a life that does not;

translating a heart which I’ve long since forgot-

Is being prolific while wiping a nose

or changing a diaper....you know how it goes:

invaded by Gerbers and juvenile faces

my renegade soul mocks its domestic paces

foregoing the remnants of artistic ambit

 to service a far more conventional gambit

And while I resemble whom I was before, 

I reek now of pablum and wax from the floor

I’m still awake nightly, though not writing prose

but placating infants refusing to doze.

How does one remain a staid woman of letters

when one is surrounded by chronic bed-wetter’s?

So lost in dispassionate, suburban gloom

my most literate challenge is now GOODNIGHT MOON

While there ARE mightier tasks than with pen or with sapier

I’m still Auden at heart, but I’m Big Bird on paper.