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.

ADIOS O.S.!

What?
Everybody else is doing it!

Besides, it is not entirely untrue.  Tomorrow morning I am driving my 19 year old daughter to Scottsdale, Arizona from Kansas City, Missouri in her tight little black Nissan.  She is going there to attend Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Institute having decided against Nuclear Physics as a career and opting for that of Pastry Chef instead.  For the next fifteen months she will be sharing a two-bedroom apartment with three other female students.   I am slightly concerned for their mental well-being.

Am I a bad mother because I am looking forward to an empty nest?

We've already shipped five boxes ahead to my brother and sister-in-law's home in Scottsdale, but I am quite certain that she plans on transferring the remaining contents of her room into her compact car insisting that the trunk is MUCH bigger than it looks.

I already have that familiar gastric knot in my gut in anticipation of the histrionics that will ensue once she realizes that lampshades are not collapsible and it probably isn't a great idea to strap an oversized, stuffed platypus to the roof no matter how many childhood memories it holds.

Once we arrive, it will be fine.  It is the three-day road trip that has me worried.

Out of my three kids, this one is my toughest critic.  She is bright, beautiful, energetic and independent.  She also contains enough moxie to easily run a small country and has the genetic disposition of her father in that she does not suffer fools lightly.

According to her subjective inventory, I hover in ranking somewhere between one and three.  I don't know exactly who occupies the number one and three slots, but my guess is that number one is most people in the world and three, everybody else.

But I have to give her credit.  The girl knows what she wants, who she likes and almost always has a well-thought out plan as to how she will get wherever it is she wants to go.

Up to this point, that usually involved heavy emotional and financial investments from her father and I, but we take it in stride as part of our job description.

In any case, I've noticed that it is deemed routine to alert those among the OS Crowd who care of any departure that might be regarded as permanent or otherwise lengthy, and since I have no backbone, I'm just following suit.

I am assuming that two weeks is considered lengthy.

If I am wrong and won't be missed for such a brief period of time, can we please pretend I never wrote this?  I've got enough self-esteem issues as it is without adding conjectural hubris to the mix.

Hopefully, I will still find it possible to check in every now and again while I'm away. I will be staying with my parents, whom I don't often see since moving to Kansas City five years ago, and want to spend quality time with them; time when I am not otherwise obsessing about what to write for OS and fretting about whether or not I've read and commented on as many of my favorites as possible.

I don't know that I can go cold turkey, so my laptop is coming with me and I've scanned a bunch of old drawings that I can throw up on my page from time to time just so I won't be forgotten.  I don't want to have to start over here, and I don't want to miss out on any news from my OS friends and the stellar writing I've come to count on to color my days.

For the next three days, however, I will be on the road.  I am trying to conceive of it as being a non-violent, non-sexist exploration and bonding opportunity aka Thelma and Louise, which we rented and viewed together the other night.  (No way would I ever let this kid anywhere near a firearm.)  If Mussolini and Eva Peron had a love child, I'm quite certain my daughter would still scare the hell out of her.

So, off we go!  And if I fail to resurface on OS after couple of weeks, please send a search party to the desert Southwest, as it is a certainty I'll be tied to a cactus somewhere, likely also bound to an over-sized, stuffed platypus.

RE-RUNS

Tried and True

Amazing Grace

Opening portals

Just to taste

Forbidden fruit

Behind closed doors

What's done is done

For rich or for poorer

Life is for living

Tomorrow can wait

A watched pot won't boil

The hour is late

With heart in my hand

I'll keep truckin' on

To reach for the stars

To sing a new song

The bigger the better

The harder they fall

I can't live without you

Just give me a call

Tomorrow's a new day

But heaven can't wait

Just call if you need me

I'll be home by eight

The clock on the wall

A bird in the hand

A babe in the woods

A small grain of sand

If ever you need me

I'll be by your side

And into the sunset

Together we'll ride.

a poem for K.