Category Archives: Relationships
Cultural Awareness
I am about to venture out into the retail world in search of shoes that might pass as reminiscent of the 1870s. Having come up empty yesterday at two Goodwill shops, I’m not sure if I will be successful. It’s interesting taking stock of what’s out there in the resale stores. This is the stuff that people give away…and other people buy. It’s not marketed; it’s not about status or brand. It’s about filling a need with something serviceable. I would do all my shopping at a resale place if I could. That’s probably why my kids call me “cheap”. I don’t get the whole “status and style” idea. I just want to get the job done. I’m not trying to fit into a competitive culture of consumerism. My “work outfit” for my new job will be a reproduction of 19th century pioneer clothing. My “work outfit” for my last job was jeans and a T-shirt with the latest musical production logo on it. I guess I have a different idea of dressing for success.
One of Steve’s favorite fables is The Emperor’s New Clothes. He often sees himself as the little boy at the side of the parade who looks on in bafflement at what everyone else is celebrating and asks, “Why are we doing this?” He sometimes talks about it as being the one who points out the elephant in the room, that glaring awkwardness that no one wants to mention. He’s not judgmental about it, he just wants to discuss it, bring it out into the open, make everyone aware of it. He’s not cynical or sarcastic, he’s genuinely curious. We don’t have a TV, but we do watch basketball games online that often include commercials. Those ads bring up a lot of questions. Why do we sell what we sell the way that we do? Why is sex and violence so prevalent? And stereotypes? Why do we think having a good time is so important? What do we really think is important? And why? Why? What is the Big Idea? Everything comes down to that level, that three year old inside who stands watching and asks, “Why?”
It’s a really good question, I think, and one that I have been trained not to ask. “Theirs not to reason why/ theirs but to do and die.” The military motto, President Bush’s command to go out and spend money rather than debate economic policy, my father’s and the Church’s instructions on being obedient…there are so many examples of hushing up that 3-year-old. I admit that there are times when it’s useful to forgo the philosophical and act decisively and immediately, but shouldn’t we return to the subject eventually and periodically to keep our motivation clear? There are members of society who are watchdogs to our conscience, in a way, and I very much respect them for their courage and thank them for the questions that I forget to ask. I am more characteristically concerned with “How?” I want to do things lovingly, primarily; efficiently, much of the time; and as correctly as possible. That may say a lot about how effective my indoctrination into Judeo-Christian thought was.
Intentionally asking both questions and fashioning a life around the answers we find deep in our experience is the focus of our Saturday Summit (what we call our “relationship discussions”). The poetry prompt I found today on NaPoWriMo’s site challenged me to write a hay(na)ku, which is a recent poetic invention. It’s simply 6 words in three lines of ascending (or descending) measure. One word, two words, three words (any number of syllables) or vice versa. We can link several together as well, we’re told. So, here is my hay(na)ku series and a few photos.
Why?
Keeps asking,
“What is important?”
How –
“Am I
A good person?”
Questions
Are for
Shaping my character.
How now, brown cow?
Why? Just…why?
Traveling Mercies
Today’s poetry writing prompt is to write a travel poem about getting from Point A to Point B. I took this with me as I walked with Steve to meet his mom for breakfast at a cafe on North Avenue. Here’s what I came up with:
Suburban sidewalk, cement sanitation
Fighting blight from untidy dandelions
Writhing, withered stems polluted, poisoned
Preventing spreading superfluous seeds
Muddy raindrop crater-pocked parkway
Mini helicopter maples, twin neon confetti
Mossy black trunks, petal-splashed branches
Tinny worm smell, saturated iris-limp toilet paper
Hiking boots treading asphalt pathways
Longing for the purity beneath.
Yesterday’s rain has left a distinct damp chill over everything. I miss the golden sun. My mood is slow and overcast as well, but I think I’ve had an epiphany in the recent “relationship talks” we’ve been having. A serious and positive epiphany, too complicated to explain. I never knew that shock and denial could last four years and then drop in an instant. I feel like a snail without her shell. Perfect for crawling about a rain-soaked environment.
Opposites and Equivocations
Just when you’re ready to declare that you have had a defining experience, another experience comes along to blur that definition. How do you know what you think you know? Epistemology is enough to explode my brain, I fear. I have to be very careful venturing into that discipline. Taking an open, artistic approach spares me from the pressure to get off the fence. The poetry prompt from today’s NaPoWriMo post helpfully supports that position. They invited me to take a poem that already exists and re-write it so that each line is the opposite from the original. I assume that the fruit of this labor is to see that both are valid in some way.
Does this drive you crazy? Are some of us driven to be dogmatic, the ones who enjoy boxing things up and nailing them down and painting them in black and white? Is this a fear-based activity, presided over by the threat that there is a right and a wrong and you could be Wrong? Is life written in either/or, both/and, neither/nor or without the slash mark altogether? How many school teachers asked you to “compare and contrast” and then told you that you did it incorrectly?
Life is diverse. You could say it is “un-like”. It just is. “Are you, like, for real?” No. I am real. Real isn’t “like”, it is.
Original poem by Emily Dickinson, “Wild Nights — Wild Nights!”. Opposite poem by me:
Dull Morns – Dull Morns!
While I miss Thee
Dull Morns have come
Familiarly.
Priceless – the Calm
to a Soul at sea –
Tossed by my longing –
Thrown to the lee!
Exiled from Heaven –
Oh! with thee
Might I but soar – today –
Full free!
Juxtaposition: somewhere near Lancaster, Wisconsin
Woodman & Woodland
Steve and I had a wonderful adventure driving across the state and ended up at Wyalusing State Park, where the Wisconsin River dumps into the Mississippi. The wind was stiff and the air was cold, but the skies were cloudless and the wildflowers plentiful. It did get down to freezing overnight, but that didn’t bother us. We woke up at about 5 a.m. because the moon was so bright and took our traditional night hike (without flashlights), cheeks burning from the cold. We burrowed back into the warmth of the tent, well-padded by every layer of clothing we brought and woke up a few hours later after the sun had begun to thaw things out. We spent a lot of time talking about our relationship and our future and came back after only one night because our energy had shifted to getting things accomplished at home and starting new jobs on Monday. Why? So we can fashion a life that allows us to travel further and get away from city life for longer periods of time.
I took over one hundred photos and will dole them out in little batches. Today’s photos are of Woodman, Wisconsin on the Wisconsin River, population 89 (in 2009). I give Steve credit for spotting these storefronts on Main Street and doing a U-turn so that I could take pictures.
We also spotted along this road, which parallels the Wisconsin river, 7 wild turkeys. Yesterday was the beginning of the first week of spring turkey hunting. I jumped out of the car to try to get a picture of 4 of them in a stubbly corn field, but they trotted away. Yup, turkeys trot. Seems like they enjoy a healthy population and plenty of habitat. I don’t know if anyone still makes clothing from their feathers or if they’re featured on the menu at the local diner, but I do know that the WI Dep’t. of Natural Resources posts access to public hunting grounds all along the riverway. We took one of those roads and got only so far in the car, then walked the rest of the way to the river. How far? This far.
So, that’s the first installment of pictures and the first part of our trip. Now for the poetry. While I’ve been away, the NaPoWriMo folks have posted 3 prompts. I decided to simply take my pick today and chose a topic that suited my mood. The following poem is based on “an experience of the 5 senses”.
Woodland Awakening
Within the heavy, smothering cocoon of cotton, wool and leather,
My limbs begin to shift and stir.
A sharp, fresh draft of cooler air snakes through the cracks in my massive nest.
My nostrils flare to greet it like a seal’s in sea ice portals.
The tease is smokey and crisp, like the promise of bacon,
Enticing me to surface. I blink my barely moistened eyes
And try to comprehend the letters, upside down and inside out,
Imprinted on my nylon tent.
The blue light brightens there, the shadows growing more defined,
As rapid-drumming woodpeckers and the two-note chickadee
Introduce a chorus of individual calls crisscrossing overhead.
The crackle from my dried-out throat is sadly put to shame.
My tongue lies limp and listless, longing for a bathe in good, strong coffee.
My will and my reluctant muscles begin a lazy conversation,
Ignoring the foregone conclusion.
Stay tuned for spelunking and sunsets yet to come!
Scale Model
Happy Birthday, dear Joshua; happy birthday to you!
My one and only son was born 25 years ago today. I keep his little sneakers hanging from the rear view mirror of my car. He actually wore these when he was about a year old. He weighed 6 lbs., 6 oz. at birth (2.89 kg), and he’s still smaller than I am. But what can you tell about a person from his size alone? Not that much. Maybe it’s the first thing you notice, but you quickly move on. When Josh was young, I saw this cartoon sequence on Sesame Street and appropriated the nickname “Teeny Little Super Guy” for him. “You can’t tell a hero by his size” became the motto for my son, in my mind at least.
“Josh is a happy boy.” That was his kindergarten teacher’s assessment as reported on his first school report. We couldn’t agree more. He was a physical comic, dancing and doing pratfalls and stunts even as a toddler. He was certainly entertaining, and still is. I wear his High School letterman jacket around proudly, with the awards for choir and band and academics displayed. Out of that slight stature comes a flexible and deep bass voice…and occasional “throat singing” and vocal percussion. He’s traded his trumpet and euphonium for drums and didgeridoo these days. His musical talent and interests are wide and varied, and still being discovered. He taught himself to juggle one day when he was a teenager. He became a balloon twister in Oregon when he was between other jobs. Academically, he was always a hard worker and accomplished whatever he set out to do. He discovered that he likes to build while working on theater sets as a teen and eventually graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in Construction Engineering.
For me, the world is bright and shiny when I’m thinking about Josh. His energy is infectious. His sweetness is charming. He works at a kennel now, and gets “puppy love” in regular doses. But life isn’t all Kibbles when you’re a young adult trying to make your way in a very competitive country. College is expensive. Paying off student loans is a burden. My mothering heart wants him to succeed without becoming cynical and hard. I wonder how to help. Do I act as coach? Do I act as cheerleader? I sit in the stands and imagine him banging one right out of the ballpark with all my might and will power, then wait to see the actual attempts play out.
Coincidentally, the NaPoWriMo poetry prompt for the day is about baseball opening day, or sports in general. This theme fits Josh. He did get involved in organized athletic teams as a kid, beginning with T-ball where the smallest T-shirt available hung down below his knees. In soccer, he was brought off the field in his very first game with a head gash that needed stitches. I remember someone once telling me “sports don’t develop character; they reveal character”. This is what I see in my son Josh.
There’s a wind at my back,
And the sun’s in my eyes.
There’s grit in my mitt;
The bat’s two times my size.
I stand at the plate,
And I know what to do,
But how it’ll happen,
I haven’t a clue.
Still, I’m light on my feet,
Feeling, mostly, at ease.
I’ve got friends in the stands
Who are easy to please.
There’s isn’t an outcome
That I really dread.
I know that the worst of it’s
Here, in my head.
I take a deep breath
With my eyes open wide
And swing with the strength
That I’ve gathered inside.
Swing away, Josh!! Remember, it’s a game. Have fun!
Tuned In
NaPoWriMo Day #3
Today’s prompt invited me to look up the #1 pop song on my birthday and write a poem inspired by that song. I could also look up another significant date and use the song associated with that date instead. I tried my birthday, and then the day that my husband and I always celebrated as the day of our first kiss. I have to say that the first option won out. Poems I have written inspired by my love for my husband will have to wait. Especially since I am posting this in advance (courtesy the techno savvy of my friend Helen) because I am taking my kids to the Museum of Science and Industry for their birthdays today…their 23rd and 25th birthdays (kids never outgrow museums!). I want to give my husband and the poetry he inspires a bit more time.
The number one hit song on the day that I was born was…..”The Locomotion” by Little Eva.
I had an immediate association. Not with the song, specifically. With a train. Steve has taken to describing my typical M.O. as “the freight train”. It has to do with a very focused, linear way of acting. I get into a task-oriented mode when I’m trying to get something accomplished. I do not like to get side-tracked when I am operating like that. I like to streamline and simplify and do one thing after another until the whole bloody thing is finished. God help you if you get in my way. That’s what cow catchers are for. It can be an effective way of doing things. Steve, however, likes to be “light on his feet”, like a river, like a school of fish, shaped by movement and fluidity. There are advantages to that, too. Anyway, it’s one of our points of reference when discussing our differences and trying to achieve compromise.
That’s the back story. Here’s the poem:
Was I born to do this straight-track motion
Or was I just trained?
Was chugging along my very first notion?
Was it always ingrained?
It’s not much of a dance.
It’s not fluid with grace.
There’s not much of a chance
Of a partner to face
When we’re all in a line
Going forward full speed.
Someone’s always behind;
Someone’s always the lead.
So “ev’rybody’s doing it”,
And that may be true.
But, c’mon baby, are you sure it’s for you?
I think this is my moment to jump off the track.
And, no, I’m not asking for my money back.
Was that Scilla that just blew by?!
Monday’s Child
Easter Sunday in southern California was beautiful that year. As large as I was, I wanted to be up and active, to meet people and spread the joy around. Jim and our two young children were not feeling well, though, so I went to church by myself. I put on my brightest maternity dress and went eagerly. I don’t remember if I made an Easter dinner or did any special activity with the kids. I started feeling some cramping that evening. I took a late bath to relax, then lay down to sleep. Suddenly, my water broke. Jim got the kids up and took them to a friend’s house, then he came back to collect me. When we pulled into the parking lot at the hospital, I could barely walk. I looked at my watch. It was midnight. No longer Easter. Seventeen minutes later, before any of the staff could complete paperwork and processing, Rebecca Louise was born.
“Monday’s child is fair of face.” It became evident to me by the time Becca was able to crawl that she was exceptionally beautiful. She had large blue eyes fringed with fantastically long lashes, like her father. She had the most perfect little nose and rosebud lips. Her face was open, balanced, symmetrical, delicate. I became so proud of my live doll and enjoyed dressing her up and showing her off. She, however, had no desire to sit on a shelf and be admired. She wanted to move! She made noise! She definitely had a mind of her own. She challenged my idea of “perfect” and began educating me in parenting at an early age…and continued that education more vigorously in her teenaged years. Here is a picture of her as a baby, out of focus a bit, scanned on a dusty screen. It wasn’t until I cropped it and enlarged it that I noticed she has a cut on her lip. Typical. She climbed on everything. When she was a toddler, she fell in a parking lot and shattered her front tooth. It had to be extracted. Until she was 6, she sported a gap-toothed smile in the middle of that perfect face. The day it happened, I cried for hours. I would have given anything to reverse that split-second event and restore her to completion. Not for her sake, mind you. She really wasn’t badly hurt. For mine. She was already teaching me that my attachment to perfection could create suffering.
Becca’s beauty went deeper as she grew. She became a graceful gymnast, then a dancer. Her remarkable intelligence was evident, but seemed to be tempered by a soft heart for people. She became quite popular, admired by her peers for obvious reasons. There’s nothing more daunting to a comfortably nerdy mother than having a popular, attractive daughter! Again, she challenged me and made it necessary for me to educate myself in social awareness.
High school was a minefield. “Perfection” was blown up completely. The bits of Becca that came floating back down became unrecognizable to me because I was still looking for an image, not for a person, a person who had a million deep feelings and only a few words safe enough to utter about them. My best efforts at communication boiled down to the times I simply held her while she cried. I won’t even mention my worst efforts.
(photo credit: unknown)
Finally, she graduated and moved down state to live near her brother and study massage therapy. That’s where she was when her father died. She was 18.
(photo credit: unknown)
It was a new minefield, but this time, we were both better at dealing with fallout. She moved back home, and we both worked hard at rebuilding, not “perfection”, but life. She is a certified massage therapist now. She creates original jewelry, grows vegetables and “mothers” a dog and cat with that same combination of beauty, grace and energy that she showed as a toddler. Her heart is large, tender and tough all at the same time. She is so much more than a pretty face!
(photo credit: Steve)
So, Happy 23rd Birthday, Rebecca! I am forever proud of you and grateful for all that you’ve taught me. Have a great night celebrating with Joe. I’ll see you next week at the Museum of Science and Industry – can’t wait!!
Intimacy
How well do you know me? How well do I know myself? How well can any two people know each other, accept each other, celebrate each other, or be open and honest with each other? Do you really want to be that intimate with someone? It sounds like a lot of work. And there are some things that might not be pleasant to know. Even about myself. Maybe especially about myself. I want to present the pleasing face. I’ve worked on being able to do that. Is that not me? Are you sure you prefer the genuine me over that pleasing mask? Why?
My partner Steve and I go around and round about this. He maintains that he is honestly working toward a genuine intimacy that is non-judgmental and completely open. Whether that’s attainable is another question, rather like a Zen koan. I find that my brain is hard-wired to make a million comparisons, a million analytical assessments, a million judgments all in a short time…about everything. I turn that brain on myself all the time, without being terribly conscious about it. I want to practice being aware of those thoughts and communicate them honestly to Steve. He promises to practice accepting, appreciating, and honoring them, holding a safe space open for me to continue my practice. What might that look like?
We go on a walk together. His long legs want to stretch; I can’t keep up. I assess myself and feel slow and out of shape. I begin to feel like I am a hindrance. I blame myself. I blame Steve. I decide to communicate. “I want to walk more slowly and take pictures.” “I want to keep up a good pace and get more exercise.” “Let’s just do what we want and meet up later.” Sounds reasonable.
There he goes. The Walking Man walks. James Taylor sings in my head. I wander toward the river, away from the parkway, the bicyclists, the dog-walkers, the joggers, the strollers and baby strollers. On a sunny Sunday, the village moves outside. I find a spot by the river’s edge, alone with my camera. I watch the water glide over rocks, reflecting light. What do I reflect? Is that me? Is it genuine? Is it a costume, an act? Maybe I am everything — change and movement. Maybe communicating is so important because this change and movement is constant. You will never know me if you’re thinking about what I said a minute ago. You can never step in the same river twice.
If I take the energy I might have spent on “formatting” myself for presentation and apply it to communicating myself “as is”, will I get closer to knowing my true self?
I am still learning how to be what I am. Just that has taken half a century almost. This conscious brain is cumbersome, manipulated early by social constructs and patterns, weighty now with baggage. The simple forming and blossoming of a bud reminds me that life can be much freer than I make it.
I dreamed last night that I could fly. It was like swimming in air, gliding where I wanted to go, my feet never touching the ground. I have had this dream my whole life. I’ve always known how to do that, effortlessly. But only in my sleep.
Another Sunday Stroll
Sunday morning, a sunny Spring day. Oatmeal with honey and dried cranberries, orange juice, chai tea. Grab my camera and take a walk. Come along! We got some rain the past two days. Now the colors are so bright!
Steve and I got into another “relationship talk”. The sun was shadowed by a passing cloud, and I saw this lone female duck, head tucked under her wing, standing on one leg. At that moment, my soul was hiding and this seemed like the perfect illustration.
We passed a church where families with well-dressed children crossed from their cars into the open doors. I remember getting myself and four children up and dressed tidily and bundled off to choir and Sunday school week after week. I miss the expectation of meeting people, the habit of seeing and being seen. I don’t miss the bickering between the kids, the passive teenaged resistance. I do miss the bagels and lox and chocolate croissants. I definitely miss the singing.
Junctions. Life paths, habits, structures, changing, evolving, maintained and unkempt.
Useful and interesting, I suppose, but I really want to be graceful, too.
I suppose my biggest fear is that I am neither useful nor graceful.
There’s another way to think of myself, though. Instead of the Western idea of being an artifact, something made by a Maker, I could adopt the Eastern way and imagine myself as something grown and growing.
Thinking, pondering, musing on my self, my vision, my viewpoint, my place in the vast universe. Steve grabs the camera from me and shows me his vision. It’s different from mine. I think it’s kind of Zen, kind of quirky. Very Steve.
I’m back home, sharing my thoughts with a congregation of bloggers. Did anyone bring bagels?
scillagrace 