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Most of my family lives in a 30-mile loop of each other – a circle from Bethel to East Randolph to Randolph and back to Bethel again. It’s rural Vermont at its best – woods and pastures, dirt roads, dairy farms, cemeteries, schoolhouses and country stores. I traveled this loop today, chasing the light to capture images for a photography assignment on color and light. Sometimes because I don’t have a house of my own I feel dislocated – my life, a story without a setting. But, that’s not true. I am rooted in this town, grounded in its soil. I have memories of two sets of grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins living, working and playing here; now, siblings and nieces and nephews do the same. We abide here. And, sometimes like today, the light shines upon us and I remember how beautiful it all is and how lucky I am to call this place home.

Best Friends

Proverbs 18:24 reads, “A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”

I am blessed to have such a friend. I first met Sheila when I moved to Bethel in fourth grade, became best friends in high school and roommates in college. Calling her my best friend or even my sister doesn’t come close to pegging our relationship – although she’s both. We share memories and tears, inside jokes and boisterous laughter. We are each other’s mirrors, consciences and memory banks. When we’re together our lives are in mortal danger – we may just die someday of laughter!

Tonight we spent a night on the town, consisting of dinner and a movie. (Okay, I know I saw a movie yesterday with my Mom, but anyone who knows me won’t find this fact surprising. I see a lot of movies!)

I wanted to see Amour, one of the few Oscar picks I hadn’t seen so far. From the previews we knew it was subtitled and promised a lot of shots of actors staring off into space, what we didn’t realize was that it was a movie dedicated solely to watching an old lady die. I’ve read all the reviews and understand we may be in the minority here, but we just didn’t see any subtext, no layers of meaning, just a chronicling of death and so, we did what we always do when faced with something so serious. We went out to dinner and laughed our heads off. It says something about our maturity that we didn’t start this raucous display earlier while still in the theater. Give us a pat on the back please! But as we sprawled out on two comfy sofas in the restaurant’s lobby waiting to be seated, we dissected the movie, somehow managing to understand each other, as we always do, between snorts, knee slaps and bursts of laughter.

This picture of the two of us was taken 25 years ago in our sophomore year at Middlebury College and is one of my favorites. It is how I always see us when I think of our friendship. Sheila looks maniacal here, me like I’m stoned on laughter. We loved this photo of ourselves so much, even back then, that we printed out a score of them, mailing out one a week to Late Night with David Letterman with the hope that he would invite us on his show for our own segment of Stupid Human Tricks. “Andy Warhol says everyone has 15 minutes of fame, this should be ours,” we wrote on one of the photos. Needless to say we never made it on Letterman and he doesn’t know what he missed. We are a pretty special pair!

Girls' Day

It was a long hard week and I had an assignment to complete today for my photography class.  I decided to head to a nearby town to take some pictures. My mother chose to tag along with me and make it a girls' day: lunch at Molly’s Balloon, a great local restaurant, followed by our scouting the town for photo ops, and finishing up with a viewing of Safe Haven, a totally over-the-top chick flick based on a book by Nicholas Sparks.

There’s nothing like taking your Mom along to work, school or on an assignment. We stopped at several stores along the way and at each one she’s announce in a very proud voice, “We’re on a photo shoot.”  Thanks, Mom.

I’m not sure I got the best shots in the world, but I sure had fun. Something happens when I’m with Mom; people seem to open up to us. We went in one store where the shopkeeper at first seemed quite formal. Before we left she was sharing with Mom about her mother’s dementia and Mom was wishing her well. I think it may be Mom’s smile or the way the two of us always seem to be laughing when we’re together or our friendly banter back and forth that makes people seem to want to talk to us.

Then again, maybe it was their chance to brush with celebrity – we were on a photo shoot, after all.

Valentine's Day

No flowers or candy hearts for me today. I got a text from the guy in my life saying he was sorry, but he couldn’t send me anything. Things hadn’t been going well for him lately and he thinks he might be getting an ulcer and he loves me. And believe it or not that wasn’t a bad message. It was endearing and sweet because it was real.

Thing is we’re not valentine’s in the traditional sense, our lives have taken us separate ways. We have no claim on each other. We don’t talk everyday, but we do talk and text and read each other’s tweets or blogs and check in enough to make sure we know what’s going on. And, we see each other on certain holidays and on most special occasions, I get some pretty amazing presents from him and other times, like today, I get a message that in it’s own special way lets me know that I am loved.

My nephew Christian’s Mom posted a message on Facebook yesterday saddened by all the people upset by Valentine’s Day. She realizes that not everyone has a significant other to share the day with, but she noted that it is a celebration of love and encouraged people who might otherwise be alone to take out their son or daughter or have lunch with a friend. “Love is everywhere,” she wrote, “not just with your spouse.”

And, I agree. It’s not easy being single on Valentine’s Day or New Year’s Eve or those other special holidays that we romanticize and dream of sharing with someone special, but love is so much bigger than all of that. Sometimes it’s getting out of class after an evening of hearing students share their papers and realizing you love what you do. Sometimes its coming home to two curly-tailed monsters, who’ve chewed up your expensive eyeglasses – not one pair, but two – and curling up on the sofa with them anyway as they chew their sticky bones on your dress pants. Sometimes it’s calling a friend you haven’t talked to in ages, trading troubles woe for woe and thinking that even 20 years after college, it’s still pretty cool that you can pick up the conversation as if you just dropped by their dorm room after class.

And, sometimes love is about getting a text from a guy telling you about his crummy life, and you realizing it’s a valentine-of-sorts. His way of acknowledging, even if he is unaware that he is doing so, that you are important to him because, valentine or not, you are woven into the fabric of each other’s lives.

P.S. – If he is reading this, hope you don’t mind me sharing. Happy Valentine’s Day,  I love you!

Mad's Not all Bad

Anger has always been my go-to response – a protection of self when slings and arrows come against me. I have friends who worry about their anger, wishing to be void of negative emotions. There seems to be a belief today that we should all retain a Buddha-like calm. Anger, however, has always been my friend. Like a fever working to regulate the body against a nasty invasion, anger warns me when my boundaries are being violated.

I’m not talking about rage here or acting out in a way that could hurt others. I’m talking about that rush of emotion that says "this is wrong and I’m not happy about it." I admit when I was a child my anger often took the form of temper tantrums, but the anger itself was often not at fault. It was a child’s way of individuating, of drawing my line in the sand. Often times it was a logical response to an illogical family system. I remember reading books about wild horses like the Black Stallion that would talk about the need not to break a horse’s spirit. I would take this to heart and when things got tough I remember thinking, “they won’t break me.” I used my anger to this end.

Once my parents tried to wash my mouth out with soap and in my anger I ate the soap. Ha! I thought, whatcha gonna do now? My father once took away my teddy bear Sam, my security blanket. I screamed for hours until he relented and retrieved him from the top of the closet. I’m not condoning this behavior, exactly, but even back then I recognized that anger could help me when things seemed unfair.

In high school, I remember getting angry after trying repeatedly to master a technique in gym class. “This is stupid,” I said. The gym teacher got angry in turn, grabbing my arm and twisting me around to face him. “How do you think that makes me feel when you say that?” he asked. Didn’t he realize I was just trying to protect myself from feelings of inadequacy? My anger was a worthy shield.

When I got older and my family faced a series of crises I remember admitting to a counselor that I was angry at God. “Better angry than ambivalent,” he told me. The Psalms alone are riddled with an angry David questioning God’s intent. Jacob even wrestles with God. Ambivalence can leave one frozen, anger can set you off in a direction.

Like any one else, I don’t want to spend my time consumed with negative emotions, but for me anger has been anything but negative. It is a way to resist violations of self; when I feel it rearing its head, I evaluate the situation. Why am I angry? What part of me is under threat? Is this justifiable? Without this anger it is easy for me to let other’s opinions have their sway, to give in to their projections rather than my own reality. Anger is how I weathered the storm.

Self-Portrait #9: Wearing a Smile

For as long as I can remember, my mother has been my best friend. I can’t imagine my life outside her shadow. She has been a sounding board, a beacon, a shelter and a launching point from which to view the rest of the world.

Lately, we have been dealing with our share of health issues. Chronic allergies, sinusitis and ear infections have led to prolonged steroid use for me, which in turn has had some serious side effects: high blood pressure, increased blood sugar levels, mood swings. Following this last round of prednisone, my A1C readings reached diabetic levels.

On her part, my mom has osteoarthritis, is getting cataract surgery this month, and faces knee replacement surgery in May. Both of us have chaotic lives; neither of us likes to be in a weakened state. We both have an unspoken philosophy that life is doable as long as we keep going; we hold everything together. Only now we can’t. For the moment, we are each having to accept our limitations.

For me this has means some lifestyle choices: I am working on changing my diet, reducing stress, pursuing some long-held dreams. But these things don’t come easily and they take time. It is hard to work on dreams when life feels like a series of setbacks. My Mom has to face her upcoming surgeries, the possibility of being first bedridden and then temporarily handicapped as she learns to adjust to her new knee. In many ways it is easier for me to accept my own limitations than hers.

I look at the picture of me as a child and I wonder where the years went. How did my Mom become old enough for cataracts and osteoarthritis and how can I be dealing with a life-altering illness when I’m just starting to make some headway on some of those dreams?

Illness, surgery and aging are a mirror into one’s mortality. When you stare mortality in the face, you have two choices: you can become immobilized or you can keep on living.

A wise friend of ours once advised Mom and I to take a margarita day every now and then – he didn’t mean literally go out and buy the drink, although we could. He meant relax, take it easy, live it up and have fun. He told us we had to let go of our omnipotence – the feeling that we could control everything or that we had to. The other day after reading my blog, a friend commented that when she looked at me in high school, she didn’t see a chunky girl, but one with a smile on her face, who looked like fun. At the self-portrait review the other day, people too remarked upon my smile. I inherited it and the ability to laugh from my mother. She instilled in me her faith, too.

I don’t like to think of either of us aging or the 20 years between us that means someday I may be here without her. I really wish I could go back to eating whatever I want and that she could move more freely without pain, but I know one thing, we will never be immobilized. I have seen my Mom face life crises that could be the stuff of a Lifetime movie – stories for another time – but she always moved forward. The years between my child portrait of us and the adult one do not merely illustrate time spent, but tracks left as we blazed a trail to the future. And, if you notice, she’s still laughing and I, as her daughter, am too.

Writing Prompt: Authenticity

Authenticity: Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it as “true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character.” Yesterday, at the self-portrait workshop, our workshop leader asked us if anytime during the process of creating our self-portrait projects we had experienced authenticity. Four out of approximately 13 of us said we had. The leader then asked us what it felt like.

I wanted to laugh. Don’t get me wrong, I respect this workshop leader and as a teacher I understand what she was doing, but it seems so strange that if authenticity means being true to one’s own personality, it is so hard to find.

We hear the word all the time – we need to strive for authenticity in our writing, in our art, in our lives, but if it’s just being true to who I am, then once again I question why do I have to strive so hard for it?

The workshop leader looked at my 16 photos and remarked at the difference between the ones that were staged and the ones that were spontaneous. Again, I knew what she was talking about, but in actuality all the pictures were in essence “staged,” designed to recreate the look, feel, gestures or setting of my childhood shots. Some just looked more spontaneous because of the way I shot them and the funny thing was some of the “staged” ones felt more like me.  Take for instance, the adult shot in “Then and Now.” You can see the remote in my hand; I’m looking directly in the camera. It’s obvious I am taking the shot. Still, as I wrote in that blog post, I know this person. She is the woman that teaches my memoir class, goes out on interviews, engineered my self-portrait project. She goes to work everyday and she is me. Inside her is the little girl in the blog post last night – the vulnerable self. Which one is more me? Which is the authentic self?

It seems many people identify authenticity with vulnerability. They applaud us when we reveal these aspects of ourselves as being honest, but aren’t both parts me – to be authentic don’t I need to acknowledge both? And, if sometimes we don a mask or tell a lie to get by isn’t that a part of who we are as well? In that case what does it mean to be authentic – do we step up to the plate and admit we’re frauds? I don’t mean to be rhetorical here. I’m really struggling with this whole concept. And, then I think it may not be authenticity I’m troubled by. I think what may lie at the root of this all is the fact that a part of me identifies vulnerability with weakness or at the very least the potential for being hurt and thus, I have spent a great deal of energy making sure I am protected from such feelings. The self I wear on a daily basis, the self I want to identify with because I see her as strong, has become disconnected from this other part as I try to protect myself from potential harm. I think a lot of people feel this way and thus, we say we are authentic when we connect with this inner, hidden self. And, so we ask what that feels like – this becoming whole, connected, one. And, I have a feeling that when it happens, it doesn’t feel like a revelation or an epiphany, it feels normal. You see yourself in your vulnerability and your strength and just like looking in a mirror or pictures of yourself as a child and as an adult, you smile, nod and say, “Oh, there I am!” And, it feels good.

Writing Prompt: When do you feel the most authentic? What did it feel like? : )

Self-Portrait #8: Womanhood

See the little girl in this picture – she’s me. She’s happy, smiling, dressed in a cute little dress, tights and shoes, and she’s a little bit nervous and self-protective. Years have passed, but she’s still inside me. I carry her with me and as composed as I may or may not be on the outside, she is always there. I know this little girl, I identify with her.

Today, I attended the second half of the Self-Portraiture workshop for which I created the photos I’ve been sharing on the blog. We had eight minutes to present our projects and discuss them. My dialogue between my adult and child selves met with good response. The workshop leader asked me if I had any trouble connecting with my child self. I didn’t. In many ways it is easier for me to connect with the child than the adult. Maybe it’s because I know that the little girl standing nervously on the side of her foot, arms wrapped around her is still a big part of who I am.

The big surprise of this portraiture project and of this blog has been coming to terms with the woman I am now. I have written about my ambivalence toward my body and perhaps with that comes a disconnection to other parts of my self, primarily to seeing myself fully as a woman and not solely as this little girl. It surprised me when readers started commenting on my strong portrayal of women on the blog and counted me among them. It surprised me more when I realized it was true. Another reader commented on the feminist dialogue occurring here and again I was taken aback and saw that it was true.

Among the things I have written about and draw me to them are the ideas of paradox and dichotomy – finding strength in weakness, the woman in the little girl, the girl in the woman, the strength in both.

Another surprise with this project has been viewing the adult shots and seeing aspects of myself I didn’t know existed. Many of the photos I look at and recognize myself, but some of them I saw and said, “Is that me? Do I really look like that? Can I really look like that?” Some of them pleasantly surprised me.

The adult shot below is one of them. At the end of today’s discussion, a number of people commented on the sensuality of this picture, one saying it looked like I was getting ready to dance at a Moroccan dance club. I told them that this was one of the pictures I included because I liked the way I looked, but that it was not a version of myself that I am used to seeing. But perhaps it can be. Perhaps I am learning to drop my guard and embrace new aspects of myself. Perhaps that’s what it means to grow and be a woman.

Self-Portrait #7: Environment

To me these two photographs are as much about my environment as they are about me. Life was simpler in our Richmond, Vt. home where I lived until I was nine years old. Our house was smaller and so was our family. My younger two siblings would not be born until we moved to Bethel.  My parents built a kit home in Richmond, where Mom would let me color on the walls for entertainment and then would repaint over them when she saw fit. My brother and I entertained each other because there were not too many other kids around. The T.V. was my salvation providing endless hours of amusement. I would soak in what I saw there and continue the stories during playtime so that I became a captain on the Starship Enterprise, Isis, or a member of Josie and the Pussycats. I also loved the consistency of television – weekly shows, where characters could be counted on to act in predictable ways. They became steady friends. I would repeat the story lines to my grandmother and she would play with me for hours recreating them. I know nowadays people worry about children watching too much television, but it opened doorways of imagination for me and I still love it.

We didn’t have as much money or as many members in the family when we lived in Richmond, so the house was filled with less. This picture from my childhood captures me in these surroundings. You can see the walls are bare, the T.V. representative of the seventies as is my orange jumpsuit. My brother Johnny is the toddler on the floor. I don’t remember my outfit or that expression. I can’t tell what my child self might have been thinking. I like that she looks confident as if she owns the room.

The adult photograph shows my living room today, and no surprise the T.V. takes center stage. The room is larger. Art adorns the walls. My constant companion today is my pug Alfie. My eyes are the same as the little girls, my haircut similar. I am more familiar with my expression here. I can, however, see that girl turning into me, there is a similarity in our stance; the way we look into the camera. I am less certain here than she is; she is less encumbered. As the photographer in the second picture I need to ensure I get the shot right. My younger self seems to be staring at whoever is taking her picture with the flair of a celebrity asking, did you get that? It’s almost as if she walked out of range and 40 years into the future finding the room transformed. She would like that notion; it’s something that might have happened on the Enterprise.

Our Boy

You know Hilary Clinton’s saying, “It takes a village to raise a child,” well, in the case of my nephew Christian that’s what happened. This is not to take anything away from the wonderful work his mom, Chesne, has done – she surely should be applauded for the young man she has raised – but because she and my brother were only teenagers when Christian was born, a lot of us have had a hand in guiding him through his almost 17 years. To me, he has filled a void of not having children of my own, and not only is he my nephew and my godson; he has become my good friend.

He is frank and sarcastic, quick to understand the family dynamics. He still comes to my house every other weekend and most holidays. Yesterday, he was a child. He is fast becoming a man. But to his Mom and his Dad, his Nana and his Grandpa and me, his Auntie Bee (his nickname for me from the time he could talk) he will always be our little boy.

Last Wednesday, this little boy went off to a Winter Survival Camp. He is coming home on Sunday. Christian is already part of an intensive Criminal Justice Program through his school, but this camp is with adults – we discovered the next youngest person with his group is 20 and we are presently experiencing a blizzard here in Vermont. We think Christian is sleeping in a debris hut.

You can imagine how nervous we’ve all been. Chesne told Christian she would not text him until she heard from him, but after a couple of days we still hadn’t received any word. My father finally sent a text to Christian’s mentor, who is also working at the camp. Today, he finally answered back, letting us know that Christian is doing well and holding his own. This instigated another rush of texts between family members as we filled each other in on the news. I’m sure Christian will come back a little taller and prouder, a little less the boy and a little more the man. Wherever he goes he’ll be fine, we’ve all seen to that. I just hope we will be.