Turning Blue

My father cried. I fought back tears. My sister-in-law beamed and my brother Paul showed a slip of a smile as he stood in formation during the Turning Blue ceremony in which he received the blue cord of a U.S. Army Infantryman.

When the field was still bare and we waited with the other families for the moment when our soldiers would march out, I glanced through the program and found Paul’s name --“Paul Christian Gifford,” some emotion welled up in me akin to surprise. "That’s my brother," I wanted to cry out and almost laughed because of course, that’s why I was here. My baby brother was graduating from bootcamp. I had written about it, lived through the waiting with his wife, children and parents, knew that my brother the cop was at bootcamp, but seeing his name, a part of me was still surprised.

That’s my baby brother graduating from bootcamp. Paul is a husband, father, police officer, man, but I remember when he was just this little five-year-old who liked to dress in Michael Jackson zippered jacket and Don Johnson’s pastel coats; who was the only kindergartner to get to keep his bike in the classroom; the little boy who insisted on buying the most gigantic sombrero at Disney World; who was chunky with spiked hair until he grew up, began working out and became a body builder. This was my little brother and even though I’d written about it, even though I’d lived it, like any one whose ever watched a child she loves grow up, I was taken aback with surprise, left wondering when did it happen? Left with an overwhelming sense of pride in this person he became.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Planes, trains and automobiles..Well, planes and automobiles at least. That coupled with a bout of airsickness, a headache and too many hours without eating and I have to say I’m already a little tired of traveling and I’m just beginning. My father, sister-in-law Leah and I arrived in Atlanta today and rented a car to drive the hour-and-a-half or more to our hotel. Honestly, I’m not sure where our hotel is or how long the drive actually was because I’ve been so bus that my father and Leah made all the plans, but they got us here and tomorrow we see my brother. I’m spending three days here and arriving home late on Saturday. I have a day-and-a-half home before a 17-hour journey to Hana, Hawaii. I will share more about that later, but this will be my fifth journey with a group of teens and young adults. We travel to Hana, Maui and hold services and do community projects such as painting the senior center, building a house, clearing a coconut grove. I’m home on August 6^th for a few days before I head to Maine for two days for a reunion with a bunch of college friends.

The other night one of my fellow writers from the Hubbard Hall Writers Project emailed me that she enjoys hearing about my travels. It made me smile. I drive a couple of hours to attend our meetings in Cambridge, NY and I am always sharing about a dog show I’ve attended. I’ve written about attending a Writers’ Conference in Woodstock, NY and Blogpaws in Washington, D.C.  this spring and yet, I don’t see myself as a traveler. For years, I never went anywhere. I was rooted in the small town in which I grew up. My sophomore year of high school, a small group of us traveled to Washington D.C. and since it was the only place I had ever been, I assumed I could attend college there. My best friend and I packed our belongings and our tolerant families drove us to George Washington University where we were to go to school, only to pack us up a week later and take us home. We ended up going to college in Middlebury, VT, an hour from home.

Later, I would drive to Cambridge, Mass. to see the boy I loved. And, for a present my freshman year, my parents took the family to Disney, but it wasn’t until I met Joan, my friend and pug breeder. that the traveling bug bit me. Two years after meeting her she mentioned that she was headed to Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah to camp and volunteer and wondered if I wanted to come along. My brother Mark and I ended up going and it changed my world. Suddenly, I saw the possibilities. There was so much I never knew I could do. On this trip I saw the great expanse of the Grand Canyon, but an even wider realm opened up inside me. I could move in the world. I had feet and having roots didn’t mean I needed to stand still. I still live in my hometown, in my family’s home, but I have not been stuck there and although I don’t always think of myself as a traveling girl, I guess I am. I saw that the world was big, but so was I. The limits were largely self-imposed and I was free to roam.

Marked

I'm headed to Georgia first thing in the morning to see my brother Paul graduate from boot camp. It's the first of three consecutive trips I'm taking and my nerves are frayed. I have articles to send off, money to deposit and a checklist to accomplish before I can go to sleep. And, what am I doing? Designing a tattoo for my 17-year-old nephew. He's getting his first and I understand his excitement and desire to get it just right. When you are an artist in a family you get requests like this a lot. My other brother, Mark, is a graphic designer as is his wife, Gretchin, and they too get these frequent requests from all of us. Christian asked me earlier in the week if I could help him and I started sketching above (don't worry, it's evolved a lot from there, but can't post the result until he gets it). He knew I had to leave and he had enlisted my brother Mark's help as well, but as his deadline approached -- he's scheduled to get his tattoo on Friday -- I could see he was ready to change his mind. Not because he didn't want the tattoo, but because we didn't have his design ready. My brother Mark and I both worried about rushing a job that would have such permanence. I even suggested Christian wait until his Dad got home (Paul is an excellent artist able to design out of thin air.) And, then I realized, there was more going on here. Christian's mom, Chesne, is scheduled to go with him to get the tattoo on Friday. She is getting one as well. This is a mother-son thing, but Christian also wants a scripture on his forearm just like his Dad. He wants it before his Dad gets home. This is a rite of passage involving both his parents, involving all his family. Mark and I helped design one of Paul's tattoos and now his son wants us to help him design his. He wants to show his Dad when he gets home; a mirror of the man. Family -- uncles, aunts, and especially parents -- all leave their mark on the next generation, sometimes unwittingly. Here, we have a chance to knowingly participate, to shape with image and with love, this boy soon to be man. And, so amidst my packing and my deadlines and all my frenetic chaos, I stop and I draw and I prepare to leave a loving mark.

Unafraid

Maybe it’s because as I looked around Maria’s Schoolhouse Gallery all my friends from the Hubbard Hall Writers’ Group were there with their supportive husbands or maybe it’s because I had really been hoping some of my family could make it to the Open House to see my work and hear me read. Or maybe it’s because I had been to see the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical Two by Two at Adamant the night before and everyone seemed to be paired up accordingly, but in spite of my smiles and the good time I was having, part of me felt single and alone. Part of me always feels that way. I’m not talking about having a mate, not exactly. I’m talking about the fact that when you don’t, what others view as independence can often feel just lonely. Don’t get me wrong. I love so much about my life. I love setting off on new adventures, meeting people, sharing my work, but as outgoing as I can seem on the outside, there’s a part of me on the inside that remains nervous, that can sometimes feels frightened and small. She doesn’t like setting out in the world alone – all the pressure falls squarely on her shoulders. There are no sheltering arms to retreat to, no one to offer a polite excuse if you need to get out of an unpleasant situation, no one to compare notes with on the way home.

Yet, I set out on my adventures and wear a happy face, because over all I am happy, but sometimes it also feels like I am being brave. It is brave to challenge yourself, to test your limits, stretch your comfort zone. It’s how you grow, but it doesn’t always feel comfortable. At first it feels scary, but to be honest, it gets easier and on some days, you realize your life really is an adventure. Because sometimes even though I feel small and frightened, I also have begin to feel strong and independent and I realize I am evolving.

Some of these thoughts were passing through my head yesterday as I walked around Maria’s studio-turned-gallery and surveyed her potholders. Colorful and bright each told a story and there on the wall was one that told mine: “Unafraid Yellow Hen Ventured Out on Her Own.” That’s me, I thought, snatching it off the wall and telling Maria I had to have it. I loved it. It is exactly how I felt as I loaded my artwork in the car and drove off to the Open House that morning. Yes, my family wasn’t with me, I didn’t have a partner, but I had my collages to show and my essay to read, things I had created and I was venturing out on my own, stretching my muscles, learning what I could do.

I loved how Maria’s potholder read “Unafraid Yellow Hen” because a Yellow Hen is Happy, she stands out against the gray cloth about her. She blazes her path. And, this hen was not Brave, she was unafraid. Brave to me still implies fear, an emotion one dons like an armor to do battle with the scary undercurrent. But Unafraid? That’s the opposite of fear. It leaves no room for doubt. I haven’t achieved that yet, but I have my moments and that’s the feeling I want to have, that’s the me I want to be. Sure, I still want to find a partner, two by two sounds good, but I am learning to love venturing out on my own, it’s how I’m learning every day to be Unafraid.

Words

I have a student who is an excellent writer, a true memoirist. She has a book in her if anyone does. In fact, she’s already written it. She’s worked on a manuscript for years and finally had one ready to go to an agent. Her life had not been easy and her memoir reflects this, but recently things took a turn. She experienced some pleasant surprises. She made some happy changes. And, suddenly she isn’t writing anymore. She is living, and she doesn’t seem at all inclined to revisit the painful experiences of the past. Her writing in many ways was cathartic for her, a healing process. But now, she doesn’t need to heal. She doesn’t need to analyze, reflect, put things in perspective, or even share. She is busy living. I encourage her – so much of her life was on hold for so very long – it is not a time to sit isolated at a desk, behind a computer. It is a time to laugh with a lover, to build a strong foundation, not a story structure.

There is a belief that writers have to write. They cannot help themselves. Writing for me has always been my way of sharing my perspective on the universe. From the time I was a little girl, I remember wanting to write. I have not, however, always felt compelled to do so. Some days I can take it or leave it. Does that make me less a writer? Maybe, but perhaps it makes me a better person. I put my pen and pad of paper down and tote a carload of seventeen-year-old boys to an action film. I drive my 92 year-old grandmother to the doctor. I witness my seventeen-month-old niece see her first dinosaur exhibit. Sometimes I pick the pen back up and share what I’ve learned from these experiences. Sometimes there isn’t time before the sun sets and rises and the day begins again.

There is another belief that to be a writer you need to be selfish – to guard and honor the work above all else. Good writing is honest writing, but in the end, I think, people are more important. And, so I tell my student not to worry, the book will happen or it won’t. Go live and embrace all that you find! Writing is a creative act. It gives birth to worlds and reinvents them, but it plays second fiddle to love. The Bible says, “In the beginning was the word…” but it also notes that in the end it is love that remains. Love may be revealed on the page, but it is discovered in relationships. Words have a life of their own, but they are not my life.  I write to share what I think and feel and learn.  I live so the words aren’t empty.

Writing Prompt: Do the Math

I turned 46 an hour ago. A friend asked me tonight how old I was going to be and I replied, “I’m not sure.” She laughed and I laughed, but it is the truth. Part of it, I explained is that my best friend Sheila’s birthday is in March and whenever she turns a new year, I somehow assume I have also. I even begin anticipating the event ahead of time – next March, Sheila will be 47, so that by the time March actually rolls around I think she’s been 47 and is now turning 48 and thus, I am 48, so by the time my birthday arrives, I must be 49. Did I mention, math has never been my strong suit?

Part of it is, in spite of all this anticipatory mathematics, I really tried to give up counting at 40, so I’ve expanded the equation, deciding I should subtract a year or two to make us younger; hence when I look ahead to next March – thinking by then Sheila will be 48 – I subsequently subtract two years, making her 46. And, by my birthday in July –  when I add my customary year on to Sheila’s age making myself 47, I must also subtract two years from that, allowing me to arrive at 45. This thus, means Sheila will be 46 the next year…you obviously see where this is going. And, while some of this is tongue-in-cheek, as I’ve aged and my memory has failed a bit, it becomes increasingly difficult to remember the actual truth.

All this is to say that aging is a strange thing. My friend Betty, who inquired how old I was turning, subsequently admitted that she doesn’t feel her age. Whoever does? I thought. Here, I am over halfway through my fourth decade and I’m only now beginning to do things some people set out to accomplish in their twenties. I have friends whose kids are graduating from college, who are celebrating their 20^th anniversaries, who are selling their homes and building new ones, while I still crave all of this.

I remember when I was a child thinking of writing a letter to my older self, but even then I decided against it fearing that once the future arrived and I opened the letter I would be disappointed that the things I dreamed of had not come true. A very positive view, huh? No wonder I’m still waiting for so much.

But actually my view is not as negative as it sounds. Sheila once called me “a closet optimist” and she is right. In my heart faith always wins. Like so many people before me, I realize the silver lining in the silver hairs – my sense of self, my knowledge of who I am, is so much stronger than when I was younger. I know that 46 is not old. I’ve learned that there is not only one path to take, but many and each person carves her own trail. I may subtract a year or two in my head, even crave to be younger in my heart, but if I were to write a letter now to my younger self, I would tell her not to fear so much, to expand her perspective to revel in possibility.

You will travel, I would tell her and you will find out you are not as fat as you think, and you will know love and loneliness and find each is very different than you envisioned it. You will survive both! And, I would tell her to write her letters without fear because the equation can always be adjusted and if you’re only as old as you feel, you never truly age. I would tell her that by the time this birthday rolled around, she might gain the perspective of experience, but she would feel like no time had passed at all. She would still be facing an uncertain horizon, staring off into the future and wondering what it was all about. So make the best of it, I would write. Time’s passing and next year Sheila turns 47 or is it 48 or 46…No matter.

Write a letter to your past or future self. What do you have to say?

Attending a Reading: A Dog Walks into a Nursing Home

The Norwich Bookstore was filled to capacity tonight when my best friend Sheila and I walked through the door.

“Did you make a reservation?” the young woman at the door inquired.

“Did we have to?” I responded.

“Yes,” she said. “But you can sit on the stairway.

We climbed the steps took a seat and looked down to watch author Sue Halpern and her therapy dog, Pransky, wind through the crowds to the front of the room. We were there to hear a reading of her new book, A Dog Walks into a Nursing Home, about her therapy work with Pransky.

I, of course, was drawn to the reading by my interest in everything dog, but also by the fact that Sue Halpern is a teacher at my alma mater, Middlebury College, and is married to climate change guru Bill McKibben. From my high perch on the steps I had a wonderful view of Pransky, a golden Labradoodle with whom I and the rest of the crowd fell quickly in love, but once the introductions started Halpern seized my attention in her own right.

I hadn’t yet read the book, but I can’t wait to do so, as this is more than another dog story, though Pransky and her work are prominently featured. As Halpern talked I learned her book is organized around the seven virtues.

“What do you do at the nursing home?” one of the members of the audience asked and Halpern’s answer was very revealing.

“I soon learned it was not about doing but being,” she said.

She explained how while she was looking for something to do together with her intelligent and active dog, her own interest in memory led her to want to work at a nursing home where many people were dealing with dementia. She had a selfish reason as well. People with dementia don’t always look ill and the thought of working with people at the end of their lives or suffering from serious illness did not appeal to her, causing anxiety at the thought of confronting their and perhaps her own mortality. She soon found herself, however, working with that population and soon realized that while she may have been nervous her dog was anything but. She was just happy to be with the people who were happy to see her.  Halpern sensed there was a story in all this and suspected that a patient in the nursing home would eventually reveal themselves and share a gem of wisdom from which a book would be spun, a la Tuesdays with Morrie perhaps. Halpern noted that this didn’t happen. The story she realized was about the collective experience of all these patients and their effect on her dog.

“I started to ask the big questions such as how do you live your life?” she said. “I began to ask myself what am I learning?”

These questions soon led her to ask more – was working at the nursing home an act of charity or an act of self-interest?

So often dog books are viewed as something frivolous, something to be dismissed as part of the new cultural obsession with everything canine, but seldom have I encountered a dog book that is simply just about being a cute dog. Many like Halpern’s seem to address larger issues. Interestingly, dogs seem to have a way of making us more human. I can’t wait to read Halpern’s book and discover more about her journey because each dog book seems to take me on my own.

Being Near

I experienced two deaths this week -- the grandmother and matriarch of a family with whom I am close and my 94-year-old great aunt. There was a huge funeral for the first, while my great aunt will have a tiny graveside service Monday with only a few family members in attendance. In both cases, the grief experienced belonged more to others than myself. I loved my great aunt, but she had been in a nursing home for almost a decade, having lost most of her mind to dementia. She was not the type of person who would ever have wished this for herself (who would?), but in a family of three sisters, she prided herself on being the intellectual. She felt my grandmother was the pretty one, and by being an artist, writing poems, participating in myriad church and community groups, having strong opinions on culture and politics, that she had a role to fill. Leaving behind a good obituary was more important to her than an actual funeral service. My grandmother is the one truly feeling the loss. This was her last surviving sister, now she is the only one of her generation left and at 92 her own mortality must weigh heavily on her mind. Today, she reminded me, “you are my precious granddaughter, I want you to know that.” I do.

The grandmother of the boy I love was not someone with whom I was close, but she set the rhythms of his family. Holidays and visits were about going to Grammie’s, seeing Grammie, making sure Grammie was all right. Like an old family clock that chimed regularly to tell the hour, her family dinners and holiday gatherings foretold the comings and goings of this clan. And, while I knew she would be missed, I was not prepared to deal with my boy’s pain. He choked back tears at the funeral home because he is a man and the eldest grandson, and he does not make a display in public. So I sat with him in our stiff backed chairs, our bodies pressed close together, my arm around his back, his around mine as people chatted around us and looked upon each other with sad and soulful eyes.

In these moments, the eyes talk the loudest, saying more than words. They hold tears and smiles and questions and comfort, because few words would do. Words are good for so much – explaining, informing, sharing, letting another know that he is not alone, but when it comes to pain, they are a mild elixir, at best . So I sit and sit some more until decorum causes him to rise and serve his function as pallbearer. We follow the line of cars to the burial site, good soldiers all in a row, acting out the order of nature – life then death. And, on a bright Friday noon hour, I stand near him to bid his Grammie goodbye. We return to her house for food prepared by others. Stopping first for a picture – my friend, my brother and I. The three of us have not been together like this in years. Once we rode on wind and music through the night, enjoying the concerts of our youth. Today, time and responsibilities have claimed us, but we gather and we pause and we return to the home that his Grammie left where everyone changes clothes, eats food, and reminisces. We fall back into the rhythms of life.  Still, I sit by my friend and call my own Grammie. I show love simply by being near.

At the Funeral

I stand in the funeral home

Near the boy I love

And his family

Thinking about death

And life

And the passage of time

Each day a small glass bead

Strung onto a chain

precious, transparent, delicate

slippery

too soon each slides to the floor

in a heap

And, we try to scoop them up

In pictures and

Memories

Remember when Mom was young?

That’s you as a baby…

Was that your graduation?

Her wedding?

Your prom?

They roll between the cracks

And under the furniture

And lodge in dark places

Where each of us holds them

Stringing them on

To new chains

That’s what we’re left with

That’s what we’re given

A legacy

Of slippery glass beads

That roll into our

Hearts and

Break at the strangest of times

Leaving sharp shards

That both cut and comfort

And, I reach for his hand to hold it

As I stand near the aging women

Once beautiful

And, the young women

Once children

And, see how little we

Change

Because things looked different

Reflected in glass

Our future held in

its transparent orb

that shows everything

But the slippery truth

I stand in the funeral home

Near the boy I love

And his family

Thinking about death

And life

And the passage of time

And how it both cuts

And comforts

Because what it cannot show

or ever reflect

Is the face love takes

And, how it will look

with age,

wearing the scars

we carved

And, the grace

we gave.

In the News

Received some good press in The Valley News yesterday. They ran a story on memoir writing and featured the class I teach at Lebanon College in it. They also included excerpts of some of my student's work. It was interesting to be the one interviewed instead of doing the interviewing and I will write more about this experience later, for now I just wanted to share the news.