The Death and Rebirth of Mother

Those of you who know me or read this blog may be familiar with the special relationship I have with my GPS, the miraculous device I call "Mother" because of the gentle and sometimes not-so-gentle guidance she provides—take the next left, take the next left! But seriously, before Mother came along I lived in fear of traveling anywhere—of course I did, leaving for assignments, ample maps and directions and still getting lost with sweaty palms and often tears on old dirt roads in the middle of nowhere or worse on a highway with four lanes of traffic and no option to bail.

But big road trips? The ones filled with possibility instead of dictated by responsibility? Those I avoided—they were the great unknown. Then came Mother, plug in a destination and she takes you there, get lost and she reroutes you. It was the salvation I was looking for and I converted from reluctant traveler to albeit technology dependent gypsy wanderer. Sure, I admit Mother didn't always get it right, there was that cowpath she led me to on the way to a meeting of the Hubbard Hall Writers' Group, but that was largely because Mother had a fluke—map updates sent her into a tizzy, so I had to be content with her original knowledge, which for my purposes was extensive and with her I was never alone.

Mother died on Thursday just before my annual trip to Woodstock. Actually, she probably died earlier than that—hidden away in permanent slumber in the dark catacombs of my glove compartment, but I only noticed before my trip. Sure I've been coming to Woodstock for the last four years, generally knew the way, but to me this crisis was tragic. There was no way I could travel without Mother. Already late, I had to reroute my trip, heading int he opposite direction to buy a Mother replacement at the closest Best Buy. $174.00 later I came out with a new Mother, affectionately called "Ma" and a service plan in case she break down. Ma is bigger and supposedly better than Mother—I'll let you know—we are just getting acquainted, but already I know she is a comfort.

I called my friend Joan who seems to find getting lost an adventure and shared my story. She, who has no cellphone or even access to google maps, seemed shocked. What did you do before? she asked. I didn't go anywhere I admitted. I mean I traveled with you, but not on my own. My other friends have commented on my new found confidence once Mother came into my life.

Unfortunately, I think I've been waiting for Mother in other areas of my life as well—someone to show me which way to go and then I'd be off and running, someone to reassure me when I find myself in the all-too-overwhelming, fast-moving, incomprehensible traffic of life. I'm not looking for someone to tell what to do, just point me in the right direction. But I'm not crazy or helpless, I want freedom and freewill. I want adventure, but just a a padded unknown, something soft to fall on when I get a little nervous—a confident voice that reminds me I can take the next left since I can't find that at the local Best Buy, I set out on my adventures with the hope the nudge and netting will be there when I need it and I look for support along the way—mentors, friends, road signs—help is usually there when you need it. Part of growth I guess is learning to mother yourself and I am learning, choosing new directions left and right (pun intended!) But, when it comes to actual road travel don't expect me to abandoning "Ma" anytime soon—some things are too good to be true—all that guidance in the palm of my hand!

Mixed Precipitating

I woke up with a plan for the day that suddenly fractured because I got scared over the chance of snow and mixed precipitation; the fear of driving from Bethel to Colchester to Lebanon, NH in the span of 24 hours with snow dogging me all the way. And, I hear they’re serving dinner and I’m not sure how long we’ll be there or what time we’ll be able to leave, what time is dinner served anyway? This makes planning hard, when I need to make the three-hour window that Weather.com says I have between the rain and the snow. Snow flurries are nothing until you have to drive the windswept alley between Northfield and Randolph, where weather always stretches its coiled muscles, showing off what it can do, making night slicker, darker, foggier than it need be. And, I don’t trust my new car. It seems to slip and slide and have a mind of its own. It wants to twirl and pirouette at the slightest gust of wind—a fanciful ballerina, when I wanted a marine in full battle gear. Then the phone rings and someone’s heart is breaking and God knows I don’t have an answer for what God is doing. And, while we’re pondering big questions, who knew we could lose an airplane in a day and age when Big Brother is supposed to be watching everything. Then, my sweet sister-in-law tries to make me feel better, bless her. She says it’s hard to drive the length of the state without encountering snow somewhere and I think that’s it isn’t it—on life’s highway you’re bound for a little heartache. It’s all a mixed bag.

Tucked In

Almost every other weekend for almost 18 years I have had the privilege of tucking a certain young boy and then a young man into bed. Okay, we haven’t called it tucking in for a number of years now, but that doesn’t mean that I haven’t been there to turn down the TV or turn off the light long after he has fallen asleep. When my nephew Christian was little I used to pull the GI Joe action figures and micro machines out from under the covers so he could roll over without crushing them. Today, it’s more likely to be the remote control and corn chips, but I still sneak in to check on him. He’s grown from a slim sliver of a child into a broad shouldered man, once a tiny comma in the same bed his father once occupied, now a long, slender exclamation point.

Today, he set out to leave his mark on the world, enlisting in the National Guard. His parents, my brother Paul and his high school girlfriend Chesne, traveled with him to watch his swearing in. For months I tried to talk him out of this, wait until you are older, are you sure this is what you want? Not because I’m not proud of him, I am, but because he is our little boy and I never want him to come in harm’s way. I felt the same way about his father, when he, at the age of 33, enlisted last year. They are always our little boys, but, me, and his mother, and his Nana, know that for Christian to become a man we need to let him make his own choices. Every good parent learns this, every good parent feels its sting and ultimately, its payoff.

We will never let go of this kid, but we will let him go off into the world. He carries the best of us with him. It took a whole family to raise him: his grandparents, his parents, their partners, his aunts and uncles, even the family dog – when our pug Buffy died at 12, it was Christian who said “she raised us all,” and she did. We poured all our love into this kid and he’s grown to hold it all.  Such love can be smothering, if you’re not strong enough to bear it, he’s iron and honey, steel and grace. He will serve his country well.

And, I will sneak into his room. I did last night after the recruiter drove him away. I found his television still on, so I rummaged for the remote, buried in his unmade bed and turned it off.  He will serve his country, but I will continue to serve the boy, long after he has grown, long after he has become a man. I will forever be checking to make sure he is safe.

A Mission Statement of Sorts

It was easy starting out. I began on Blogger and Posterous, posting photos and a few simple lines to explain them. Then came the  move to Wordpress. A place to write whatever I wanted. I wanted to share about my friend Joan and her pugs and her unorthodox life and how it had influenced me. I had a lot to say. I was part of a writing group. I was going to share my stories. And, then the question came, "What are you going to do with your blog?" It stopped me cold. I thought I was doing it. But, what was it? And, if I wasn't doing it, how would I start?

I pondered this question and I pressed on, finding it challenging to blog, take pictures, draw, work on my own writing and my work writing. Oh, and did I mention living? Had to work that in. I struggled with all that in my writing and behind the scenes and tried to remain faithful while the writing class went on. But, then it ended. I didn't need to write everyday anymore. I felt discouraged Sure, there were people reading, but what did I have to say? What was I doing with my blog?  How did I maintain it and keep up with everything else. Some days it was a relief that the class had ended. Mostly it was disheartening. I need goals and deadlines. I was floundering.

The beautiful design of my blog felt suffocating, closed-in. To make changes and additions I needed to ask a designer, that required money. I found myself wishing I had called the blog something else and then glad I hadn't. I wondered if I could create another to have more freedom and questioned what that would accomplish, making lists of things to add and rearrange. All the time studying what everyone else was doing and coming up short. I wanted to be as ethereal, funny, open as all these blogs I read, but I was too practical, sometimes too happy, sometimes too angry, always too practical to sound so easygoing. Perhaps I had been writing magazine articles too long? Maybe I had lost my individual voice? Perhaps I had an individual voice and it was all wrong. My blog felt too red and heavy, the pictures too small. I came up short.

I struggle with a niche. There are people with cute dog blogs, beautiful photography blogs, funky art blogs, simple, clean writing blogs, open, revealing memoir blogs -- mine is not one thing. Neither am I. I wondered if anyone was listening. There's a verse in the Bible where Jesus asks "Who Do You Say That I Am?" I want to ask that, to gauge the responses. I'm afraid of the answers. But, I like that Jesus asked the question. I mean if Jesus was wondering if anyone got him, I am in good company, right?

I'm taking a blogging course called Blogging from the Heart with Susannah Conway and she tells us to develop a mission statement - what is our intent, what are we trying to say? Who is our ideal reader? I'm beginning to think that blogging is not about asking these questions, but discovering them along the way. For the last few months, behind the scenes, while my blog postings have seemed sparse or not-even-there, I have been compiling my posts on Joan to see what I have for a book, working on a short story, taking first a publishing class and then a blogging class. I'm moving forward, but I'm not sure of the direction. My teaching life is changing. I can't see the path quite yet, but I'll be damned if I die anchored to shore. I'm pressing forward.

The other day someone asked me "What do you know about yourself?" It took a minute.  I felt too embarrassed to reveal anything and then I did. "I know I'm kind," I said. Here's what else I know about me and the blog.

Some days I'm happy. I enjoy simple things. Going to the movies, my pugs, my friends. My art. I could work on Photoshop for hours. Taking pictures. I love being in a moment, but I hate wasting time. Taking pictures of life around me allows me to do two things at once and satisfies both requirements. I love my friends and my family. I know being a mom isn't easy, but I would love more than anything to have any one of my nieces and nephews for my own. I love nurturing things.

Some days I'm lonely. My heart aches for someone to love, to be part of a pair, to be a mother, to have a home.  Some days I'm lucky. I may be single, but I am loved. I have a complex relationship with a Boy, whom I will never marry, but who sends me a pink Keurig on Valentine's Day and knows how to make me laugh. Love is love, my mother tells me and she is right.

I love to smile and have fun and although everyone says writers have to write, and I suppose they do, I would always rather be doing something than writing about it. Writing is my way of understanding life, not living it. It is hard for me to balance it all. I love my pugs and I write about them. I am tattooed with them. They are my tribe alongside my family and my students and my friends. I find pugs funny. I write about them and draw them because it makes me smile. It makes other people smile. There is more to my life than them, but few things that bring a quicker smile.

I want more than anything to be understood -- through my pictures and my drawings and my words. I don't like being labeled though. I may not always be right, but that doesn't make me wrong. Take me as I am.

I want my blog to somehow reflect this. I want to take you into my world. I want you to know that  although I may not always be happy with every aspect of my daily life,  I am happy with me. I am single and a writer and a teacher and an artist and a photographer and a blogger and a pug owner and a daughter and a sister and an aunt and a friend. That's a lot of things and it's hard to show them all at once. I'm not sure if the blog illustrates this. I'm not sure that I've figured out yet what I'm going to do with  it. But, be patient, I'm getting there. And, you're witnessing it here.

Room 226B

Shh…I’ve been keeping a big secret for at least a week now. Okay, I know the blog has been fairly quiet in general for a while, but that’s because I haven’t quite worked out the art of daily blogging with the art of daily living especially when so much is happening in the living department. So, I’m opening the door a crack, so you can see what’s been going on in the living department lately.

I have a space of my own. No, not a house, but an office. An office outside the home. And, not just a table at the local café or bookstore. I have a real office with my name on the door, a desk and phone, privacy and access to a conference room where I can teach. Yes, its true I’ve had a home office for years – one with frequent interruptions by family members, needy pets, and household chores. I’ve claimed a table at Books-a-Million and made friends with the baristas there, but none of these places have been private or mine.

For years friends and fellow writers have encouraged me to find a proverbial room of my own and I have smiled and nodding, knowing I should do so, but not knowing how to make it happen. Last month, my uncle told my father about some office space available in a small business incubator location. My father told me and the rest is history. I am still a bit shell-shocked. It seems to good to be true and it is such a powerful thing; something perhaps not easily appreciated by those to whom space has come easily. I have had little to call mine. Aside from a bedroom and a small home office, the closest I have ever gotten to space of my own was a single dorm room my sophomore year of college. One with such paper-thin walls that I could hear my best friend watching Oprah in the next room and we could gossip simply by sitting close to the wall and chatting.

I love my family, I love my friends. I even have enjoyed the company of the other lost souls setting up makeshift workspace in first Borders and then Books-a-Million’s café, but having a workspace to call mine is so novel, so different, I am having a hard time believing it. I moved in last week: hung my photographs and diplomas on the wall, watched the sun set a brilliant shade of red over the parking lot, purchased tulips the lightest shade of lavender and placed them in a vase in my window. I set up my printer on my own and even hung the Biography and Memoirs sign that I purchased when Borders was going out of business right above my bookshelf above a picture of me showing Alfie. The Borders table I bought at the same closeout has found a home in my new space as well.

Now, that I’ve told you about it, perhaps it will seem a bit more real, though I think it will take some time for it to truly sit in. I find myself rushing through interviews and appointments just to get a chance to work in my new space, room 226B.

I am Strong

"Death and Life are in the tongue..." Proverbs 18:21

Words are important. Proverbs says, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue…” Last week I let loose a small firestorm of sorts in my own life with a blog post written in a weary moment. I had so much to do and I found so many people asking me to do more. My words elicited a variety of advice from well-meaning, kind-hearted people telling me I needed to learn how to say “no” and to take the phone off the hook to others who feared I was co-dependent or being taken advantage of by my family. I understand their reasons. I shared with readers the list of requests that had been made of me, my list of to-dos, and expressed my anger and frustration at my inability to fulfill it all. I was tired and as one insightful friend realized was really in need of a virtual hug. What I didn’t convey with my words and what was equally important as my momentary feelings of tiredness and frustration, was the fact that I had it under control. Well, to be more accurate, as overwhelmed as I might have felt, I was not drowning. I knew how to see the shore. It is, as I wrote, too heavy a burden to eat everyone else’s cake and thus, it was not my intention. As I tried to convey in my two accompanying posts, The Paths Your Feet Take and Golden Thread, I have been pretty good throughout the years in remaining steadfast in my goals, in keeping my own path straight. I know how to say “no,” sometimes I just wish I didn’t need to so often. Many people see that I am single and perceive that without the responsibilities of husband and family I have more freedom and flexibility than I do. I don’t like to be put in the position of having to explain that, but I do so when necessary. We each have our burdens to bear. So here I am a week later and here is where I stand.

I had to turn my Grammy’s invitation to stay with her down, but I met her for a wonderful lunch today and perhaps some day soon we’ll get to that movie. I did take my friend Joan to the doctors and she rode along with me so I could take my nephew to his church meeting, actually a men’s only retreat. But, since the guest speaker is the evangelist I go to Hawaii with each summer, I was fortunate to be awarded for my taxing by being invited to sit in on the evening session, a nice relaxing end to that day. I spoke to a close friend and had to turn her down for a really important favor – something we both realized I could not do. This one was hard, because if anyone needs help she does. But we talked about faith and where it comes from and how it sees you through and she noted how our friendship and the influence of my family on her as a little girl had helped build her faith for what she is facing now.

This week I start scheduling interviews for my new assignments. Last week I made steps in a really important direction. I went looking for office space – a place to work and call my own – something a little bit better than a table at the local bookstore. And, I think I found something. I’m working out the details now. I finished the syllabus for my new poetry class which I start teaching tomorrow and put my private class on hold for a month to give us all time to catch up. I still have plans to sit in on my friend’s writing class – it is devoted to e-publishing and in addition to perhaps leading to new job opportunities I hope it will help me in learning material I can apply in publishing my own writing. If it all works out, it will also help her. I attended the local poetry reading and we recording some of our poems for VPR. I dropped off my pictures at Norris Cotton Cancer Center and will be attending the reception this Tuesday. I am excited to see the work of the other artists. I am thrilled to have my photography recognized.

I sought some free business counseling that may help me in launching my pet magazine. I bought some paintbrushes to work on a picture with my brother. I read my blog post to my father and we discussed my feelings. He wants to help me find a source for giclee printing as well. I still struggle to find ways to make money as an artist – it always seems like I am taking on one too many jobs just to make ends meet – but I look forward to starting a new short story this week and finding new creative ways to grow my income. I went to church this morning and this evening and even managed to drive over the mountain to meet Joan and Jane for tea and coffee. The pugs came with me and now we all sit on the sofa – they are snoring away as I write. Life has its challenges and sometimes we all get overwhelmed, but it is just a moment in time. Like the tide, troubles ebb and flow. If the power of death and life is in our words than I want to share this – I may briefly feel as if I am underwater, but I know how to swim. I am more than okay. I am strong.

Golden Thread

"There's a thread that you follow..."

After trying to work through some of my emotions in my blog posts and turning my attention back to my poetry syllabus when I stumbled upon this poem called the Way it Is by William Stafford:

“There’s a thread that you follow. It goes among

things that change. But it doesn’t change.

People wonder about what you are pursing.

You have to explain about the thread.

But it’s hard for others to see.

While you hold it you can’t get lost.

Tragedies happen; people get hurt

Or die: and you suffer and get old.

Nothing you can do can stop time’s unfolding.

You don’t ever let go of the thread.

I realized this poem hit on the sentiments I was trying to get to in my last two blog posts. While in part my last post had to do with finding a way to focus on my goal amidst the pull of other responsibilities it also confirmed something about my personality. I sometimes feel like the tortoise slowly, steadily running the race. I might be slow, but I’ve been steadfast. I haven’t gotten to where I wanted to be, but I haven’t stopped moving forward and while it may not always look to the outside world like I’m getting there I am. It also reminded me that the thread that carries us through can be hard for others to see and that life does happen even while we cling to what matters to us most. I have been carving a creative meaningful life for myself and as challenging as it is, as invisible as I might sometimes feel, I never let go of my thread.

The Paths Your Feet Take

“Give careful thought to the paths of your feet…”

I’ve been thinking of adding a new section to the blog for the new year – a Words to Live By section. As a writer words are important and sometimes they are what help gets me through.

I was working on my poetry syllabus when the texts started flying in from my brother about his art and the calls started coming in from my father about the giclee prints. I wanted  to be able to chat with my brother, I needed to work on the syllabus. I was going to get up early and finish it today, but heard my grandmother was coming down and might want to go out to lunch. She didn’t, but she did want to stop by and open Christmas presents. It took awhile. Then I had to eat, which took longer. I didn’t get around to the syllabus until evening. Then the texts and phone calls started rolling in. I felt overwhelmed enough to write the last post, so many people in my life want so many things and it seems like I’ve spent decades letting my own things get pushed aside.

Suddenly, the words do not look to the left or the right came to me. I wasn’t sure where they were from but pretty sure I’d read them in the Bible somewhere and understood their meaning. Life throws a lot your way, but only you are responsible for the path you take and you need to keep your eyes on the goal. I needed to hold my path. I googled the phrase and found this scripture in Proverbs 4:25-27:

“Give careful thought to the paths for your feet

And be steadfast in all your ways

Do not turn to the right or the left;

Keep your foot from evil.”

I think I may need to find a way to live by these words.

Everybody's Cake

I am tired.. My grandmother wants me to keep her company while my uncle is away – I’ll take you out for Chinese and to the movies she entices. She is 93, how many more times will this offer be offered? My friend Joan needs someone to take her to the eye doctors for shots in her eyes – her eyes will be dilated, but we can go out to dinner and maybe to a movie, she suggests. Another friend thinks we should get together to exercise. Another needs me to help her out as a favor. My mother has to have knee surgery, but she is not sure when so I wonder how my schedule will change. I received my assignments through July for one publication and have yet to hear from others. I need to meet with the head of a local writers’ space to see about offering new classes there, I am scheduled to start teaching a poetry class next Monday (no syllabus yet) and a new Memoir class at the college in March (twice a week). I have to figure out when to schedule this month’s private class, and I owe a student in it a drawing for his book. On the 18^th of January I sit in on a friend’s writing class to see if it is something I can help with in the future. These will be on alternating Saturdays for the next few months. I have taken the initial steps to start a pet magazine, but there is so much more to research to find out how to do it and I’m not sure where to turn. I’d like to write a few more short stories see if I could connect those together into a book, then there’s the book on the pugs I’d like to write. I have a poetry class on Wednesday I need to gather my poems together for – we are reading them for VPR. I want to get my hair done on Saturday but it is my niece’s birthday party. My  nephew needs a ride to a church meeting. Tuesday I drop pictures off at Norris Cotton Cancer Center, I got two accepted there. I thought about seeing if I could learn more about doing Kindle covers, wish I knew more about fonts and text. Asked my brother, felt inadequate. My other brother has painted his first painting. He listed it on Facebook and has 10 buyers. Another guy contacted him and said he could sell as many as he could produce. My father calls me up to ask me about making giclee prints of them. I’ve been hoping to make prints of my work for some time, haven’t yet figured out how to yet. My brother thinks I should help paint some to sell, too, which is cool, but where to find time. My father asks why you can’t just figure out how long it takes to make them and charge accordingly. I say you can’t price yourself out of the market. He asks what’s the point if you can’t make a living off of it. I’ve been trying my whole life. What’s the point always lingers in the background. You decided not to build a house on your land, my uncle says. I’ve decided nothing. There is no money, what’s the point. My life is lived in the shadows, a thick fog blocking what I do from others' eyes. “I thought you might be willing to earn a little money,” a friend says. “I thought you might be willing to keep me company.” “You better go write your articles so we can go…” “We should get together on Tuesdays.” “Your mom is lucky to have you.” “Why haven’t you written a book yet?” “This is what you should be doing.?” “What are you doing today?” – as if the whole day is free and obviously work is not on the plate. What extra time can I carve out? “You need to focus on yourself. You need to prioritize.” How? Time slips by and suddenly a year or two has become 10 or 20 and look my life is full but where am I in it? I’m too busy with the mop and the broom and the glue and the gun – cleaning up and fixing to reap any reward. I have a syllabus to create and soon it will be March and then July and then September and a life is lived only I wonder where was I when it was happening? I’m sure somebody else knows. They are always happy to decide what I am doing.

I am tired and I guess I am angry. I want to do everything – help the friends, spend time with my grandmother, get my work done, set out in new directions, create a purposeful life with a measure of security – I just don’t know how to do it all. And, I know I’m not the only one that feels overwhelmed, but something about the nature of my life seems to make others feel there’s more room for debate. I must have lots of options when it comes to juggling. I can be flexible. And, probably I’ve helped give them that idea, by bending over backwards one too many times to get the job done. But perhaps I’m too old, perhaps I’ve reached a breaking point, perhaps there’s just no more room to bend. I just don’t know how. I can’t eat everyone else’s cake and have mine too. It’s too heavy a weight.

Resolved

I have never enjoyed that transition from Christmas to the New Year – the sudden acceleration of time just as the world has come to a peaceful slumber. Perhaps it’s because I’m not good with transitions in general, but rather than making resolution’s and celebrating a new beginning, I find myself gritting my teeth and hanging on for the ride. At least that’s the feeling I remember having – it’s been a while. For the last three years, like clockwork, I have been sick from the day after Christmas through March or April. And, not just a little sick. One year I had such a fever that the skin on my feet shed like a snake’s skin. I spent one whole January throwing up and in a state of delirium, my eyes swollen shut with conjunctivitis, so basically I had not time to be anxious or resolve anything. I just waited for spring and was thankful to lift my head again. I went to work this past year trying to combat this – losing weight, exercising, working with a team of doctors to become healthier in general in the hope that this would help. I prayed and turned my attention to doing things I loved. I backslid a bit this past November – gaining back some weight and letting the exercise slide after an autumn of biking, but I have a new elliptical machine in the cellar and have set up my bike for indoor riding and am concentrating on eating salads again. The thing is the New Year has dawned and I am healthy, not a sniffle in sight and this is pretty much a miracle. I’ve got all this extra time and it’s pretty amazing. I’m resolved to enjoy it.