Writing Prompt: Everest

The problem with pretending to be superhuman is that eventually you have to admit that you’re not. Such was the case today. Like many people, I often suffer from a sense of inadequacy. I find myself teaching a class or photographing a subject for an assignment and rather than feeling like a consummate professional I imagine myself as a child playing dress up. Still, I grin and bear it in an attempt to keep my mask from slipping and anyone noticing how I really feel.

True, not the most authentic approach, but what’s that common expression – “fake it until you feel it” – I wholeheartedly embrace it. Yet, sometime honesty must prevail, so when my student asked to meet today and go for a walk, knowing her love of hiking and biking, I informed her at the start that as much as I would love to take a casual stroll with her and catch up, I lacked her stamina. “As long as you’re aware, we should be fine,” I said.

When I arrived at her house we spent a good hour chatting in front of the teeniest, quaintest stove in her new writing cottage, when I finally asked her if we were going to go for a walk. She said yes and the first several yards went fine – flat, smooth surface, easy chatter and then, I realized that was probably enough. Yup, just a few short yards and I realized that a winter of being indoors writing articles and blogging had left me sadly out of shape. Add to this a history of bone spurs, Achilles tendinitis and improper footwear and I was ready to head back to that nice little stove and warm my toes. No such luck, my student walked The Loop and The Loop we were set to do.

The Loop started with a climb up Mt. Everest. Lifting my head to stare at its peak, I realized I was on an expedition. We hiked in silence for a few paces and then I felt the need to chatter to try to disguise the fact that I was grossly out of breath. As you might guess, this didn’t work, but still we climbed on. Although the day was freezing, I could feel my bangs sticking to my forehead and my sweater getting damp with perspiration. We made it to the pinnacle, took a turn, and there was the Everest of Everests – another vertical climb. “The Loop’s three miles,” my student informed me. Do you know what it’s like to lose all hope? I can now answer that question in the affirmative.

I’m not sure how much of the three miles we had already done, but I could safely say that if I had tried to finish it I would not be coming back alive – I was already seeing stars. My student must have sensed something was wrong because she told me that we could turn back anytime I wanted and that’s when my inner superhuman kicked into gear. I was her teacher after all, should I really reveal my human frailty?

“Let’s make it to the top,” I said, pointing to the mirage in the distance. Fortunately, I could not tell how far away it actually was because my eyes and nose were running from the cold. Soon I could see the face of Death and feeling his warm, sweaty breath upon my cheeks, I attempted to take a deep breath – but found I had no lungs left – and squeaked out, “I think we had better turn around.”

Fortunately, we did, although my student continued to ask me questions all the way back despite my panting, high pitch responses (I was whistling like a tea pot trying to take in air.) Yet, I answered. Like a soldier on the battlefield I endeavored to show no weakness. I’m not sure where this tendency began, but it is a hard habit to break. Obviously, my student had not been oblivious to my struggle and still I pretended to be Wonder Woman.

I read a quotation attributed to Georgia O’Keefe on Facebook today. She said, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do.”  I love this sentiment, and I realized that I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life, too, but sometimes I let this lead me to do things I never wanted to do or should do in the first place, all in an effort to keep my game face on.  It may be foolish, but it’s human and as humorous as this tale may be, it has an underlying moral, well, maybe two.

One, if you’re going to play the superhero at the very least you should have a cape, a mask, and a superpower and two, I really need to get in shape. I promised my student I’d be back for a walk this summer. Some people never learn.

Writing Prompt: When have you tried to be superhuman? Write about it.

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait #13: This is Me

Of all the self-portraits I took for my self-portrait project, this adult photo of me is perhaps the most natural, the most like me on an average day – there are better photographs, sexier images, versions of me to which I aspire, but this is how most people are likely to find me – bright coat, silly hat, on the go with a smile.

The childhood me looks equally happy. She has the same wide brown eyes and a hint of the same smile. I am happy I’ve grown more hair. She appears as comfortable on the hood of this car, as the adult me is behind the wheel. I don’t recall this picture, but my parents are attached to it. They look at it nostalgic for the cute little car and the cute little baby.

Sometimes we look at photographs and don’t recognize ourselves at all. I see me clearly here. I am on my way to work, off to do an interview or write at Books-a-Million. I’ll return home when it’s dark and I am tired to be greeted by my pugs, sitting in a basket of hats, scarves and mittens by the door. Tomorrow I might do the same. Like everyone, I have regrets and longings, hopes and dreams; many of which are coming to light in the posts on this blog, but I look at these pictures of me – both child and adult – and can say, that although there is still so much I want, so much I am looking for – on most days, I’m honestly happy.

Writing Prompt: A student in my memoir writing class once asked another to write a story that really showed who she was, that said "BAM, this is me." Try it, share a memory that shouts "BAM, this is me!

Writing Prompt: Faith

Driving the streets of Barre last Sunday with my mother, en route to visit my grandmother and uncle, I spied a scene outside the passenger window that struck my funny bone. To my right sat a rectangular building with a brick façade adorned with a huge cross and a sign reading “Faith Community Church.”

The humorous part was the “H” in the word “Faith,” that dangled precariously, but in good faith that it would not fall.  Three cars were parked in front of the building and since it was late in the afternoon this was well after church ended. It seemed a busy place, not rundown or dilapidated, but their hung the “H” and it seemed both ironic and funny to me.

I turned around and pulled into the driveway to snap a picture. The more I looked at the building, the less funny and the more appropriate that hanging “H” seemed. So often people equate faith with hope – the hope that something will happen. Faith is stronger than hope. Hope is optimistic, faith is expectant – both can be tarnished by life. It’s easy to lose faith, we are warned to keep the faith, and yet, true faith, however tried, hold’s on.

Earlier that day I had spoken to a friend of mine. During the course of the conversation she said she was going through a period where she felt like a child continually asking why. She was not depressed, she assured me, just questioning – why?

“Why’s the point,” I told her. And, I think it is. True faith allows for why. The questions engage us, drag us forward, keep us dancing with life. When we stop asking why not only is our faith dead, we might as well be.

I like the dangling “H,” a faith that allows for imperfection while still ringing true. I like that such a faith stops me in my tracks, leads me to turn around, and in the end, makes me smile.

Writing Prompt: What do you have faith in? When has that faith been tested?

Writing Prompt: Mom

My mother had cataract surgery today. She is doing fine, although she spent the whole day a little out of it because they had to give her extra anesthesia.

I don’t like it when my mom is under the weather for any reason. Not only do I hate to see her suffer, but she is my best friend, my sounding board, and my biggest supporter. On the way to surgery this morning she was posting comments to my blog. She will often sit across from me at a table and do the same. I miss her lively conversation when she is out of it, but not her smile. She smiles even when she cries.

She hates being out of commission even for a minute, which makes even simple surgeries big obstacles for her. You see she’s not only my rock, she’s everybody’s rock and she knows it. She doesn’t like to let anyone down. Not even my pugs.

As she groggily shuffled into the kitchen this afternoon to grab a snack, the pugs followed. They are used to her giving them treats and seemed as disturbed as me that she wasn’t up to par. They kept staring at her until she sought help in getting them their cottage cheese. Waffles sat on her lap for most of the afternoon; Alfie at her feet after she had the chance to jump up and sniff her eye. It must have passed inspection.

Many people have commented on my tendency to write about strong women on this blog. My mom is the strongest of all. She shapes how I see the world, so any strength I see or write about comes from her. She doesn’t like to be vulnerable and yet, she let’s me show my vulnerability everyday and flips it on end, making me feel strong. It takes a feisty and stubborn lady to raise a daughter like me; I don’t always make it easy. I fight her and I challenge her because her image of me is so much better than my own. And, yet, what better mirror in which to see myself? She is the best reflection of all that’s right in the world.

Writing Prompt: Who is your mirror?

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait #10: Laid Bare

My self-portrait project raised some issues for me when it comes to body image, but being judgmental of my body is not the only way to be hard on myself. I was reminded of that today.

It was one of those cliché-ridden days. The kind where I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and never should have gotten out of it. But I did and by afternoon had already missed an important interview for work because I had the wrong day. Tonight I had another appointment and was then supposed to head off to my photography class, but when my appointment ran long I realized I would be getting to class very late. I could choose to still go and miss a substantial amount of class, which could be disruptive, or call up and cancel. I chose the latter, but felt guilty about it. First, of all I really respect the teacher, who has become a friend, and second, I had actually worked hard on the assignment this week – taking the photos on color and light that I posted yesterday. I worried that I made the wrong choice and then I worried some more.

How could I have missed the appointment earlier in the day? Was I forgetting things because I was overworked, overbooked? Was I wrong to have taken the photography class in the first place? Was there any way I could have left the appointment earlier and not have been late for class? Should I still have shown up?

Everyone, I’m sure, beats themselves up once in awhile, but I don’t seem to know when to call it a day. By the time I was done questioning myself I couldn’t tell what I really wanted in the first place – to be at class or to go home guilt free? What’s wrong with me? I asked again and suddenly mid-thought, I realized: No one’s upset here except you; no one else is holding you accountable. This is Kim on Kim and you are a hard taskmaster. Your appointment ran overtime, you chose not to show up late, you let the instructor know. It’s over, move on. Let yourself off the hook.

I was scared. When things were laid bare and I could see the monster, I discovered it was me. A sobering thought with a happy flip side: just like I learned that I can be more forgiving of my body, I can also be more forgiving of other aspects of myself. I have been judge, juror and jailor to a woman trying very hard just to be free. Perhaps now I can be liberator instead.

About the photos: I wasn't sure how to handle these photos. The child photo shows me in the tub and as I have already mentioned, I've never been too happy about sharing that type of photo. It also was pretty revealing, so I didn't feel comfortable showing it in its original form. It seemed like such a childhood shot required something similar as an adult, but I wasn't comfortable with a real nude. Instead I set up the camera and took this adult shot, which shows a little skin, but nothing too risque. I'm still uncomfortable, however, with seeing myself in such a sensual way, and chose once again not to share it on Facebook. I used some filters to change the photos to black-and-white and mask some of the more delicate elements. I was going to use these two shots to write more about sensuality and the body, but after today I realized there is more than one way to be laid bare, more than one truth to be discovered in these photos.

The adult shot not only suggests sensuality, but vulnerability. I think many of us consider vulnerability to be a weakness and try to avoid feeling this way. It's dictionary definition  means being open to harm. But, vulnerability is also a pure and honest emotion and there is a beauty in it. To look at my reflection in my photos and my actions is to be laid bare and to be made vulnerable. I am trying to find the beauty in what I see and to be kinder to this  child and this woman in every way.

Writing Prompt: In what ways are you hard on yourself? How can you be more forgiving?

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? : )

Writing Prompt: Dreaming

If yesterday’s photo showed my confidence – me in control of my life, then tonight’s shows my vulnerability. It’s about admitting that even though my life is full of work, friends, and wonderful activity, I am lonely, still waiting for someone to share my life with on a daily basis, someone, that is, besides my two curly-tailed sidekicks. It’s not easy to admit that. I prefer the gal who looks the camera and the world in the eye, control in hand, and directs her destiny. But, truth be told, there are some things that have not yet yielded to my will (note the optimism there), some things that have yet to turn out the way I dreamed.

That’s me at five or six in my cornflower blue nightgown and mother’s wedding veil. I remember when this photos was taken. I felt so special wearing her headpiece. Funny, for some reason, this was readily available to me as a child while my grandmother had taken the accompanying bridal gown and stored it away – probably waiting until my own wedding -- until we discovered it a year ago. I would wear the headpiece and like many a little girl, dream that someday my prince would come. This photograph sits on my mom’s dresser where I see it often. Sometimes, it makes me smile. I remember that little girl as being happy. At that age, you don’t even know the whole world stretches before you. You live in the timeless age of childhood, where life exists in the moment and is played out in imagination. Sometimes I feel wistful, longing to have all those years between the two of us back, contemplating what I could do with them now. Sometimes I feel that’s what I need most – more time to find the life she expected.

I wonder if that little girl could see me if she would blame me for things not turning out as she had dreamed. I wonder if a part of me blames her for not stepping out in the right direction.

I look at the photo of me now and know that it is about more than waiting for a prince. It is about all the unfulfilled hopes we keep inside. It is about the part of ourselves that remains veiled and hidden, because as happy as we are, as strong, there is always a little girl inside. So I move forward for the both of us, making the best of each moment and filling it with all the life I can, not to keep loneliness at bay, but as an act of faith.

In truth, I’m still dreaming.

Writing Prompt: Write about a childhood dream? Did it come true? Do you know why or why not? Do you wish it had?

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait 3: Doll

I bet this doll is familiar to a lot of little girls who grew up in the seventies. This is my Chrissy doll. She had hair that could grow and be made short again and along with Mrs. Beasley, my Dawn dolls and my Malibu Barbies, she was a favorite of mine. I loved to play dolls and my grandmother would play them with me for hours. Whenever my mother played she would speak with a southern accent that would drive me crazy. I no longer play with dolls unless one of my nieces is around, but I still have several including the one in the picture below.

I had this doll specially made for me. Her name is Mira and if you look closely her eyes are in the shape of pug face's. Her eyes are designed from a picture of my pug Mira, who died when she was only a year-and-a-half old from an anaphylactic reaction to her distemper shot. She was the most joyful creature I have ever known, human or animal. She loved to watch television and listen to Clare de Lune. She would tilt her head and stare at my computer when I would play it on i-tunes. Vader would roll on his back and she would stand atop him and the two would gently tumble as Vader was already aging. She made everyone a dog lover and a pug lover, even when they were not.

This is one of my favorite pictures I have taken for the self-portrait assignment. It has a sense of vulnerability to it, that is reminiscent of childhood although it has a different feel. It is not childhood innocence that comes across in this adult shot, but vulnerability. The two are similar, but not the same.

Writing Prompt: In what ways do you show your vulnerability? Write about a time you were vulnerable.

Writing Prompt: Self

I’m having fun with my self-portrait assignment. We are supposed to take 12 to 16 photos to print out and bring back in two weeks. We are supposed to write down our intent in taking the photographs and document the process.

I decided to use photos of me as a child as a launching point. My idea is to recreate the mood of the photos or a gesture or a look. I don’t really mean recreate, but to find something in the childhood photo and bring it forward in time, reflecting it in the adult me. I figured that for better or worse our childhood selves often reflect a very authentic and unadulterated part of ourselves. That may be an idealized view. As soon as we are born, life starts taking its toll, but I think back at my childhood pictures and remember genuine emotions whether they be anger, fear, puzzlement, joy. So, I know what those things looked like then, what do they look like now? That was my idea anyway, but I didn’t want to be too literal about it and of course, just using the same props or gestures may not produce the same emotions, but they’ll produce something else. So, I figured, I’ll use the childhood pics as a beginning and follow where they lead.

Technically, it’s not too easy to produce self-portraits in general and especially at my house. Almost every wall is full and I don’t really have any backdrops. I don’t know yet how to use my camera remote, but I do know how to use a self-timer. I find that as I have written before, I love the iPhone because it frees me up and combats my perfectionist tendencies so after trying several shots with my digital SLR, I returned to the iPhone. I’m having fun, which is the important thing, but equally important is something else I learned. Like many people, I can’t remember a time when I really felt content in my own body. Still, I didn’t mind pictures of myself or being photographed and loved looking in the mirrors. I did this because it proved that I was there, real, substantial. I didn’t always have people who reinforced this, so I learned that if I wanted a reflection I had to literally find one. Even so, I don’t remember ever really being satisfied with what I saw. I struggled with my weight all my life and even when I was so thin that my collarbone showed I can remember feeling fat and worrying about my thighs.

Looking back at these pictures, I realize the little girl in them was pretty. She deserved to be loved by me more. It makes me wonder what I will think of the pictures taken of me now when I look back on them in the future. Maybe I should appreciate this person now as I am. So, I am trying to be bold in the pictures I take and in the sharing of them. I’m going to keep posting on the process. Tomorrow I’m going to try some pics with the pugs and me.

Writing Prompt: What did you like about your childhood self? What did you hate?

Writing Prompt: Joy of Crows

To call yesterday frigid would be an understatement. I’m not sure if there is metaphorical equivalent to “hot as hell” when it comes to cold weather, but when the temperatures drop below zero here in the north country, it can become a bitter hell all its own.

I surely felt that way when I was out running errands yesterday afternoon. The quick walk from the local soup and sandwich shop to my car took on expedition proportions. Hunkered down beneath layers of woolen hats and scarves, LL Bean thermal jacket and heavy sweater I felt like I might have been climbing Mount Everest. Once inside the car and safe from the arctic chill, I turned the heater on high and basked in the warmth. It was then that I spotted the crows.

A few cars down from me, a flock of very fat crows was feasting. A blue pickup truck had a load full of garbage and these birds were claiming it as their own. They were going to town, pecking holes in the bags, grabbing morsels and flying back and forth from car to tree as if they were on a Caribbean vacation. They seemed oblivious to the cold. They were not oblivious to me.

Unfortunately, I had left the house without my camera and since I wanted to capture this merry crew, I was resigned to using my i-phone. This meant I had to get close, but each time I tried, the crows would fly away to a nearby tree. They were smart. They waited for my car to circle, would fly back and grab some more grub and fly off again when I came close. This picture was the best I could do, but it does little to show the immensity of the birds or their meal.

I watched them for a long time. You can argue with me all you want about whether animals have emotions and whether they experience the world the same way we do. I’ll listen and at times I may agree, but yesterday as I watched this company of birds I knew one thing – in a world of bright blue skies and subzero temperatures, I may have been experiencing hell, but these guys were in seventh heaven and they were happy at the banquet table.

Writing Prompt: Write about what's in front of you right now.