There is a public street on my way to karate that says "Memory Lane." There is another sign on top of it that says "Dead End:." It's great when civil engineers have a sense of humor. But were they correct? Is a trip down Memory Lane always a dead end? I wouldn't recommend driving down there in a car that is likely to break down, but an occasional short walk on foot can be good for the soul. Not only safer, when you are on foot you are likely to notice the details. Perhaps there will be some clues as to how you ended up where you are. As random as life can seem, just looking back can show you that the path was clear. There may have been a few dead end lanes along the way, but even they can contain charming little cul-de-sacs. A safe place to ride your bike and play Four Square.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
In the Works
It is almost never truly quiet. Stop and listen and you'll hear a low buzz of electricity running through the lights, hum of distant traffic, dripping faucets, voices, or dogs barking. The fan of this computer is making noise and now that I'm paying attention it will distract and annoy me. Soon I'll forget about it and the sound will recede and join with the other sounds to be part of the background noise. Until my attention is drawn back again. That is how it works.
My father died when I was four, and he was 29. Then Death itself became a Presence that took the place of my father's life. It was always in the room making noise. It was cracking its knuckles, breathing heavy, chewing with its mouth open, growling low and menacingly. A nuisance at times--really who wants to be reminded of our mortality? And terrifying at others--I knew I was one parent away from being an orphan. I could tune it out sometimes and even forget It was there. But Death never really leaves and every once in a while my attention is drawn to it again. That is how it works.
My father died when I was four, and he was 29. Then Death itself became a Presence that took the place of my father's life. It was always in the room making noise. It was cracking its knuckles, breathing heavy, chewing with its mouth open, growling low and menacingly. A nuisance at times--really who wants to be reminded of our mortality? And terrifying at others--I knew I was one parent away from being an orphan. I could tune it out sometimes and even forget It was there. But Death never really leaves and every once in a while my attention is drawn to it again. That is how it works.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Il Faut Cultiver Notre Jardin
I've been waiting since January to write about gardening. I like to keep things topical and in sync with the wheel of the year, so I've patiently held off. Now that it is late spring, gardening is an appropriate subject but I find myself hesitating. While I clearly have an affection for metaphor, gardening metaphors are a bit tired and cliche. For that matter, complaining about things being cliche is cliche as well but so be it. I'm tired, it's true. But I prefer to avoid being predictable and unoriginal. The fertile soil of ideas once abundant in garden metaphors depleted of its nutrients by years of harvesting the same crop without rotating locations. Sorry--couldn't help myself. From this point on I'll write about my weekend digging in the dirt without drawing parallels to life. Probably wouldn't need to anyway.
There are two straightish rows, perhaps 20 feet long by 1 foot wide each cut out of the lawn in the back yard. These were left by the previous owner, a retired woman who by the state of the landscaping clearly had a lot of time on her hands. With work, kids, and the host of other commitments I have I couldn't dream of keeping all of the land and gardens up to her standards but the vegetable garden calls to me, so for that one I make more of an effort. It is impossible to know exactly what was there before save for a few plastic markers found buried in the dirt. This makes things a little tricky since some plants don't like to set up shop when certain other vegetables have been. Being close to the water the soil has it's problems to begin with. Dry and sandy in some areas, sticky and clay-filled in others. I did okay getting a few things to grow in my first attempt last year, and I want to build on it and improve.
The first order of business was to create a border around the plots and fill it with pine bark mulch to keep the weeds and grass at bay. With a first spritz of insect repellant for the season, I dug right in. I needed to pounce on the shovel like a pogo stick with all of my weight for leverage to cut through the tough layer of grass roots. A shovel of course does not act like a pogo stick--it goes down but not back up again. I had the hang of it but then got distracted by the call of "Nice butt!" from the distance and my feel got tangled up and I fell back. Right onto the apparently nice butt. Now a bit sore. I was carefull to go through all of the sod I dug up to return the loose dirt and worms to the ground. I even uncovered a few toads which left me wondering what kind of omen a toad portends--particularly one with only half of a face.
I began to feel thirsty and a little hungry and started thinking about lunch. It turns out that we had worked well past lunch into the afternoon. I had been digging in the dirt for 4 hours with rarely a word spoken. I tried to think about how I had managed to pass the time since it wasn't the most exciting work, and relized I couldn't think of any thoughts that had passed through my mind with the exception of the worms. My mind never shuts off, so while I was physically exhausted it was definitely the mental break I needed. If we don't take care of ourselves who will? So to end with a cliched quote from Voltaire's Candide, (but it's written in French which makes it cooler) "Il faut Cultiver Notre Jardin."
(Translation: You must tend to your own garden.)
There are two straightish rows, perhaps 20 feet long by 1 foot wide each cut out of the lawn in the back yard. These were left by the previous owner, a retired woman who by the state of the landscaping clearly had a lot of time on her hands. With work, kids, and the host of other commitments I have I couldn't dream of keeping all of the land and gardens up to her standards but the vegetable garden calls to me, so for that one I make more of an effort. It is impossible to know exactly what was there before save for a few plastic markers found buried in the dirt. This makes things a little tricky since some plants don't like to set up shop when certain other vegetables have been. Being close to the water the soil has it's problems to begin with. Dry and sandy in some areas, sticky and clay-filled in others. I did okay getting a few things to grow in my first attempt last year, and I want to build on it and improve.
The first order of business was to create a border around the plots and fill it with pine bark mulch to keep the weeds and grass at bay. With a first spritz of insect repellant for the season, I dug right in. I needed to pounce on the shovel like a pogo stick with all of my weight for leverage to cut through the tough layer of grass roots. A shovel of course does not act like a pogo stick--it goes down but not back up again. I had the hang of it but then got distracted by the call of "Nice butt!" from the distance and my feel got tangled up and I fell back. Right onto the apparently nice butt. Now a bit sore. I was carefull to go through all of the sod I dug up to return the loose dirt and worms to the ground. I even uncovered a few toads which left me wondering what kind of omen a toad portends--particularly one with only half of a face.
I began to feel thirsty and a little hungry and started thinking about lunch. It turns out that we had worked well past lunch into the afternoon. I had been digging in the dirt for 4 hours with rarely a word spoken. I tried to think about how I had managed to pass the time since it wasn't the most exciting work, and relized I couldn't think of any thoughts that had passed through my mind with the exception of the worms. My mind never shuts off, so while I was physically exhausted it was definitely the mental break I needed. If we don't take care of ourselves who will? So to end with a cliched quote from Voltaire's Candide, (but it's written in French which makes it cooler) "Il faut Cultiver Notre Jardin."
(Translation: You must tend to your own garden.)
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Arrangements
Although I would never turn my nose up at any bouquet, my favorite is when they are all the same flower. I don't buy them very often since they don't last as long as some other flowers; but I particularly love when a dozen Gerber Daisies are arranged in a tall clear vase. The graceful, bright green stems working hard to hold up the cheerful blossoms. The petals radiating out like sunbeams from the center. I don't mind if the blossoms are different colors but keeping the flowers the same variety has impact. The personality of the flower shines through. Arrangements with a variety of flowers can be very beautiful but the essence of the individuals is harder to perceive with the distractions of the others.
A half a dozen middle-schoolers, my middle son included, participated in a Coming of Age program that culminated with a Unitarian Universalist church service this weekend. At the service the six young people were to read a credo statement that they had prepared to share with the congregation about what their personal belief system looks like. In a world that normally tells youth what to believe, this small group had the challenge and privilege of declaring their very own ideas of life, the afterlife, music, dance, God, equality and family. All six of them had uniqueness but taken together they created a united feeling of spirituality, strength and optimism. Their limbs perhaps a little shaky under the weight of this task, they all rose to the occasion and inspired everyone who was paying attention. Like an arrangement of Gerber daisies.
A quote from my son's credo statement:
"If you don’t enjoy what you’re doing then you’re doing something wrong. You should enjoy life and maybe not stay on the path the whole time, because sometimes you need to find your own way."
A half a dozen middle-schoolers, my middle son included, participated in a Coming of Age program that culminated with a Unitarian Universalist church service this weekend. At the service the six young people were to read a credo statement that they had prepared to share with the congregation about what their personal belief system looks like. In a world that normally tells youth what to believe, this small group had the challenge and privilege of declaring their very own ideas of life, the afterlife, music, dance, God, equality and family. All six of them had uniqueness but taken together they created a united feeling of spirituality, strength and optimism. Their limbs perhaps a little shaky under the weight of this task, they all rose to the occasion and inspired everyone who was paying attention. Like an arrangement of Gerber daisies.
A quote from my son's credo statement:
"If you don’t enjoy what you’re doing then you’re doing something wrong. You should enjoy life and maybe not stay on the path the whole time, because sometimes you need to find your own way."
Monday, May 14, 2012
Heart and Home
The town I live in does not have a heart. There are many beautiful spots--sandy beaches with great waves, salt marshes teeming with life, suburban neighborhoods with kids playing outside. The people are pretty friendly; no complaints there. But there isn't a heart. With no central place to gather and no distinct personality there isn't a soul. Without a beating heart there is nowhere for the soul to reside. So we are moving. Not yet a universally popular decision in my household, but I'm confident that they'll eventually be happy in their new home.
I've never grown roots here--neither physically nor metaphorically. Despite their reluctance to leave, I've never gotten the impression that the boys did either. Feeling at home in a place is a personal thing, impossible to say what draws us in more than another location. We are moving to a place where I run into friends walking down the street, where people make and sell art, and where there are many good restaurants. The food alone would be good enough reason for me. And I've already grown roots there. Spent many hours digging in the dirt. Became blood sisters with the wood sprites, my limbs getting scratched on pine tree branches and blackberry prickers.
I've never grown roots here--neither physically nor metaphorically. Despite their reluctance to leave, I've never gotten the impression that the boys did either. Feeling at home in a place is a personal thing, impossible to say what draws us in more than another location. We are moving to a place where I run into friends walking down the street, where people make and sell art, and where there are many good restaurants. The food alone would be good enough reason for me. And I've already grown roots there. Spent many hours digging in the dirt. Became blood sisters with the wood sprites, my limbs getting scratched on pine tree branches and blackberry prickers.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Individually
A 13-year-old that I know aptly summed up the middle school years with the following statement: "I'm embarrassed by everything." Then with a sheepish look before a quick exit added, "I'm even embarrassed about being embarrassed." Perpetual embarrassment is an adolescent fact of life. And the best strategy that the youth have come up with to minimize their exposure to embarrassment is to try to be exactly like everyone else. Same hair, same clothes, same video games, even the same items for lunch.
The unfortunate outcome of trying to be just like everyone else, is that they become just like everyone else. Camouflaging flaws but also hiding the interesting bits as well. Our individuality is a gift. We were created in all shapes and colors, with different talents and passions. It is painful to witness the intentional homogenization. Particularly when these kids give up the activities that they truly enjoy in order to fit in. But kids aren't the only ones to change because of others. It is a familiar story, when you get into a relationship you want to spend as much time as possible with that person. Friends and even hobbies are competition for time, and in order to deepen the relationship the friends and hobbies get cut out. Ironically, the couple looses some of the qualities that drew them together to begin with.
I did this as well. Before meeting Scott I was dancing a few times a week, latin, ballroom, freestyle...dancing of almost every kind is my favorite thing to do. But my boyfriend did not dance, so neither did I. There were times that every cell in my body wanted to be out moving to music. Without this outlet I was less "me" less of what defined me as a person. I have other interests so it was not like I was reduced to nothing but it still nagged at me. And then I started taking a Zumba class at work. It was like getting a big part of myself back, and I think that is what a relationship really needs. Not someone who can spend every minute with you, but someone who nurtures their own interests whether or not you are both engaged in them.
The unfortunate outcome of trying to be just like everyone else, is that they become just like everyone else. Camouflaging flaws but also hiding the interesting bits as well. Our individuality is a gift. We were created in all shapes and colors, with different talents and passions. It is painful to witness the intentional homogenization. Particularly when these kids give up the activities that they truly enjoy in order to fit in. But kids aren't the only ones to change because of others. It is a familiar story, when you get into a relationship you want to spend as much time as possible with that person. Friends and even hobbies are competition for time, and in order to deepen the relationship the friends and hobbies get cut out. Ironically, the couple looses some of the qualities that drew them together to begin with.
I did this as well. Before meeting Scott I was dancing a few times a week, latin, ballroom, freestyle...dancing of almost every kind is my favorite thing to do. But my boyfriend did not dance, so neither did I. There were times that every cell in my body wanted to be out moving to music. Without this outlet I was less "me" less of what defined me as a person. I have other interests so it was not like I was reduced to nothing but it still nagged at me. And then I started taking a Zumba class at work. It was like getting a big part of myself back, and I think that is what a relationship really needs. Not someone who can spend every minute with you, but someone who nurtures their own interests whether or not you are both engaged in them.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Mermaid Tales
Interesting things can be heard from the front seat of a car, especially if the occupants in the back don't know you are eavesdropping. Like this weekend's debate over what would be better...a mermaid tail or wings. This particular conversation was between a seven-year-old girl and her nine-year-old sister, and for the record the youngest would want to be a mermaid. Personally, I'd pick wings although I didn't hear if there were restrictions on what type of wing. I don't think my choice would change anyway since I'm terrified of deep water and what would the point of a mermaid tail be if you didn't dive deep and explore the mysteries of the sea. Mermaids do tend to have a gorgeous head of hair though, and I can't remember it ever looking wet. Without legs, I would miss dancing.
Winged creatures can still dance. We watched a couple of crazy crows bust a move out on a tree limb just the other day. I have a fear of heights that even surpasses my fear of deep water, but the thought of having wings feels like it would eradicate that phobia. I would love to have graceful hawk wings with a long wingspan, climbing up and soaring down, making large circles in the air. Gliding with the air currents. Having a bird's eye view makes the big picture is obvious, and I like to know the big picture. With hawk wings nothing is hidden. Perhaps it would be best to have butterfly wings, lithe and bouncy. It would be like wearing moving works of art. But I don't think they would suit me; I think I might prefer dragonfly wings. Those can go in any direction and up close they look like stained glass windows, reflecting light.
Clearly this question captured my imagination. As children's conversations often do, even though to them it is as normal as reflecting on what they want to eat for dinner. It has occurred to me that the reverse it true as well. What interesting, horrifying or amusing stories are the people in the back seat gleaning from our conversations up front? With earbuds firmly inserted in teen ears it is possible that their music isn't as loud as we may assume, or even turned off altogether. Are they picking up facts and opinions that normally would be reserved for older conversations? And if it inspires them to think in new ways, is there anything wrong with that?
Winged creatures can still dance. We watched a couple of crazy crows bust a move out on a tree limb just the other day. I have a fear of heights that even surpasses my fear of deep water, but the thought of having wings feels like it would eradicate that phobia. I would love to have graceful hawk wings with a long wingspan, climbing up and soaring down, making large circles in the air. Gliding with the air currents. Having a bird's eye view makes the big picture is obvious, and I like to know the big picture. With hawk wings nothing is hidden. Perhaps it would be best to have butterfly wings, lithe and bouncy. It would be like wearing moving works of art. But I don't think they would suit me; I think I might prefer dragonfly wings. Those can go in any direction and up close they look like stained glass windows, reflecting light.
Clearly this question captured my imagination. As children's conversations often do, even though to them it is as normal as reflecting on what they want to eat for dinner. It has occurred to me that the reverse it true as well. What interesting, horrifying or amusing stories are the people in the back seat gleaning from our conversations up front? With earbuds firmly inserted in teen ears it is possible that their music isn't as loud as we may assume, or even turned off altogether. Are they picking up facts and opinions that normally would be reserved for older conversations? And if it inspires them to think in new ways, is there anything wrong with that?
Monday, May 7, 2012
On the Rocks
There's a place on the ocean that we go to that is stunning, even by coast-of-Maine standards. I actually already wrote a blog post about it called "Building Cairns" which somehow was erased and I was unable to retrieve it or recreate it. A shame because I was happy with it, but I suppose it was not meant to be. I've tried to rewrite it several times over the past month. Like a love letter that never gets sent because the wording isn't adequate for the emotions, line by line these attempts have been deleted.
Although it is only a short car drive from our house, it is like stepping into another world--the real world. The world where our mundane issues don't matter at all. The world as it was created, with nothing man made to interfere in the experience. I almost wrote "with nothing man made to spoil it" but that didn't feel right. There are many man made things that are beautiful and improve our quality of life but sometimes we need to strip it all away so that we can connect directly with nature and the energy that runs through it. It is a place that at once makes you feel vulnerable and empowered.
It is necessary to walk with care. The rocky terrain varies. Some of the rocks with their variegated layers look more like petrified wood than stone, with grain-like patterns. The jagged surfaces of these rocks are difficult to walk on and they can crumble beneath your weight. Other rocks look like giant dragon eggs, smooth and glimmering silver, the flecks mirroring the shimmering ocean just beyond. Through all of these are columns and slices of quartz pushing its way up. In the midst of these heavy rocks and boulders are smaller stones and pebbles. It is with these that people come and build cairns.
Cairns are towers made by stacking stones and are historically used to mark trails; help people stay on their path. They can also be made purely for artistic expression. Or just because. Sometimes I use it as a meditation. As I chose the stones for the base I think of ways that I'm building a foundation in my own life. I prefer to build mine up high and out of the way. From a vantage point of seeing the cairns in the chasm below. My youngest son, who is often jockeying for attention, situates himself in the middle, and tries to build the largest structure he can. An older one created a row of houses along the wall. A sort of horizontal cairn, and made me wonder if our impending move was coming out in his creation. One of the girls searched for signs of life in the little pools of water, while another did what I'm inclined to do--spread out and absorb the heat from the rocks. No matter what mood any one arrived in it is drastically improved before it is time to leave.
The purpose of cairns is to be relatively permanent so that adventures can make their way without getting lost. But in this spot the waves can knock down some of these markers. My path is not yet clear in my mind. I need to come across the right cairn to lead the way.
Although it is only a short car drive from our house, it is like stepping into another world--the real world. The world where our mundane issues don't matter at all. The world as it was created, with nothing man made to interfere in the experience. I almost wrote "with nothing man made to spoil it" but that didn't feel right. There are many man made things that are beautiful and improve our quality of life but sometimes we need to strip it all away so that we can connect directly with nature and the energy that runs through it. It is a place that at once makes you feel vulnerable and empowered.
It is necessary to walk with care. The rocky terrain varies. Some of the rocks with their variegated layers look more like petrified wood than stone, with grain-like patterns. The jagged surfaces of these rocks are difficult to walk on and they can crumble beneath your weight. Other rocks look like giant dragon eggs, smooth and glimmering silver, the flecks mirroring the shimmering ocean just beyond. Through all of these are columns and slices of quartz pushing its way up. In the midst of these heavy rocks and boulders are smaller stones and pebbles. It is with these that people come and build cairns.
Cairns are towers made by stacking stones and are historically used to mark trails; help people stay on their path. They can also be made purely for artistic expression. Or just because. Sometimes I use it as a meditation. As I chose the stones for the base I think of ways that I'm building a foundation in my own life. I prefer to build mine up high and out of the way. From a vantage point of seeing the cairns in the chasm below. My youngest son, who is often jockeying for attention, situates himself in the middle, and tries to build the largest structure he can. An older one created a row of houses along the wall. A sort of horizontal cairn, and made me wonder if our impending move was coming out in his creation. One of the girls searched for signs of life in the little pools of water, while another did what I'm inclined to do--spread out and absorb the heat from the rocks. No matter what mood any one arrived in it is drastically improved before it is time to leave.
The purpose of cairns is to be relatively permanent so that adventures can make their way without getting lost. But in this spot the waves can knock down some of these markers. My path is not yet clear in my mind. I need to come across the right cairn to lead the way.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
May Day
Today is May 1st. May Day. It is also the date that I was engaged, married and served with divorce papers. This used to be a date that I celebrated, and then a date that I avoided thinking about. Now it is pretty much just another number in the calendar. Back when things were still pretty good I thought it was ironic to get married on May Day, which in addition to being an ancient pagan holiday of fertility often manifesting in promiscuity, it is also a distress call for vessels in peril at sea.
When I was newly divorced it felt a bit like being stranded at sea on a raft with my sons, not sure what direction to paddle in, all the while yachts filled with "complete" families sailed by with a sense of purpose and belonging. The worst was a day at Hershey Park, where it seemed like we were the only people there without both parents. The only ones not experiencing the park the way that it was intended, as a family adventure. I still felt like their mother but I didn't feel that we were "a family." As we've all grown in the past few years my sons and I have seemed to have filled that hole with new experiences, inside jokes and trust. I think I could confidently take them to a theme park at this time and not feel like they've been cheated of a family experience. However I won't get on the Tower of Terror with them.
I've been thinking about relationships a lot lately; particularly what constitutes a family. I think in reality the boundaries are a lot looser than the definition of family used to determine insurance benefits. I've been in a relationship for 3 years and while I usually refer to Scott as "my boyfriend" it does not seem to fit. Neither does "partner" or the "person I'm dating" because we are more than that. We don't live together but it still feels like we are sharing our lives together. So what is that called, and why do I care?
My grandfather died a few years ago within the same week of another woman that I had known only for a weekend. I took the news of Granddad's death matter-a-factly, whereas I weeped for Lois. Not that I didn't care about my grandfather, he was a smily, gregarious man who loved to dance and drink Manhattans. He dated a handful of women all with the same name, Gertrude I think, and repeated everything. He'd say the same sentence over and over, only changing a word or two and switching which syllable he stressed. He wore novelty ties and sock suspenders. Quite a character that man was. But he didn't touch my heart, and Lois in a few short days at a women's retreat did. And many other people have touched it as well, making it feel like I have a very large family indeed. There is no need to call mayday.
When I was newly divorced it felt a bit like being stranded at sea on a raft with my sons, not sure what direction to paddle in, all the while yachts filled with "complete" families sailed by with a sense of purpose and belonging. The worst was a day at Hershey Park, where it seemed like we were the only people there without both parents. The only ones not experiencing the park the way that it was intended, as a family adventure. I still felt like their mother but I didn't feel that we were "a family." As we've all grown in the past few years my sons and I have seemed to have filled that hole with new experiences, inside jokes and trust. I think I could confidently take them to a theme park at this time and not feel like they've been cheated of a family experience. However I won't get on the Tower of Terror with them.
I've been thinking about relationships a lot lately; particularly what constitutes a family. I think in reality the boundaries are a lot looser than the definition of family used to determine insurance benefits. I've been in a relationship for 3 years and while I usually refer to Scott as "my boyfriend" it does not seem to fit. Neither does "partner" or the "person I'm dating" because we are more than that. We don't live together but it still feels like we are sharing our lives together. So what is that called, and why do I care?
My grandfather died a few years ago within the same week of another woman that I had known only for a weekend. I took the news of Granddad's death matter-a-factly, whereas I weeped for Lois. Not that I didn't care about my grandfather, he was a smily, gregarious man who loved to dance and drink Manhattans. He dated a handful of women all with the same name, Gertrude I think, and repeated everything. He'd say the same sentence over and over, only changing a word or two and switching which syllable he stressed. He wore novelty ties and sock suspenders. Quite a character that man was. But he didn't touch my heart, and Lois in a few short days at a women's retreat did. And many other people have touched it as well, making it feel like I have a very large family indeed. There is no need to call mayday.
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