Category: evolving

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An Ode to Costumes

Here’s to costumes – not just the ones we wear to celebrate Halloween.

From the pink costume someone puts us in to prove to the world that we are, indeed, a baby girl, to the “costume” put on us the day of our funeral, life is full of costume changes.

If we’re lucky, we have a trunk full of costumes when we are a kid.  Even eating a bowl of cereal warrants dressing the part.  A kid in a costume isn’t so much hiding from life, as he is tackling life.  He’s Superman or Spiderman.  She’s Princess Leia or a ballerina.  Life is celebrated, and what better way to do that than by wearing a costume?

The school years start and costumes are mostly relegated to October 31st.  One day out of the year we get to pretend to be someone outrageous.  The rest of the year, we pretend that we have life figured out.

We agonize over the different costumes needed to navigate adulthood.  We need a costume for every reinvention along the way because we are told we must,  “Fake it until we make it.”  A good costume helps with the faking.

Here’s to the costumes we wear to prove we are worthy of coupling.  For some that might be fishnet stockings or thigh-high boots.  (Years ago, the perfect mate wore an apron.)  Later, some of us wore a costume (that he most likely picked out) to prove we were a good enough wife.

Here’s to the costume we wear to show the world – and convince ourselves – that we are a good enough mom.

 

To the heels and business suit we never felt smarter in.

To the running shorts that never made running more enjoyable.

To the yoga pants that became the going-to-the-grocery-store pants.

Here’s to make-up that never makes us look younger, hair-color that never completely hides the gray, and perfume that never adequately disguises our own unique scent of fear.

 

Then, blessedly, we get to the point where we don’t give a damn.  Here’s to the bold costumes we wear to celebrate a certain age and to let everyone else know that we are done faking it in order to fit in.  Whether we proudly wear mom jeans, or leggings underneath billowy skirts, purple hats or black from head to toe, at this age, our costumes say we’ve arrived.  Almost.

These might be my favorite costumes, yet.  Although, I was a witch for Halloween 2 years in a row in junior high.  I wore that well.

 

 

 

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The Land of Pink – 3

Middle School

Think of two words that incite more terror.

Now in middle school, her preoccupations with whether to try out for soccer, keep her markers and draw, or bury herself under the covers and pretend to be sick on Monday morning are replaced with a more consistent obsession with appearance.

Blame it on body changes.  Blame it on pop culture.  Blame it on the way humans are wired.  Whatever you blame it on, there aren’t many humans who skate through life without caring for their appearance.  (Those who tell you they don’t care, dress in a way that makes it clear that they do care.  They dress to make it look like they don’t care.)

Shopping for clothes when we are little is fun.  If our parents let us have a say in what we wear, we pick based on color, or the character on the front of a shirt, or whether it’s itchy or not.

Shopping for clothes in the middle school years is riddled with all the anxiety of choosing a college.  If I buy these jeans, that group won’t let me in.  If I wear these colors, that group won’t accept me.  How do I dress to fit in, but still wear what I like?  Should this shirt be baggier?  Is this top too tight?

 

Boobs.  (Another loaded word.)

Either she has them, or she doesn’t.  Either way, her chest will be noticed.  She can choose to hide them or show them off.  If she hides them, boys will comment that she probably doesn’t have any.  If she shows them off, boys will comment about their size.

What’s a girl to do?

In the beginning, body changes are weird.  Where did this come from?  How come this?  What is going on?

Then, as she starts getting used to the changes, it can be fun to see how clothes fit.  Her walk changes.  She kind of likes the way she looks.

Uh oh.

Is it okay to like her appearance?  How much can she like the way she looks?  Is it a bad thing to like how she looks?  What’s too much?  How many is too many selfies?  Where is that line?  How long will this last?

In a delicate, all-too-brief moment in time, the changes in her appearance make her feel like preening.  She’s a morning glory blossom wanting to smile and dance in the sun.  It’s fun to show off new curves and long legs.  But, she can’t be out in the open long before she gets unwanted glances.

 

Another uh oh…

She’s a polite person.  She smiles when spoken to.  She says, “Thank you,” when the door is held open.  That does not change with the changes in her body.  Politeness coming from this new body gets misread.  Her intentions are the same, but some boys/men read her intentions differently.  She has to learn to rein in her politeness.  She used to be polite to everyone.  Now she has to be on guard and learn to sense a predator.

All too quickly, she’s faced with the realization that it’s safer to hide her beauty.

One day, riding the bus home with friends, she laughs and looks up.  Accidentally, she makes eye contact with the fellow across the aisle.  She smiles because that’s what she does, out of politeness.  But something is different this time.  The hair stands up on the back of her neck.  Something (intuition) tells her to look away.  She wants to warn her friends and tell them that the guy across from them is creepy, but she doesn’t want to be mean.  They reach their stop and exit as a group.  She looks to make sure the guy didn’t follow them.

In the blink of an eye, everything changes.  Forever she will be faced with the choice of celebrating her unique appearance or staying safe.

 

 

To be continued …

 

 

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The Land of Pink – 2

The school environment is exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.  There is so much new to learn.  She gets to experiment!  More importantly, she interacts with people other than her family.  She has (sort of) figured out where she fits in the family dynamic, now she must figure out where she fits, in the school setting.

Quickly, she learns that while being smart is praised at home, being smart gets her a label at school.  “Oh, she’s the teacher’s favorite.”  Certain groups will shun her if she’s too smart.  Even though she may be automatically accepted by the group that values her brains, she knows she’s more than that.  She’s good at other things, too.  She likes to run.  She’s good at drawing, and she loves books.  Does she have to pick only one of her loves to find her tribe?

The athletic group teases her for drawing, “Like a little kid,” so she tucks her markers away.  The brainy kids tease her for hanging with the group that likes soccer.  “Why do you wear those dumb, long red socks?”

Is it enough to be herself?  Why must she hide parts of herself in order to belong to a group?  Slowly, she sees that she is liked more when she displays traits that certain groups prefer, while hiding the parts they belittle.

She draws at home where no one can make fun of her.  If she’s lucky, the brainy kids will never find out that she is trying out for soccer.  She almost hopes she doesn’t make the team.

One school night, while trying to decide what to wear the next day, she hides her long red socks in the back of her drawer.  (A few months later, mom discovers them in the Goodwill pile.  Mom secretly pulls the socks out and hides them in the Keepsake pile.)

At school, if asked, she never reveals her test scores.  She chimes in, with the rest of the class, when they make fun of the one day of the month that they have art class.  Secretly, she wishes they could have art class once a week.

 

The whittling away and the accommodating begin at a tender age.

 

It turns out that going to school requires a lot of “pretending,” and it’s not the fun kind.  She pretends she doesn’t like soccer.  She makes fun of art.  She pretends she doesn’t know the math answers, and refuses to raise her hand.

She gets an upset stomach on most Sunday nights.  Mom notices a pattern (not feeling well on Sunday night), but she’s at a loss for what to do about it.  (Mom has no idea that her amazing daughter is a completely different kid on the playground.)  Her grades are good.  She made the soccer team.  She seems to have lots of friends.

Soon, she starts pretending at home, too.  It’s easier to pretend than try to figure out what’s wrong.  Without her even realizing it, she’s stopped doing some of the things she loves so much.

One day, before she heads out the door to go to school, she gathers up all her markers and puts them in her little sisters room.  Maybe her sister will want them, now that she doesn’t draw any more.

 

To be continued …

 

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The Land of Pink

I almost painted my fingernails yesterday.  They are long right now, and they’d look good with some polish.   I can’t remember the last time I painted them.  I have long, masculine fingers – my grandma’s – and they look better (more feminine?) when my nails are longer, but long nails are a distraction.  They get in the way when typing or gardening, which is a bummer, because my nails are hard and they are nice.  I tried to decide what color.  We don’t have a lot of polish in the house.  Jen has a couple favorite colors – white, gold and another white.  I think.

I was wanting a red or a corral.  I don’t know where this came from.  But then I thought, people will notice because I never paint my nails.  And, ugh, they’ll say something, and I’ll feel the need to defend my choice to paint my nails and why I picked the color I picked, and why I don’t normally paint my nails.

I thought of women who change their hair color or handbag or get a tattoo, and don’t seem to have a care in the world about whether anyone comments, and how freeing that must be.  Or, most likely, they do care, but they don’t let that stop them.

And then I got tired, which reminded me of what it’s like to be in The Land of Pink.

 

Look at that sweet baby girl.  Or is it a boy.  Hard to tell when they are new.  They smell the same.  They act the same.  They cry when they are hungry or they need to be changed.  They cry when they are tired.  That’s pretty much it.

Until well-meaning parents get involved and suddenly gender is projected on to this being that only cares about sleeping and eating and being comfortable.  The Big Ones coo and smile and comment on appearance when they change diapers.  “Oh, your soooo cute.”  Their hearts are in the right place, but Bigs start to treat the girls and boys differently.  They can’t help it.  It’s in their genetic coding.

Baby girls are cute for different reasons than baby boys are.

Baby slowly starts to make a connection between her appearance and the mood of the Bigs.

Babies aren’t dumb.  It doesn’t take them long to connect dots.  Happy Big = more squash.  If I coo or smile at Big, Big is happy, then I get squash.

Before she knows it, she has to be careful about not getting mashed peas on her pretty dress.  She mustn’t get squash in her hair.  She doesn’t care about her hair, she cares about fists full of food.   Pretty soon, though, it takes more than a smile to make Big happy.  Big likes it when we are cute or clean or quiet.  If we do those things, we get more squash.

 

Now she’s old enough to toddle around in the yard.  She’s amazed at where her legs will take her.  She doesn’t care what’s on her legs as long as it isn’t itchy.  This Disney Princess dress is itchy.  She reaches for a fistful of mud and attempts to bring it to her mouth, but a Big tells her, “NO!  Don’t eat that!  That’s icky!  Don’t get that on your pretty dress.”

 

It’s the first day of Kindergarten.  Her tummy feels weird and her new clothes are itchy.  She’s wearing a dress and she’s told that she probably better not go on the slide at the playground because the boys might look up her dress.  Why do boys want to look up her dress?  Whose idea was it to make her wear a dress today, anyway?

She’s no dummy.  She can see that the teacher spends more time with certain kids – the cute ones.   She notices that the cute ones are surrounded by more kids on the playground.  What must she do to be cuter?  She ponders this while sitting at a long, cold table, under florescent lights, eating a peanut butter and jelly that has been cut into quarters.  She can’t wait to get home, get out of this dress and away from this need to be cute.

Years later, she’ll learn that the weird feeling in her tummy is called anxiety.  Anxiety will become her life-long companion.

 

To be continued …

 

By the way, I cut my nails.  It’s just easier, and I’m tired.

 

 

 

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The Forest

The above is on my kitchen door, the door we use for leaving the peace of home and entering the rest of the world.  We go through this door heading to the office, taking Jen ice skating, or getting groceries, which is a whole different thing, now that Will doesn’t live here.  Often I’m in a hurry and don’t stop to read the quote.

I’m not evolved like Ram Dass.

I wish.

I let people irritate the hell out of me, which is clearly about me, not them.

 

When the guy at the office comes into my space, sighs heavily and tells me how much he hates working with women and all the reasons why, I don’t remember to think of him as a tree.  I think of him as a typical privileged Boomer male who doesn’t have the sense to realize that he’s complaining about women to a woman.  Evolved me might think of him as a Russian olive, that crowds out other trees and steals their nutrients.

(There’s a Russian olive in the park across the street.  It’s pretty from a distance.  All the dogs, that explore the park, stop for relief at the base of it.)

 

A driver honked at us the other evening, when Jen was practice-driving a steeply curved stretch along the river.  She freaked but maintained her speed.  I refrained from turning around to give him my classic stink eye.  It’s going to take a lot of practice to call a guy like that a cottonwood, instead of the impatient pain that he clearly is.

 

Evolved me knows the woman at the grocery, who barked at me for not using hand sanitizer before touching the shopping cart, is a thorny honey locust.  She most likely has good reasons for being a germophobe.  Unevolved me thinks she’s a loud busy body with too much time on her hands.

 

Jen is on a committee planning a fundraiser for an animal shelter, where she volunteers.  She’s getting a fine education in the dynamics of clashing personality types.  She sees the ones who say they do all the work and don’t, the ones who actually do the work and don’t seek credit,  the drama queens and the servants.  She sees folks who want to control, folks who are willing to be controlled, and folks who don’t even want to be there, but have to, for whatever reason.  When she gets home and vents about her meetings, we end the conversations by one of us saying, “Trees!  They are all a bunch of different trees.”  That, and we also marvel at how much could be handled with emails versus committee meetings.

 

We are trying to see people as trees.  Our hearts are in the right place, but trees aren’t nearly as annoying as people.

I’d broaden the approach to include plants:  poison ivy, bella donna and hemlock, to name a few.  Did I mention that I’m not as evolved as Dass?

 

When I’m in my own back yard, trimming raspberries, raking under the lilacs and watching for perennials to poke through, it’s easy to be kind, have my heart in the right place, and see people as trees.  There aren’t any Russian olives in my backyard.  We’ve no poison ivy or belladonna either, but we do have a lovely bed of lily of the valley on the shady side, which is proof that we can be around toxicity, but we’d be wise to keep our distance.

Like trees and plants, some people clearly didn’t get enough light when they were seedlings.  Some are still bent from ever-present high winds.  Some were pruned so much you can’t recognize their true nature.  It’s not their fault.  They’re just trees.

It’s good for me to remember that I’m a tree, too.   I can be prickly like a honey locust, especially when crowded by an impatient driver.  I know the areas of myself that could benefit from a little more light.

When I can’t see the forest for the trees, I head to the garden and admire the lily of the valley, from a distance.

 

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Random Thoughts In No Particular Order

I love being here.  I miss being here.  I’m too busy to be here.

I spend as many moments as I can with Jenny because, well …

I’m not going to type that.

 

Will, as some of you know, has moved out.  I don’t hear from him every day, but I do hear from him most days.  I’m trying hard not to intrude.  The other night, Jen and I were watching something on Netflix – most likely, Tidying Up – and he texted.  He asked how we were doing.  Of course I panicked.  “Something must be wrong.  It’s Friday night!  How come he’s texting?”  Turns out he’d just gotten home from a shift and realized he hadn’t heard from us in a couple days, so he texted – just to say hi.

Back when things were bumpier with Will, or I might say, back in 2018, I prayed for those kinds of texts.

And here they are.

Note to self:  This is a good thing.

 

Oh, and the three of us plan to ski together on Friday.  Yay, me!!

 

Where was I?

 

Oh.  So I’m not on this spot as much as I used to be, or as much as I would like to be.  Priorities, you know.

Priorities include spending every available moment with Jen; homeschool; the job; and the ritualistic chores necessary for survival.

And if you haven’t made some of your chores ritualistic, by now, you really ought to.  If we’re going to be spending these many hours folding laundry, doing dishes, sweeping and shoveling snow, we ought to be elevating these duties to the heights reserved for deities.

Say grateful words while hand-grinding coffee beans in the wee hours.  Breathe in the smell let off as you turn the crank.  Hope for all the good things that caffeine allows you to accomplish.

Pay respects to the deciduous trees while shoveling the snow that covers their roots.  Promise you’ll gladly greet their new leaves in the spring.  Think happy thoughts about how many winters you’ve survived, and how shoveling is the best gym membership you never have to pay for.

Acknowledge the washing machine and thank it for making your job easier.  You don’t have to run to the creek to scrape your clothes against a rock.  We’ve got it easy.  You don’t really need all those clothes, anyway.

Appreciate the stacks of clean plates and the many meals they’ve served and the many more to come.  Enjoy moments in the kitchen teaching your kids how to chop onion while laughing at the tears and saving the fingers.

Thank the fire in the wood stove for keeping your little family warm on these cold nights.  Be grateful for the warmth and the work that comes with keeping the fire stoked.

 

I digress.

Again.

 

I started to say something about how I’m not really so busy that I can’t be writing here more.  (I mean, if I’ve got time for Netflix.)

The scribbled notes of post ideas will keep me writing long after Jen has ventured off and (hopefully) circled back around.  Potential post titles include:  In Defense of Cat Ladies, When I Was Mad At The World, and Reflections From a Wallflower.

I’ll get to them.

There will be time to write all those ideas.  For that, I am grateful.

 

In the meantime, Jen and I painted the back bedroom.  It was originally mine when we first moved here.  Then, after the Debacle, Will took it over.  He’s bigger than I am and he needed more space.  I waited to make sure he was really not coming back, before reclaiming it.  I even offered it to Jen.  She’s happy with her cozy room, so we textured and painted my old room, together.  (That reminds me of another blog post I came up with while spreading joint compound on the walls:  How to Texture Walls or How to Love Your Life, which is less about texturing walls and more about loving your life with all its weird, beautiful texture including the occasional debacle.)

 

On another note:  I don’t know how many folks even stop by here anymore.

(Hi, Lynn! Love you!)

I used to check blog stats all the time – to see if anyone was reading.  I think I believed there was no point in writing, if no one was reading.  I remember thinking that I had to write to help others in order to justify the blog.  Now I can’t even remember the password to the site for checking the stats.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t care if others find comfort in these words.

(Thank you for writing to tell me that you’ve found comfort!)

The real issue is that I learned to help myself.

That’s what I want for my kids.  That’s what this journey is all about.  (Gawd, is there another word besides that poor, over-used word?  If I had a dollar for every time I said the word journey, I could have paid to have the bedroom painted!  But I wouldn’t have, because Jen and I have so much fun working on those projects together.)

Anyway, when we help ourselves, we start the ripple effect.  We make the world a better place in our own back yard, and it definitely, without a doubt, positively impacts others, as well.

So, I’m “staying in my lane, bro!” as that annoying but funny tattoo artist in the commercial says.  I’m staying in my lane, working on my own stuff, improving the texture in my tiny corner, and hoping that some of that improves your little corner, too.

Thank you for stopping by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Cat Wisdom

We were only gone four nights.  We got home earlier than expected, driving a little too fast, because we missed Pansy.   We raced in the door, leaving suitcases in the car.  “Pansy!  Pansy!  We’re home!!” This time we didn’t get the silent treatment.  She wasn’t mad at us, like she was the last time we were gone.

(The perfect number of days to be gone is five, both for Pansy and for us.  Is it possible to visit NYC and be home after four nights?  Asking for Jen.)

The next morning, it was back to scrambling:

“Where did we leave off in history?”

“Can you make an appointment with the orthodontist?”

“I’ve got two appointments on Wednesday.  If Will gets you there, I could pick you up.”

“I gotta get the leaves raked before the snow flies.”

“Can you help me a little with my Halloween costume?”

“Let’s do that right before dinner.”

During this exchange, Pansy was hanging out by the cabinet that stores her treats.  She was meowing at us, trying to get our attention.  I wrote something on a list, and walked over to get her a couple treats.  She didn’t want any.  She just wanted our attention.  I went back to my list saying something about having to get to the office.  Jen was going over her school list and finding where we had left off in the history book.

“Meow, meow, meooooow.”

“I know, Pansy, but I gave you a couple treats.”

“Meooooooow.”

Just then Pansy jumped up on the counter.  Above this spot, I have a mishmash of Post-its.  Some remind me to have Jen check into Red Bubble; start her portfolio; or make a list of her commissions.  There’s also a recipe for window cleaner, and a couple motivating quotes.  There are at least nine Post-its attached to the shelves above the counter.  They are losing their stick, and sometimes I bump one when I go to put an essential oil back on the shelf, or reach for a glass.  It floats to the floor, and I pick it up and place it next to the others, hoping for one more day of stick.

Pansy was reaching up to get at the notes.  She sniffed a couple, but targeted one in particular.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the note flutter to the floor.  Pansy jumped down and walked by her treats, on her way to the living room.

The note said, “Pace yourself.”

 

 

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A Dream of Men

We were on a bus.  The bus was full of males of all ages – men and boys I’ve been acquainted with throughout my life.  There were four women facilitating – myself and three others.  Oddly, while I did know the males in the dream, I did not know the females.

It was a fall afternoon, and the bus was cruising around my hometown.  We weren’t going anywhere in particular.  The men talked of football, bonfires, hunting, leaf-raking, and how glad they were to not be at the office.  The boys talked of the girls at school, football, the apps on their phones and pizza.

The mood on the bus was jovial.  The women were there to serve, and they didn’t seem to mind.   We walked the aisle of the bus filling snack bowls and fetching drinks.

We arrived at a hall with a large grassy area.  Everyone got off the bus and the women made their way to the restroom, while the men and boys staked out their territories.  Some grabbed footballs and headed for the grass.  Some went inside to turn on the TV to catch the game.  The boys looked at the two groups of men, and picked whichever group they felt most comfortable in, depending on what they experienced at home.

Everyone appeared to be having a good time.  Laughing and yelling filled the air.  Someone started a bonfire in the designated fire pit, and several men set up lawn chairs.  Some boys who had been in the hall came out to sit by the fire.  The fire brought them closer together.  Phones were tucked in pockets.  Even the noise level quieted a bit as they all focused on the fire and relished the good mood that comes with having fun.

At one point, I approached the fire to fill bowls with popcorn, and I noticed two 9 year old boys quietly crying.  A man stood in front of them to ask what was wrong.  He spoke in a gentle voice so as not to call attention to them.  When they didn’t answer the man, I knelt down in front of them and asked, “What happened?  I’ve seen you two hanging together all afternoon.  You’ve been having a great time!  Are you okay?”  Through tears, one of the boys said, “I can’t sit by him any more.”  When I asked why not, he said, “Because he’s pro-life and I’m pro-choice.”  I asked, “Do either of you know what that means?”  Each sat staring at his hands folded in his lap, tears rolling down his face. They both shook their heads.  They didn’t know what it meant, but they knew they were supposed to think one way, and not the other. Just then the man standing in front of them said, “Well I’m pro-life, too.  Does that mean I can’t stand here?”  The first boy cried even harder and said, “I don’t know.  I just know what I’ve been told.  How come I like him, but now I can’t sit by him because of something I don’t even understand?”

The man looked down at me and said, “What should I say to them?”

I handed both boys a Kleenex, and I asked the first boy, “Would you still want to sit by him if he liked pepperoni on pizza, and you only love sausage pizza?”  He looked at me dumbfounded.  “That’s stupid.  It doesn’t matter.  He can have whatever pizza he wants.  I don’t care.”   The second boy said, “Who cares about pizza?  We like to hang together!  That’s all that matters!”  The boys wadded up their Kleenexes and threw them in the fire, the way boys often do.

As I stood, the man whispered, “That’s not the same.  Folks don’t get hurt over pizza.  They get hurt over issues like pro-life and pro-choice.”  I said, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I know we have to make room for everyone to accept that others think differently.  We have to get okay with that.  There are many different versions of normal.  Maybe once we get okay with that, we can come to a point where people stop getting hurt.”

 

And then I woke up.

 

I know the same happens with girls and women.  I also know that many times the roles are reversed, and a woman is standing there wondering how to help, and a man addresses the girls with a question that they can relate to. 

This is not about men being inferior. 

This is not about me believing that women are supposed to serve. 

This is about patterns, status quo, versions of normal and how we often don’t see that our version of normal may not be healthy.

This is about looking at our “normal” and educating ourselves about what healthy is.  Are we holding so tightly to our version of normal that we can’t see that there might be other versions of normal?

 

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Behind the Eyes

A little more than 40 years ago, my grandfather gave me a painting he’d created from my 7th grade school picture.  I had no idea I’d be receiving such a gift.  I knew he painted.  I’d seen plenty of his paintings – always landscapes with a boat or a cabin or a lone figure fishing.  I wasn’t aware he painted portraits.

Anyone, other than a 13 year old girl, would have been thankful, maybe even pleased, with such a gift.  I, like most 13 year old girls, was self-conscious.  The painting was large (12″ x 16″) and bright and, well …  it was me.  I hated it.

I didn’t hate it because of his painting style, I hated it because of the subject matter.  There, in a frame, were all the things I felt ugly about: the pointy chin, the unruly eyebrows, and the awkward smile.  My too-big eyes were even larger on the canvas.

(You might not remember the long pointy collars of a button-up blouse from the 70s – a fashion statement I still don’t understand.  I wore that blouse under a light-blue sweater vest on picture day.  I have another picture of my 70s self wearing a thin leather strip as a headband.  It matched a fringe vest.  As I write this, I realize that she was every bit as full of contradiction as I am, now.  She was self-conscious, yet had the confidence to wear a headband, and a swingy fringed vest.  I see that in my kids, too.  They are self-conscious, yet they try on different “costumes” in an attempt to discover who they are.  Some of us do this all our lives.)

I still have that painting.  It’s made every move I’ve made.  It’s currently standing between an end table and one wall of my bedroom.  I have never hung it on the wall.  (Sorry, grandpa.)  I can’t imagine ever getting to a point where I want a large painting of my face on a wall.

 

It’s happened twice in the last month.

I’ll be backing the car out of the garage, heading to an appointment, and look up to see if I have something in my teeth.  I see my eyes – those 7th grade eyes – in the rear view mirror.

(If you aren’t yet in your 50s, you can’t know how often you will be checking a mirror, once you get here.  Not for mascara smudges or smeared lipstick or bad hair, but to see if the seeds from the morning’s toast are lodged between your teeth.  They almost always are.)

The eyes I see are the eyes in grandpa’s painting.

The first time this happened, I was racing to the office.  I remember thinking, “Slow down.  You must be anxious.  That’s just weird to see those eyes.”

The second time, I wasn’t in a hurry.  I’m slightly embarrassed to admit this, but I liked seeing those eyes.

(Even if I had the resources, I wouldn’t invest a lot in anti-aging concoctions.  I have no faith in them.  The last time I tried one, it scorched my face.  Because I hate waste, I applied it to my cracked heals.  It worked so well, I’m now on my second bottle of the stuff that promised to take 18 years off my face.)

The eyes in the rear view mirror are creased with lines from lots of choices, mistakes and successes.  Lines from life frame those eyes now.  The lashes are naked and the brows are thinning, but they are the eyes I saw in the mirror when I was in 7th grade.  The same warmth and intensity are there.

My soul is in there – the soul that has been guiding me since long before 7th grade.  Recently, for some reason I don’t understand, I’m recognizing my soul.

Finally.

Hell, maybe one day I will put that painting up on the wall – probably in the bedroom, tho’.

 

I hope you look in the mirror, not to pluck or conceal or wince, but to recognize and acknowledge.  I hope you see that spark behind your eyes.

It’s there.

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Hold On Loosely

“Jesse!  Where’ve you been?  I hope you’ve been having some summer fun.”

“How are ya, Hank?  It’s been awhile.  I’ve missed you guys.”

“What’s new?  How are the kids?  How’s life been treating you?”

“I’m gonna need a beer first, Hank.  So far, this summer has been all about closing chapters.”

Hank reached for a glass, “Closing the right chapters, I hope.”

She sat on a stool and took a sip before the foam could run down the side of the glass.

 

Hank said, “I’m sorry about your aunt’s passing.  I’m sure that’s a difficult chapter to close.”

“Thanks, Hank.”  She took another sip.  “We’ve had some deaths this summer.  Too many funerals.”

Hank stood directly across from her, on the other side of the bar, “I’m sorry, Jesse.”  He wiped the bar while trying to think of what to say.  “And the other chapters?”

“Will moved out a couple weeks ago.  It’s time.  I’m excited for him.  He’s ready and wanting to be independent.  This chapter really sucks, tho, Hank.”

“Whew!  I got nothing for ya on that.  I could spout off all the cliches about a son leaving, cutting apron strings and the like, but that doesn’t make it any easier.  So, how are you holding up?”

“Honestly, my aunt’s passing hit me hard, and that was closely followed by Will moving.  For the first time, I seriously considered finding a therapist.  A year ago, my doctor had recommended someone for stress and anxiety.”  She laughs, “Last year was a cake walk compared to this summer.  But, anyway, I kept thinking I’d go through some papers and find the name he’d given me, but then life was coming at me real fast.  Another passing, some more family stuff…”  She reached for her glass, “I’d come home from the office, have a meal with Jen, and retreat to the garden.”

Hank nodded, “The calm spot in the storm?”

“Exactly.  I couldn’t write.  I could barely read.  I managed to cook a couple meals and go to the office and that’s about it.  Now, here we are, the end of July, and I’ve yet to make an appointment with a therapist, but my yard and garden look the best they’ve looked in the 12 years we’ve lived there.  I feel this compulsion to be working in the yard every day.  I keep apologizing to Jen, for spending so much time out there.”

 

Hank asked, “How’s Jen doing with all these closing chapters?”

“Art is her garden.  She is consumed with her drawing and painting.  I’m so thankful that art is her refuge.”

 

“When you are working in the yard, what goes through your mind?”

She laughs, “Everything and nothing.  I started out with a lot of questions.  ‘Why now?  Why this person?’ And then, ‘Is he prepared to be on his own?’  I wallowed in the pissed-off phase.  ‘Why me?  Just how much am I supposed to handle?’  Slowly, the thoughts morphed into, ‘Hello, Jesse!  This isn’t about you.’  I thought a lot about reinvention and what that means.  I got pissed off, again, at the Universe because it seems like all I do is reinvent, and then I realized that’s what this journey is about – reinvention.”

Hank smiled, “I recognize some of those thoughts.”

“I reminded myself of the stuff about young men and how it’s supposed to be difficult right before they leave.”

“Right!  Or they’d never leave!”  Hank washed bar glasses as he listened.

“I reminded myself that my aunt was far better off now than she’d been the last couple years.”

“And did that help?”

“I suppose those thoughts are part of the process, but they didn’t help as much as planting, pulling weeds, moving soil, cutting grass, trimming trees and sweating.  Those things finally got me out of my head and moving.”  She laughed, “Now I’m starting to worry about what I’ll do for therapy come winter.”

He said, “Maybe you won’t need any therapy come winter.”

They both laughed.

 

“You know,” she said, “this morning that song by 38 Special was stuck in my head – Hold On Loosely.”

Hank grinned, “That’s always been a favorite.”

Jesse said, “I haven’t heard that one in a while.  Then, this afternoon, Jen and I were on our way to the store and it came on the radio.”

Hank reached for her empty glass, “That song fits except for the part about, ‘Don’t let go.'”

Jesse got up from her stool, “No kidding.”