Category: where’d she go?

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The Sanctuary

You’ve heard of this place, but you want to see for yourself.

You find the door, but you’re not sure that this unmarked door could lead to what you are expecting.  Is this the service entrance?  More than that, the dust-covered door looks like it hasn’t been used in awhile.  The handle hasn’t been turned recently.  The door is set back in the wall of the building, deep enough for a person to hide from oncoming traffic.  Dried leaves and a McDonald’s wrapper have taken refuge in the corner from the wind.  If they don’t take time to clean the entrance, what’s the interior going to be like?

You’re convinced you are at the wrong building, but then you notice a door bell button.  You look over both shoulders, hesitate, and press the button.  You hear the faintest buzz, not the expected sound of a bell.  A quiet voice emits from a speaker you cannot see.  “Solo or communal, please?”  You look over your shoulder before saying, “Solo?”

The door opens almost immediately and your senses are engaged.  First, a waft that is equal parts orange, sage, and eucalyptus, followed by a note of bergamot and, lastly, the distinct, memory-inducing scent of damp soil.  The smells are pleasing and inviting without overpowering.  Your eyes adjust to the darkness and then spot low-lit, amber-colored sconces near the high ceiling, lining a hallway.  Your skin notices warmth, not a dry heat from forced air, but a moist warmth that instantly makes your shoulders relax.  You think you hear the gentle tinkling of bells, or is that some kind of new age music in the background.

You pause to take it all in and your mind briefly wonders if this is going to be too “out there” for you, but your body pulls you over the threshold.

The assistant, who patiently allowed you time to adjust,  hands you a key and points to a wall of mailboxes.  You haven’t seen this kind of mailbox since your mom held your hand to cross the street on the way to the post office.

“Please silence your phone, place it in number 17 and lock it.  Keep the key with you, please.  Don’t worry about remembering which box is yours.  I’ll take care of that.”  After you’ve secured your phone in its own locked box, the attendant says, “This way please.”  She leads you down the panel-lined hallway toward a set of stairs.  It is dark, but not menacingly so.

On your left is a set of double mahogany doors.  You see natural light coming from under the doors, and you hear sounds – music, laughter, conversation.  The sounds are inviting, but that’s not where you want to be today.

The wide staircase is lit with the same sconces.  The stairs lead to a landing.  You turn to the right and climb a second set of stairs.  The carpeted stairs muffle the sound of your footsteps as you follow the attendant.

At the top of the stairs you reach another hallway.  Three closed doors line each side of the hallway.  At the end of the hallway, a demi-moon table holds a lit Tiffany lamp and a wide, shallow wooden bowl filled with polished stones.

You notice the ambient light coming from under each of the six doors.  The light is colored.  A different colored light glows from under each door.

The attendant tells you that the Purple and Green rooms are occupied.  She says, “You may select from the other four doors.”

. . .

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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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“You’re Difficult To Live With”

“What did you say?”  She must have misunderstood.  The house was clean, she’d paid down some of his bills, and dinner was about to be served.  What more could she be doing?

They’d been sitting, sipping whiskey, waiting for the timer to let them know that the lasagna would be ready.   This moment before dinner was when they discussed the day, the schedule, projects and weekend plans.

“You’re difficult to live with.”

He repeated the words and there it was, that taste in the mouth she got whenever she was about to vomit.

She swallowed hard to keep from throwing up and proceeded to defend herself.  She gave examples of how she wasn’t difficult.  “See?  I do this for you.  I’ve done that for you.  I try to keep my feelings to myself, for you.  I know your job is hard and I try not to burden you with my stuff when you get home.  I’m anything but difficult.”

He said, “It’s okay that you are difficult.  I love you anyway.  I know how to handle you.”

 

The taste in her mouth did not go away.

 

Her first thought was, maybe he’s right.  She wondered if it was true that she was difficult.  Could she be nicer?  Could she be less of an inconvenience?  Could she facilitate better without needing anything from him?  Could she contort herself in a way that would make her invisible, or at least less difficult?

She thought back over instances, in other relationships, when her just being in the same room would elicit a heavy, irritated sigh from the other.  She was no stranger to feeling like an inconvenience.  She’d had to defend herself before, or at least she thought she had to.

 

The timer rang.  She walked out of the room to pull the lasagna out of the oven and let the kids know that dinner would be ready soon.  She tried to keep from crying.  The last thing she wanted was food.  As she set the table, the need to vomit was replaced with fear.  How could she stay here?  Where would she go?  How could she have dragged her kids into this mess?

Should she stay?  He did say he still loved her.  Who else could possibly love her, if she was so difficult to live with.

She faked small talk during dinner.  After dishes, the four of them watched a show that he selected.  While she stared at the TV, her mind raced with what to do.

Later, in the dark, under the covers, shaking and trying to take a deep breath to steady her voice, she rolled over and said, “I need to tell you that it really hurt my feelings when you told me that I’m difficult to live with.”

He said, “Do we have to do this now?  I have to be to work early.  You know that.”

She rolled back to her side and tried to stay as quiet as humanly possible.

 

The next evening, he returned home to whiskey poured, and dinner in the oven.  She tried to bring up the subject.  He dismissed her, saying he’d had a long day.

Over the next week, she made several more attempts to get clarification from him.  He would continue to dismiss her, or justify his words.

That taste in her mouth was there more than not.  The fear prevented sleep.  The more she tried to understand, the less she was able to breathe.

 

Within the month, she and the kids would pack their things and move.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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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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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Where’d She Go?

As he turned the key in the lock he said, “Anyone want to go across the street for a drink?”

One said, “What a day!  I’m game.”

Another said, “I’ve got time for one.”

Two more said, “I’ll meet you,” and “I’ve gotta text my husband first.”

She said, “Sure.  Why not?”

 

After the drinks were sorted between them, they started in about the clients they had, and any progress they were making with those clients.

He took a sip of his beer, looked across the table at a male coworker, laughed and said, “If she didn’t have such great legs, I’d have passed this client off to you.”

She saw the two women at the table look down, cringe, and sip their drinks.

She thought of saying something snarky about clients and legs, but she wasn’t quick enough.

The male coworker said, “I’ll be happy to trade.  The gal I’m working with isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.  I’m having to explain everything to her.”

She exchanged glances with the women at the table and considered introducing the concept of mansplaining, but she didn’t get the chance.

 

One of the female coworkers was able to get a word in and said, “I got a call from a potential client who asked me to refer him to one of the guys in the office.  When I told him I’d be happy to help him, he said, ‘I appreciate your gumption, honey, but I need to talk to someone with experience.'”

She said, “So what did you do?”

“I passed him off.  I’m too busy to scale that mountain.  Who needs that kind of crap?”

One of the guys said, “So who did you pass him off to?” because he clearly didn’t get the point.

 

She threaded her hand through the glasses to grab a handful of peanuts and noticed one of the male coworkers staring at the waitress’s ass.  She kept her eyes on him long enough for him to realize he’d been caught staring.  She said, “So how does that compare to what you have at home?”  He threw up his hands in that way guys do when they’ve been caught in the act, “What?  I’m a guy.”  He grinned, “I can’t help it.”  Then he looked at the other guys at the table, “Right, guys?  We’re wired to look.  It’s what we do.”  Then the three males laughed the kind of laugh that comes with confidence, security and place – a laugh that the three females at the table had only rarely expressed.  A laugh had with your best girlfriend, while driving away from a party you didn’t want to go to, to begin with.

 

She said she had to use the restroom, excusing herself from the table, and leaving a full beer and a pile of peanuts in her wake.

She laughed in the privacy of her car, as she pulled out of the parking lot, saying to no one and everyone, “I don’t have time to scale that mountain.”