Category: Confessional

Caught

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Caught on an electric wire I wait on the wind. I am once again alive and happy to be here. I was slipping my grip on priority a few weeks ago but I’m back. A renewed force of power waits while I settle into a new groove. And settle, I will. Just you wait.
There is a new resolve to run my life the way I want, a new resolve to be who I want to be. I am not stupid, I’ve been face to face with this resolve before. My life is a giant circle – losing confidence, gaining ground. Faltering and finishing. Falling down and getting back up. This isn’t the first time I’ve found courage, found strength, found something to be. I’ll take advantage of it while it’s here.
Knitting II was cancelled but that just gives me time to enroll in knitting school – yes school. Courses, textbooks, prerequisites, labs, tests, homework, final exams. The works. I finished knitting I with a green scarf but now I’m ready to jump into the unknown. As a good friend told me, it’s all well and good to reaffirm what I already know (as in the case of knitting I), but it’s another to move into unchartered waters. So, here I go.
Yoga. I haven’t been to Now and Zen Yoga since it moved. I’m embarrassed by that fact. Now that I have this director thing worked out I have time for the more important things.
Kisa taught me some moves on the bowflex. I’ve missed strength training. Okay, I avoided it after a certain meathead left my life, but, but, but I still missed it. I like watching my muscles move, feeling strong and in charge. Peach Shirt still lingers in my memory. He follows me from the grocery store and back from the back. I’d like to be able to kick his azz if it ever came to that. Instead I’ll ignore the ache. In addition I discovered the bike path goes all the way into town – almost 3 miles. Perfect for running. I’ll start tomorrow.

I moved back into the Space, calling up some friends. If I haven’t called on you, give me time. I’m still figuring out where you are! 😉

On the Side of Angels

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I donated to Susan G. Komen for the Cure. I donated but that doesn’t mean they are going to give up asking me for more. They shouldn’t.This week I got yet another Dear Friend letter and…note-cards, complete with envelopes. I think this is a guilt tactic. A subliminal “what do you think these note cards are worth and could you pay us that for sending them to you?” They are nice cards…but I didn’t ask for them. Maybe it’s a hint that I owe a few people some letters and I should get on my butt and write them.

Here’s what I want to say, “Dear SGKFTC, You are preaching to the choir. When you tell me the stats on breast cancer it’s something I already know. Cancer is something that scares the clear thinking out of me. You say my donation can make a difference but I don’t think it does. Why else would I get another Dear Friend so soon after my last check was sent?” I know exactly what you are going to say. We should never stop. I believe you. Cancer is killing someone you know right now. It starts in the breast, you fight the good fight and breathe a sigh of relief. It comes back in the hip, you fight the good fight and breathe a shaky sigh of relief. It shows itself in the jaw, you fight the good fight and breathe a troubled sigh of relief. Now it’s in the spine, you’re fighting the good fight and there is a sigh, but not of relief. The sigh comes from knowing cancer doesn’t give up. So. Neither should Komen. Neither should you. Donate today.

It Could Have

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I don’t know whether it was my overly active imagination or the man apparently following me, but I was so scared. It happened yesterday at a rest area. When I pulled in to the parking lot I wasn’t thinking about anything but walking, changing my clothes, peeing, and fueling up before the rest of my journey home. I wasn’t thinking period. It was a beautiful day so I parked as far away from the rest area center as possible. I was nearly in the trucker lot. I wanted to stretch my legs as much as possible while crossing the parking lot. Stretch and enjoy the sun. There wasn’t another parked car within 10 spots on any side of me – I was that far away from the hubbub of the center. I cannot stress that enough. To my surprise someone pulled up right next to me. Startled someone would park just as far away from the center, yet so close to me I stared at the driver…only to find him staring back at me. I took note of his features (Middle Eastern, well groomed, glasses), his dress (peach shirt, no tie), his car (silver honda accord). Of all the open spots around me he had to pull up right beside me. Instantly nervous I busied myself with pulling clothes together, counting change, anything to not get out of the car quite yet. It seemed like eternity but finally the man drove away. I made note of his VT license plate. Not trusting him to be really gone I stayed in my car a minute more before getting out and walking across the parking lot. As I approached the center I spotted Mr. Peach Shirt’s car. Imagine my surprise when he got out just as I was walking by. I was convinced I had waited long enough but there he was, following me into the center. He even used the same door so I was forced to hold it open for him. I noticed his black dress pants and dress shoes. Respectable looking yet giving me the creeps all the same. Once inside he went his way and I made a beeline for the bathrooms where I changed my clothes, put my hair up, rehydrated my contacts…in other words, spent a long time refreshing myself for the journey home. Still nervous about Mr. Peach Shirt I wondered if I would see him again. Scaring myself, I was betting I would. Even though I predicted it I was still shocked to see him standing outside the restrooms, drinking a coffee, looking my way. Trying not to appear rattled I squared my shoulders and walked by with as much resolve as I could muster. He followed me out. Thinking I had to be imagining my paranoia I stopped to pretend to look for something in my purse. Peach Shirt kept walking. As the distance between us widened I took the opportunity to stroll to the dog park, stop to admire the lilacs in full bloom, pretend to be interested in a man’s dog, anything to delay going back to my car. By the time I did go back I thought surely Peach would be gone and if he wasn’t, I had a problem. Wanting to avoid that problem I took a long time driving away from my spot. Slowly, slowly I made my way towards the gas pumps, cursing myself for having to fill up. All I wanted to do was get on the highway and burn rubber home. Just at the edge of the rest area center’s parking lot I had to stop for pedestrians. I welcomed the chance to give Peach more time to be really gone. I didn’t see him anywhere. But. As I waited who pulled up beside me but Mr. Peach! Shock elevated to alarm. I couldn’t believe I was seeing him for a fourth, disturbing time. I drove off shaking like a leaf and amazingly he followed. At the gas station I stared in disbelief as he pulled up the the pumps right behind me. Nearly frantic I looked to the attendant for help. She looked all of 18-19 years old and I knew she wouldn’t make a difference. Instead I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to make a call (yes, the battery was dead), looked in my rearview and pretended to relay license plate info to an imaginary cop. I was as obvious as I possibly could be and finally Mr. Peach drove away. I never saw him again.

Here’s what really bothers me about this experience. I could predict when I would see that peach shirt. It was like he was always around no matter how long I lingered somewhere. There was something about him that made me nervous from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Did that make me hypersensitive to his movements? If I were to pick out someone else, say an overweight woman in oversized sunglasses, sun visor, Miami tourist tee shirt, clam diggers and flipflops, would I run into her just as often as Mr. Peach? Would I notice her just as often? Would I care? Probably not. No, Mr. Peach Shirt started the drama by pulling into a parking spot right next to me. He didn’t observe movie theater rules. You don’t sit right next to a stranger in a movie theater. You always leave an empty seat between you. Just like you don’t park right next to another car when there are at least 40 empty spots all around. And I was so far away! Can’t stress that enough!

It could have been my imagination. It could have been worse. It could have.

Posted in Bad

TongueTied & Tired

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I have this friend who thinks before he speaks and takes a long time to reply. It used to annoy me. I wasn’t patient enough to understand his careful approach to words. I was too busy being offended, too busy thinking I was being ignored.
I understand my friend’s silence today more than ever. I have been away for nearly a week and while I have many, many things I could write about, some of those experiences are too profound to put into words quite yet. I need time to savor and digest. Being home was way too short. I didn’t have time to hurt when I left and that’s never a good thing. Being with mom was too short. I heard stories about her life that stun me, humble me, make me proud to be her daughter. I went to my first Memorial Day parade and cried tears of shame. Someone at my side, a Vietnam vet in a wheelchair muttered, “we are not a nation unless we are a nation at war” when a man shook his hand and welcomed him home.
I have so much to ponder, so much to be silent about. I think it’s enough just to say I am here. Welcome home.

Dear you

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I know the run today was hard. Only 4 miles and it hurt like hell. Hang in there. Seriously, there are a hundred hooks to hang your blame on – it was too hot, allergies were kicking your butt, too many cars backing out of driveways without looking, too many busy intersections to cross, you never got your breathing settled, and all you could really think about was the humility of going up an underwear size…I know, I know. Let it pass. The important thing is you got out there. You gave it your best and your best is all you’ve ever got, right? Am I right?

Think of it this way. You inhaled lilacs on the bridge; you saw angels in the yard; Christmas is everlasting at house #57; you avoided the dog crap at the maples; that guy finally had his Lab on a leash; instinct told you to stay away from the man with the motorcycle on the bike path; you didn’t smile at unknown kayakers and, and, and you ran 4 miles.
Enough said.

Almost Over

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I love this time of year. Winter’s chill is nearly off the bone and spring’s sweet breath lies in the fragrance of flowers. It’s warm enough to walk at dusk. I wonder at the wisteria hanging gracefully from neighbor’s vines, but it’s really the lilacs I am after. I stalk their scent like an addicted lover. I’m not brave enough to steal, though. May is almost over and so are the lilacs. Like melting ice cream they cannot stay forever. As May winds down so do their blooms. Melting, melting like ice cream.

I’ve decided I can and will make it to Monhegan this weekend. Mother says the lilacs on the island are behind, barely buds. Like a migratory bird I need to fly home. Maybe the lilacs will welcome me. Maybe I’ll welcome myself. I’ll pack books, knitting, running shoes and a journal. Early in the morning I’ll read a chapter or two or three. Maybe I’ll go to the Cove and read by drying tidepools and squawking gulls, smell the salty air, pause for seashells and glass. Early in the afternoon I’ll run over rocks, roots and ruts. Maybe I’l’l head to Cathedral and say a little prayer for strong legs, a good heart and clear mind. The quiet of woods will be wonderful. At sunset I’ll write in my journal (thank you sweet P for my kitty journal!) – away from emails, blogs and spaces. Maybe I’ll write for real and send a postcard or two. By candlelight I’ll knit a few rows, purl a few more. Maybe I’ll finish the wrap for my mother. Maybe I’ll start another book. Maybe I’ll coax lilacs to bloom. Maybe I’ll watch sunsets in silence. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Here’s what I know. Lilacs don’t last forever. Neither does life. I have to enjoy it before it melts away.

Hang My Heart

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Spent some time in West Cornwall, CT this weekend. If you are keeping track, yes, I’m quite the jet setter – it was Becket on Friday. Call me crazy!
It’s amazing how the heart works. I’m talking about the spiritually one that can be broken and mended, cut up and cured. When I first got to West [not England] Cornwall I was new girl at new school nervous. More than once I questioned me, myself and I… ‘what am I doing here?’ I stuck out even though I was not wearing a dress this time. I should have been carrying a paddle…or something. I felt quite homeless and pictured holding a picture asking, “have you seen this man?” It was this man who had me tied tongue and silent. I didn’t ask. Didn’t know what to expect. It’s one thing to say you care, it’s one thing to have the label “friend”, but it’s quite another to have to prove it. I placed my bets on #34 and turned away, horribly right and missing out. I missed the water but got the prize.
When I finally found him talk was like frozen water. Time was the sunshine I needed. Seven hours and seven conversations later words were like rapids. I drove away with an ache. I missed my friend; the 21-years-later-and-I-can-still-find-a-laugh friend.

I feel like the button that has fallen off and found again. Resewn on, but not quite fitting the way it or I used to. True, talk came easier and easier until I felt almost well-worn and close to comfortable. Then time ran out. I wish you were closer. I wish words were cheap(er). I honestly believe tongue biting is for the boring. Say what you want, whenever you want. Tell me more. In this life we are always talking someone down from the ledge or off the bridge. It’s better than not talking at all.

Two Sides of Guilty as Hell

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I told my husband I would blog about this. There is no way that I can’t. The irony struck me in the face last night and I’m still reeling from the assault. I should start from the beginning only I can’t. I won’t. Out of loyalty, out of respect I won’t fuel the fire more than it already has been. BUT just so that I’m not another babbling idiot I will say this – my husband is dealing with more crap than he deserves. Someone in his circle of life has been accused of a crime (well, a few) and there is no way this person is innocent. Not 100%. No way in Hell. Anyway you look at the situation this guy is at fault in some way. Whether it’s 5% guilty or 100% it still spells Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. All the way in trouble and it troubles me. It’s a classic case of he said, she said, she said he did. No way to really sort it out. No way to walk away. Can’t deny, can’t ignore. Especially for kisa. He didn’t ask for this, but there it is.

So that’s one side of guilty – here’s the other. My husband received a letter from the DMV – no wait, RMV…No, I think I had it right the first time – DMV. Anyway, the Registry, Division, Department, the something of Motor Vehicles. I immediately assumed it was a registration renewal or something mundane, something ho hum. Disinterested, I turned back to shaking worcestershire sauce and montreal seasoning on the burgers…until I heard him swearing and muttering “‘not again.” Turns out the state of California thinks my husband travels across the country to treat their roadways as his own private German autobahn…and then drives home again…to New England. The RMV/DMV is revoking his license at the end of the month because someone with his same name and birthday drives like an idiot somewhere on the west coast. There are three driving offenses listed in the letter and kisa was obviously at work for every single one. There is no way he is guilty of anything mentioned in the letter. Nevertheless, here’s the kicker – he has to take time away from his already fukced up life to take care of the situation…again. Yes, this has happened before – before I met him. Kisa’s betting it’s the same wackjob who doesn’t know how to operate a moving vehicle. What are the chances?

So. Last night as I was brushing my teeth I was thinking about guilt – the obvious kind and the obviously not. Kisa operates on the fine line of There Is No Way This Is Happening To Me. Yet it is. Two sides of guilty. Drive carefully.

Where I Started

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I am sick, sick, sick of the mother question. I’m beginning to hate Mother’s Day just because it somehow gives people license to ask me that mother of all questions, “when are you having a baby?” What’s with the when and why are you asking me? Why on Mother’s Day? If it’s not in the form of a question it’s a statement, “well, when you have kids…” Like it’s a given that experience is definitely going to happen. To Me. I think the parenting question should be right up there with sex, politics and religion. Personally, if I don’t offer the information that should mean I don’t want to talk about it. In simpler terms it’s none of your business.
When faced with the When question I think of all the responses I could give. To say we’re not ready implies something shameful. Like we haven’t grown up enough to hurl ourselves into the act raising a child. Like we haven’t prepared enough and will fail the big parenting exam. We’ve been goofing off in the back row of life.
To say we can’t afford children indicates a poverty level beyond the bank account. We’re bankrupt in love for children and can only think (selfishly) of ourselves. We’re not willing to give up, to sacrifice, the luxuries of travel and concerts and good food for the sake of having a junior to call our own. At least that’s the perception if we say kids are expensive.
To say I’m afraid of the pain only results in smirks and looks of IfIDidItWhyCan’tYou? Can’t even go there with mothers who endured labor for endless hours without meds. It’s not enough to shrug and say, “I’m not you.” Shame on me.
To say we’re afraid of being bad parents implies we didn’t like our own upbringing; that somehow we’re afraid we’ll turn out just like “them” or worse yet, we’ve insulted our elders. The question that inevitably follows is, “what’s wrong with the way you were raised?” Don’t get me started.
There’s only one Shut-Them-Up answer out there. We can’t have kids. Period. I mean, how does one respond to a woman who point blank says “I’m infertile. Thanks for asking…”? The consequence of such a statement is the danger of coming across as damaged goods, a female with faulty wiring. A royal fukc up in another life. “Do not confront me with my failures…I have not forgotten them” ~ Jackson Brown.

Better not mention adoption unless you want your head bitten off.

Mark Your Calendars

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CloserI think I’ve said it before. I don’t set my vcr, time my Tivo, or race home to watch many shows as they air. In the past it was Northern Exposure and Home Front. I can still watch old episodes of NE. Quirky and classic, I loved every one. Home Front…well, it won a People’s Choice award but promptly went off the air. That should tell you something.

With the advent of only watching Tivo’ed programing I have to admit sports, news and weather are the only things I want to watch live-as-it-happens. As for all the rest, why sit through commercials when you can fast forward through most of them? I say most because I still love the car commercial about the tiny legs and big head and the sleep-aid commercial with the meth-making astronaut. We are becoming a segmented society – downloading one or two songs instead of buying the whole album, reading an article instead of subscribing to the whole journal, weeding out what’s on television by DVR…

Having said all that, TNT’s The Closer is the only drama…(read: the only program period) worth watching “live”…when it actually airs. Tivo is strictly for watching it again. And again. Late night with friends. So, mark your calendars. Season III starts June 18th. And for cleaning out Season II from your Tivo directory…the DVD goes on sale May 29th.

The Great Training Lie

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I used to tell people I trained all by myself for the LLS half marathon. All alone. While it was true that I never made it to a training session (45 minutes away), I never met my coach, and I never ran with a group of like-minded individuals to say that I trained alone is a huge lie. It’s my all-time greatest training lie. So, here for the first time I would like to publicly thank the people who pulled me through 13.1 miles exactly one year ago today.

  • My mother. Her story of losing her mom to cancer (at MY age) broke my heart and built resolve in its place. I would not have even considered the venture if it hadn’t been for her. One of my favorite “mom” stories is not only did my mother research hotels with gyms so that I could train on the road, but she diligently tried out every exercise machine in said gym to keep me company while I ran for 90 minutes. One of my favorite mother-daughter conversations came out of that training session.
  • My sister. Race day she brought her whole family to NH stand in the pouring rain while I tackled the thirteen. She has friends who run more important, full marathons yet she made me feel like my run was a big deal to her. Running was that much easier knowing she was waiting at the finish line.
  • My husband. He got donations from coworkers to help with my fund raising efforts. He stuck to my diet better than I did. He stuck to my training schedule better than I did. He became my Miyagi after I got hurt, taping my knee before every run, coming with me to PT appointments, riding along side me when I ran, all the while asking, “how does the knee feel? Talk to me.”
  • Dr. John. Even though my knee was blown, he kept saying “We’ll get you through this.” My weekly sometimes twice weekly visits with him made me feel better about how I was taking care of the patella “issue” (because as John says life is one big issue).
  • Sarah. Her endless enthusiasm for my endeavor was infectious. She remained supportive even after I showed signs of giving up. Her attitude kept me positive every literal step of the way.
  • Gregory. I asked a bunch of people for music advice. I needed driving beats that would carry me through the harder miles (okay, the hills). Greg was the only one to come through. It the end, it was his drumming I heard the loudest and loved the best.
  • Bessie & my dad. Their ghosts were the angels that sat on my shoulder, whispered to me in lucid dreams and fueled my waking imagination.
  • Ruth. Her pragmatic approach to my bellyaching was to say simply, “you can do this.” Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes, that’s all I needed.
  • Honorable mentions: Nick, Rebecca, Carolyn, George & Joanie. All of them picked up running because of me in some weird way. Rebecca and Carolyn went on to run in some pretty important races and Nick (the guy who hated running) could probably kick my butt in a distance race these days. I am proud those still running. You guys rock! My knee has crippled my ability but not my spirit and I run through your endeavors.

So, while I SAY I trained alone, really I didn’t. I had an army of support. I am proud of what I accomplished one year ago today and I have every person mentioned here to thank. Couldn’t have done it without you.

Missing You

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I can feel it. It’s starting again, that dull ache called homesick. Is there no cure? This isn’t my computer, but I know the feeling. I want to be there, too. Now. Memorial Day weekend is about remembering and usually I head home for a week to forget. Forget how to drive a car. Forget how to send an email. Send how to crunch reference statistics. Forget how to be corporate. Forget how to answer the phone. Forget petty squabbles and horn-honkers. It’s when I relearn how to run over roots and rocks. Retrain my eye to soak up sunsets and search for seaglass. Remember how to breathe in salt ladden air and sweet pine. Concentrate on cracking the lobster claw, clinking the wine glass.
Not this time. Not this trip. I am missing you just a little longer this year. Homesick for another month.

When You Win

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I spent three hours sitting in a round table discussion today only we were in a giant rectangle. I was the only academic in a sea of publics and yes, it felt weird. Three hours of WhatAmIDoingHere? and IsThisAWasteOfTime? I couldn’t decide. It was like sleeping with the enemy, or more politely, seeing how the other half lives. But, all the while I felt unproductive as excuse my language.

Maybe it was the three hours wasted. Maybe it was the extra 25 minute drive to work. Maybe sunlight just reached a darkened part of my brain. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, the light came on when I got to work and I came up with a solution to a dilemma from a few weeks ago. I don’t know made me think collaboration but suddenly, there it was in front of my face – the answer to the delivery problem. I had felt like a loser all day until suddenly I won.

NARAL

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NARAL Pro-Choice America came to me in a huge envelope with “priority documents” written all over it. Looking as official as can be they spelled my name wrong. Upon opening the oversized documents the first thing I read was, “No need for women to worry about making personal, private decisions about their bodies. Do YOU want men like these deciding for all women?” and below was a picture of George W. Bush and his cronies. Supposedly, he is caught in the act of signing into the law the first-ever Federal Abortion Ban. He has a smirk on his face.
On the back of the envelope is a fake handwritten note asking me to please help protect reproductive freedom by signing the enclosed petition. I hate that fake, crayon-scrawled, made-to-look-like-my-friend, personal propaganda. They further irritated me by circling my donation bracket, as if I couldn’t decide the dollar amount for myself and could possibly make the wrong choice. Any money I chose to donate should be good enough, but no – they have to tell me what they want me to give. That set the tone for me to ignore the three pre-written petitions to Kennedy, Kerry & Neal on behalf on NARAL. I couldn’t even bear to read the four page “letter” from Nancy Keenan on the matter. NARAL tried to appeal to my sense of womanhood yet they failed to appeal to my sense of intellect. I couldn’t even figure out from the literature I received what NARAL stands for. Going to the website wasn’t that much clearer.

For more information visit NARAL here.

Together

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I’ve been thinking about relationships as of late. I think it’s because in knitting class we talked about what it means to be married and widowed at the same time. Married for life even through one half’s death. My swan of a mother is still that way, married for life despite walking through it alone.
When kisa and I took a walk today we discussed what exactly was a liveable life. We were talking about careers and work that could take us away from each other for long periods of time. I was firm in my belief that I didn’t get married to be alone. Kisa is my glass half full, my sunshine on a cloudy day, my resuscitator when I want to flat-line, my better half. I couldn’t untangle my heart from his if I tried.
A friend of mine got engaged over the weekend. I’m excited for her. (Can’t wait to see the ring!!!) After hanging up the phone Kisa and I had fun remembering our first years together – the interesting “date” at the bar, moving in together (what is this stuff???), getting engaged (one of my all time embarrassing moments), getting married…all of it including the mistakes we made, all the fun we had finding our way together. Despite all that I still think now is the happiest time of our lives.
I wish my friend well. This is only the beginning. As they say, the best is yet to come.