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Rally

In the center of our downtown area, there is a rotary.  The island in the middle showcases a Vietnam War memorial and beautiful landscaping, as well as crosswalks that help usher pedestrians across this busy intersection. 

Community groups often gather in this space, holding signs to promote their favored cause or candidate, and no permit is required to do so.  

Yesterday was my first event in the rotary.  I am a member of a Pride Allies group in town, and we organized and LGBTQ+ Pride Rally, inviting members of the community to gather in support.  I packed up my collection of Pride Flags, a bulk-sized box of skittles, and a cooler full of water.  We had rainbow stickers and markers and poster board for anyone who didn’t bring a sign. We were ready.  

*****

A slightly awkward preteen boy pulled up on his bicycle.  I greeted him, asking if he was part of the local middle school GSA.  “No.  I go to a different school.  I was just going to the store and I saw you here, so I decided to come back for a while.”  He stayed for three hours.  

*****

A little old lady, wearing wrap-around sunglasses and struggling to see over her steering wheel, smiled at us and waved as she puttered around the circle at about 7 miles per hour.  

*****

A large man in a mid-sized sedan drove through a little too fast.  He saw my sons standing with their signs and their flags, leaned halfway out his window, and bellowed, “FAGGOTS” before he flipped them off.  

 *****

A bald man in a grocery delivery truck shouted, “Happy Pride! Keep it up!” and send out two short blasts of his truck’s startling horn. 

*****

A twenty-something woman with spiky pink hair leaned a bit out her window and shouted, “GO QUEERS!” while pumping her fist and honking her horn. 

*****

A family of four drove by with their windows down.  A preschooler in her car seat shouted, “Happy Pride!” out the window.  The rest of the family was silent.  

*****

A middle-aged woman in a white SUV drove almost all the way through the rotary before shouting, “I LOVE MY WHITE HUSBAND” and speeding away.  

*****

A woman in her fifties, driving a Subaru with a co-exist bumper sticker, shouted “Thank you!” as she drove past.  

*****

A bald man in a pickup with an NRA logo in the window smiled and gave us a thumbs-up. 

*****

On more than one occasion, we were pleasantly surprised.  Our own stereotypes were shattered by the tradesman and truckers who threw us a thumbs-up or blared their horns.  

*****

There is research that tells us that simply having a GSA (formerly ‘gay-straight alliance’, now updated to mean ‘gender-sexuality alliance’) in a middle or high school reduces suicide rates.  That’s even if students don’t ATTEND the GSA.  Having it in place and visible speaks to the culture of the building.  It lets students who often feel ostracized and alone know that they do have support. 

If that’s true in a school, imagine how much MORE powerful it is in our communities.  

I won’t lie; the negative responses stuck like barbs.  They pissed me off.  But the honks and waves and cheers of support outnumbered the negatives by a hundred to one. 

A whole group of kids left that rally feeling a little more seen and a whole lot more supported.  They had a chance to hear the nasty comments and then build their resilience with the backing of a hundred honks and cheers.  

I’m going to call that a good day.  

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Home

There is a stretch of I84 in New York, just before you hit the Taconic Parkway.  At first, you catch a glimpse of the mountains through the trees on your right.  Every time I pass that place, my heart skips a beat.  I know what’s coming.  

A few moments later, you round a slight left turn at the crest of the hill and the whole of the Hudson Valley spreads out in front of you.  You can’t see the river just yet, but you see the hills and mountains in the distance, and my heart whispers home every time I see it. 

I never thought much about the landscape of where I grew up.  It was background to the more important things.  The piano lessons and soccer games and bonfires.  The boyfriends and pool parties and teenage drama. 

But now it speaks to my soul.  I feel the ache in my chest.  I love it and I hate it, too. 

*****

My parents split up for a few months when I was in first or second grade.  At the time they had two kids.  Maybe it seemed like easy math. They each took one.  

I was the obvious choice to stay with my mom.  After all, Frank wasn’t even my Dad.  Well, he wasn’t my biological father, anyway.  I didn’t BELONG with him. 

And Dad took my little sister, Justine.  They moved two hours away to stay with my Aunt outside of Albany.  

I tell you this because, during their eventual divorce some 15 years later, we split up the same way.  Like our bodies remembered where we BELONGED.  

Justine belongs to Dad.  And I belong to Mom.  It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.  

*****

There is muscle memory that kicks in as I drive the route to my childhood home.  I notice the things that are the same.  I note the countless ways that things have changed.  I remember my elementary school bus stops as I drive past.  Marlena lived there.  Missy lived there.  That was Chris’ grandparent’s house.  I wonder who has moved on and who is still here.  

I pull into the driveway.  I know to park on the grass.  Dad’s pet peeve has always been people who don’t know how to park.  We had a double-wide driveway and I could see the steam coming out of his ears when my teenage friends parked smack dab in the middle of it, so nobody else could get by. 

The house is a different color now.  The fence is gone.  The pool has been replaced by a hot tub.  They’re lovely changes.  But they still strike me.  There’s a dissonance.  This place is home.  This place is foreign. 

*****

When I graduated from High School, my parents threw a massive party.  I think there were a hundred people in our backyard.  My friends were playing chicken in the pool.  My family sat around in folding chairs, eating homemade meatballs and talking about how fast the children grow.  Dad started a bonfire in the barrel out back, and my friends and I cheered as we threw in our notebooks and binders to be devoured by the flames.  All of Dad’s family came, pinching my cheeks and handing me envelopes and congratulating me as if I were one of their own.  

*****

I wander into the backyard with my cooler and my bags and my gifts.  I’m greeted with hugs and “Let me carry that” and “How was the ride?”  It is lovely.  I head upstairs to the bathroom.  Most everything about the house has changed, but the bones haven’t.  It’s weird how the eight steps to the second floor remain the same but feel so different under my feet.  The stairs feel smaller and the bathroom feels larger and I look at the tub and wonder how my sister and I ever fit in there together.  

*****

One time, when we were small, my mom found a booger on the bathroom wall.  Yeah.  You read that right.  Someone was in the bathtub and picked a boogie and just… wiped it there.  

Mom was grossed out.  She yelled at my little sister.  It MUST have been her.  I was too old and too smart and too clean to do something that gross.  I stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in my towel. I listened to my mom yell and I watched my little sister’s eyes go wide as she insisted, “It wasn’t me!”  

It took me far too long.  My mom was still yelling.  I didn’t want to get involved.  But then I saw the tears welling in my sister’s eyes. 

“It was me, Mom.”  

“What? It was YOU?” she was shocked.  Indignant.  I braced myself for the tirade.  She took a deep breath.  She looked at my sister.  She looked at me.  Back at my sister.  I can’t remember if she apologized.  I do know that she looked at me, still seething a little, and said, “Thank you for telling me.  Thank you for being honest.  Now go clean it up.”  

She never yelled at me. 

*****

Today is my sister’s baby shower.  I brought some appetizers and a salad.  I worked for hours yesterday threading tomatoes and olives and cheese and salami on skewers.  They were pretty and I was proud.  

I made sure that everything was prepped in my cooler so I wouldn’t take up too much space in the kitchen. I prefer to stay out of the way, to stay in the background.  I’m unsure of my footing and I don’t want to stumble in front of everyone.  My sister set out my fancy antipasto appetizer kebabs on my new serving tray while I placed the curved shrimp along the edge of a fancy glass dish.  We worked side by side at the dining room table. 

*****

My mom had been dreaming of that table for years.  When it finally appeared in our dining room, her face lit up as if she had finally ARRIVED.  It wasn’t a hand-me down.  It wasn’t disposable particleboard furniture.  It was a solid, oak dining set, with leaves and a chair to match.  It seats 12 with lots of room and maybe 16 when we squished.  She was so proud to host holidays at that table.  For the first few years, she covered it with a clear, plastic tablecloth, so we could protect the surface but still see the beautiful wood finish.  She loved that stupid table.  He got it in the divorce. 

*****

We sit and chat, the women talking motherhood around one table, the men talking sports around another.  The kids play on the swingset and run around the yard.  My sister is glowing.  She’s beautiful and nervous and gorgeous, in that way that only very pregnant women can be.  She doesn’t realize yet what a miracle she is because she’s a first time mom and she only feels bloated and sweaty.  But I know better now.  I’m in awe of her.  

The weather is beautiful.  I packed sunscreen but I don’t need it because we sit in the shade of an oak tree that covers half of the yard now.  The kids climb that tree and sit on the lowest branches, swinging their legs and eating snacks.  

*****

We planted that tree together.  I don’t remember who was there, and I’m not sure how old I was.  But I know that the tree was small enough (and I was small enough) that I could sit on my Dad’s shoulders and reach the top of it.  When we put it in the ground, we imagined the day that it would be big enough for our children to climb in the branches.  

*****

The afternoon is lovely.  The food is delicious, and the conversation flows easily.  Stories get told and repeated.  I’m listening to one about my aunt.  Elizabeth pipes in.  “Is this the hair dye story?”  She smiles and laughs.  “We’ve heard that one before.”  I haven’t.  I laugh anyway, as if I’m in on the joke. 

Elizabeth opens her gifts, and we all ooh and aah over tiny baby clothes and blankets.  It is a celebration.  A joyful one. 

I overhear snippets of a conversation.  Someone says that Dad must be excited for his first grandson, after all these girls.  I have four boys.  I don’t speak up, and I feel as if I’m betraying my children.  I feel as if I have been betrayed.  I smile anyway. 

*****

Growing up, my dad washed the dinner dishes, and I dried.  I’m not sure how that came to be the rule. It was a sort of unspoken agreement.  The little kids cleared the table and swept the floor.  They finished pretty quickly, and then it was just me and my Dad.  Doing the dishes.  Sometimes we talked.  Mostly we didn’t.  We just worked there, side by side, every night.  We were a good team.  I remember the day that I noticed that I wasn’t looking up to him anymore.  We were eye to eye.  It felt like a milestone.  

*****

As we clean up, I end up drying dishes next to my Dad.  Right back in my old spot.  I say something.  “Wow.  We haven’t done this in a while.”  He smiled and nodded.  “I was just thinking the same thing.”  And mostly, we keep working in silence.  It is a weird, ordinary, beautiful moment.  

My dad pulls out cardboard takeout containers and insists that I pack up some leftovers.  He knows how teenage boys eat, and this is good stuff.  Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Dad has two concrete ways of loving.  He will fix your stuff and he will feed you.  For two decades, I’ve been too far away for him to love me in the ways he knows best.  We’re only just starting to figure out alternatives.  But for today, I am happy to accept his love and his penne a la vodka. 

*****

The baby shower is wrapping up.  A few people have already left.  Normally, as the sister of the guest of honor, I’d stay until the bitter end, cleaning up and making small talk.  But because I’m home so infrequently, I decide to bow out a little on the early side.  I have something important to do. 

I leave the baby shower and head toward Sarah’s mom’s house.  I haven’t been there in 20 years.  I asked for the address, but later realized that I didn’t need it.  My body remembered the way.  

*****

It was July of 2020.  A friend from high school text-shared an article from my hometown newspaper.  At first I was confused.  It was about a house fire.  Heartbreaking.  Tragic.  The daughter survived, but a little boy and his dad lost their lives.  I didn’t make the connection.  I didn’t recognize the last name.  I texted a question mark.  She replied, “That’s Sarah’s family.  Sarah’s ex.  Sarah’s son.”  I couldn’t catch my breath.  I couldn’t see through the tears.  

I didn’t know if they’d let us in to the funeral.  COVID and all.  The rules were unfamiliar.   Family only.  Masks.  Six feet apart.  I drove there anyway.  I’d stand outside if we weren’t allowed in.  I just needed to be there.  I didn’t know what else to do. 

 *****

In our friend group, Sarah was the solid one.  She was strong and spirited; just a little more mature, just a little more aware than the rest of us.  She had a wild streak, but I never saw her lose control.  She had an easy smile and an infectious laugh.  So, in eighth grade, when she asked me if I wanted to skip gym class and walk to the high school with her, I jumped on the chance.  The high schoolers had a half-day and she had a chance to kiss her boyfriend before he got on his bus. We thought it was a quick walk, in that way of children who can’t accurately estimate time and distance.  Surely, we’d be back before lunch.  We had old-school Swatch watches, and as we began to realize the walk was longer than we thought, we picked up the pace.  We ran, full-tilt, through the nearby backyards.  One old lady shouted at us from her porch, baffled.  We arrived, out of breath, and just in time.  I hid beneath the bleachers while she found the guy and kissed him goodbye.  But he was just a side note to this story.  I don’t even remember his name.    

When we finally made it back to the middle school, three class periods later, we were sure we’d be caught.  We braced for the punishment.  But miraculously, we arrived between classes.  We snuck in through the gym door.  Nobody ever knew we were gone.  The first time we told that story, we were 13.  Through the decades that followed, we retold it countless times, always to an audience who found it far less amusing than we did.  That memory brought us belly laughs well into our adulthood.   

 *****

Of course, the funeral was heartbreaking.  I sat there, unable to hold back the tears for a child I barely knew. I cried for that spirited, optimistic, thirteen year old girl; the one I could still see so vividly running through strangers’ backyards; the one who could never have known that her path would be interrupted by such a tragic turn.  I watched her and I continued to be in awe of her.  She was still standing.  She was still full of grace and gratitude, with grief settling in to the empty spaces.  I realized that when people say they couldn’t go on without their kids, they’re full of hubris and ignorance.  Of course you think you can’t.  But you do.  It is your only option.  My friend stood there, supporting her daughter and holding on to her family and mourning her loss in the arms of the people who love her.  Is it heartless to say it was beautiful?

*****

Maybe my body remembered the way to the house, but my brain blocked out the route.  I forgot that I would drive right by.  Right by the spot where we stood, nearly two years ago, staring at the charred remains of a house, placing down flowers and saying futile prayers. Crying in each others’ arms.  

My breath hitched as I took the turn.  I couldn’t hold back the tears.  It’s not even my tragedy.  It’s not my pain.  And still, I hope that by holding it a little, I can lighten it for her.  

*****

I pull in right behind her; she waves a polite wave, as you do in this part of the world.  I’m halfway down the driveway before she realizes it is me.  Her eyes light up, and that familiar, infectious smile spreads across her face. “What are you DOING here?” she asks. 

“Surprise?” I say, a little meekly, because I’m not sure this is my place and I have shown up anyway.  “Kate said she was coming to meet the baby.  I hope you don’t mind that I crashed.”  She wraps me in a hug and I am humbled and honored to be part of this moment with her. 

In the two years since I last witnessed her grief and grace, she has become even more beautiful.  Her baby is only two weeks old, and she has the glow of a new mom.  But there is something more.  There is a calm, a peace, a gratitude… she exudes something that I can’t quite explain.  Her pain has given her a depth that I can only admire, because I don’t have the words to describe it.  

*****

Of course, the baby is beautiful.  Her older daughter plays the piano and presses me for embarrassing stories about her mom in middle school.   I politely decline.  There are laughs and baby cries and exasperated teenaged eye-rolls and it is all so incredibly, mundanely beautiful.  

*****

As I climb back into the driver’s seat, I check my phone to see how long my return trip will take.  The service that far out in the country is unreliable. When Google asks for my destination, I push the button for ‘home.’  After a long wait, my phone declares, “Can’t find a way there.”  

How appropriate.  

***** 

Visiting my childhood home is hard.  I don’t know if it’s hard like this for everyone.  It’s not bad.  It’s just exhausting.  It brings up so many memories, so many feelings, so many long-forgotten moments. 

It’s a three-hour drive home, and I need it.  I need the time to think and process and unwind and regroup.  

Maybe I don’t have a horrible memory, like I’ve always told myself.  Maybe I’ve just spent most of my adult life away from the people and things that will spark recollection.  

What is it about this place?  Home.  Can I still call it that?  It rips my heart out and then, in an instant, fills it with joy.  This place is beautiful.  It is brutal.  Brutiful, as Glennon Doyle would say.  

But maybe I’m thinking about it all wrong.  Maybe it isn’t this place.  Maybe it isn’t the ‘going home’ that is brutiful.  

I think… maybe it is just LIFE that is brutiful.  

Beautiful things happen.  Horrible things happen.  And we continue to put one foot in front of the other.  We visit friends and go to work and hug our kids and celebrate all of the joys that we can. 

Fully living means showing up for the hard things and the easy things and all the things in between.  It is beautiful.  It is brutal.  

And I am grateful for it. 

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What Else?

Yesterday, I had one of those days when I ran around until I crashed.  You know those days?  When you have so much to do, you don’t think you’ll ever get it done?  You finish one thing and ask, “What else is there to do?”

I took a personal day yesterday, and I still woke up at 6am.  By 8, I had emailed my sub plans, completed two projects for church, and showered.  By 10, I had gotten an oil change and picked up groceries.  By noon, I had been to the dump and the post office and the carwash.  My sister’s baby shower is today.  I made the appetizers, cleaned out the cooler, and wrapped the gifts.  I dropped off the bibles at church for our event on Sunday.  I picked up Lee from a friend’s house and stopped by Home Goods to buy a cute little tray for the shrimp.  I finished crocheting my nephew’s baby blanket. 

My husband gets irritated when I rattle off my to-do list to him.  But I when I’m looking at a day like that, I need to walk it through.  I need to think ahead so I’m not driving in circles or wasting time. I need to have a ‘to-do’ list and a shopping list and a plan.  

And sometimes, that’s not even enough.  On my way home from the grocery store yesterday, I was literally giving myself a pep talk.  Out loud.  In the car.  

“It’s gonna be okay.”  “Breathe.”  “Most of this stuff doesn’t even NEED to get done.”  “It’s okay if you don’t get to it all.”  “This is your DAY OFF. Try to enjoy it at least a little.”  

*****

It used to be that ALL of my days felt like that.  Rushing home from work to pick up the kids at daycare.  Dinners, baths, homework, playdates, sports… when the kids were small, I had to actively participate in all of those things.  Now, they make their own plans.  They sometimes need me to drive, but they also walk and ride their bikes and grab a ride with a friend.  They can feed themselves and bathe themselves and wash their own clothes.  It’s a brave new world.  For sure, they need reminders, but my days aren’t as full as they used to be. 

But when those busy days do come, they take me back a couple of years to that constant frenetic pace.  It’s weirdly nostalgic to feel that frantic.  That probably sounds crazy.  It wasn’t that long ago.  I miss it and I don’t. I miss holding their little hands in Target.  I squeeze twice.  They squeeze twice. Two long squeezes.  One short squeeze.  Repeat. They don’t hold my hand in public anymore.  But a few nights ago, we were on the couch.  The kids got me to watch Stranger Things.  And Lee was feeling cuddly.  He flopped across the couch, with his head in my lap and his hand near mine.  I grabbed it and squeezed twice.  He squeezed back. Twice. 

*****

After I put the groceries away, I made myself a cup of coffee and an omelet.  I sat at the dining room table with a napkin and savored the food and the silence at the same time.  A moment of calm.  

When the rain stopped, I pulled the potting soil and my new clay pots onto the porch.  I sat in the sun and repotted my plants, feeling the warmth on my face and the soil on my hands.  A moment of bliss.  

While I assembled the appetizers, I listened to an episode of my favorite podcast and cried over the lives lost in Uvalde. I raged and I mourned.  I said a prayer and I made a donation.  A moment of healing. 

At Home Goods, I rushed in, picked out a tray, and headed for the register.  Lee grabbed my arm.  “Seriously, mom?  Are you okay? I usually have to drag you out of here. What’s the rush? Can we look around?” He was right. I took a deep breath.  We browsed, checking out pet beds and artwork and fancy serving dishes.  We played our usual game, grabbing the ugliest items and proclaiming, “I found it. This is the one you want. I know it!” Giggles and eye rolls.  A moment of connection.  

*****

My life is still so incredibly, beautifully full. The days are busy and the years are flying by.   And here I am, collecting moments. 

What else is there to do? 

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School Shooting

As I parked my car in the school parking lot, a police cruiser pulled in behind me.  We parked and walked in together, making small talk, but avoiding the discussion of why he was in our building today. 

 I walked up to the door, using my keycard to buzz us both in.  I walked him to the office (as protocol dictates), and found the principal and assistant principal there, making small talk with a second officer.  Everyone was smiling and pleasant, trying to pretend it was just another day. 

This morning, I had an email from the Superintendent.  And another from our director of Social Emotional Learning.  But, sadly, the contents were familiar, because we’ve been here before. 

*****

Here’s what we need to do today.  

Reassure students that schools are safe places.  (Are they?)

Talk to students in a developmentally appropriate way.  (When does mass murder become a developmentally appropriate topic?)

Be mindful of your own feelings about school violence.  (Translated as: Don’t cry.  Don’t panic.  Don’t let them know you’re scared, too.)

Empower students to take action. See something, Say something.  (Why can’t the adults take action, so the students don’t have to?)

*****

It’s not just another day, but we all go on as if it is.  Truthfully, most of our students are blissfully unaware.  They spent their evenings playing Fortnite, not watching CNN.  But there are a few who are reeling.  Who are scared.  Who feel vulnerable. 

And when you make eye contact with another adult in the hallway, there is a brief flicker.  We’re not okay.  We’re pretending, and maybe we can convince the kids, but we can’t convince each other.  

*****

We speculate on our lunch breaks.  And we imagine.  What if it were us?  How would it have looked here?  Are our protocols enough?  What would we have done? 

Would we recognize a kid as not being a student?  Would we stop him? Could we stop him?  What would we use to break the window and climb out? 

*****

The kids thought we would do an active shooter drill today.  I promised them we wouldn’t.  It would be too traumatic.  Too insensitive.  Too close to reality.  

But what if I’m wrong?  Or what if something does happen?  Have I told them too much? Am I being too reassuring? 

What’s the balance?  Is there a balance?  Damn it.  

*****

More silent speculation on my prep period.  Have we had students capable of this?  Did we see it?  Did we help them enough?  Did we make it worse? Who might have fallen through the cracks?  Who might be a target?  It’s so much easier to see red flags in hindsight. 

I flip through social media on my break.  Already the posts have become polarized.  Gun control.  More mental health supports.  Police in schools.  

And I can’t argue about it because I feel like screaming.  SOMETHING.  TRY SOMETHING.  And then if it doesn’t work, TRY SOMETHING ELSE.  But stop talking.  Stop posting.  Stop bickering and DO SOMETHING.  

The teachers have done all we can.  We have ID badges and keys and checkpoints and cameras and intercoms to ensure that we know who is in the building.  We have social emotional curriculum and bullying protocols and zero tolerance policies.  We have close connections with community resources so we can refer families for help.  We run active shooter drills.  We practice barricading our doors, hiding, running away, throwing things at an intruder.  

Many of us would literally sacrifice our SELVES for the safety of your children.  

And our elected officials just keep sending thoughts and prayers.  

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Garth Brooks

It’s a little dreary outside, and we’re in for a heat wave today.  I’m sitting in my favorite corner spot on our new sectional, watching the birds through the picture window, sipping coffee, and listening to Garth Brooks’ most recent album.  

My birthday was in April, but I’m getting my gift today.  After 25 years of waiting, I’m finally going to see Garth in concert.  I’m little-kid-at-Christmas excited.  Foolishly excited.  

I bought not only one but TWO new shirts for the occasion.  They both read, “Blame it all on my roots,” because I’m THAT obsessed.  I bought two in case one didn’t fit right, but I’m glad I did because I’ll probably sweat right through the first one before we even get into the stadium.  

I mean, I would prefer it to be 70 degrees, but I’m not going to let a heat wave ruin my good time.  I’ve got a cooler full of water bottles and hard lemonades, and we’ll grab some sandwiches and chips from the local sub shop.  We’ll arrive early with our chairs and our cooler and our Garth playlist.  We’re doing this one right.  

*****

I’m seventeen years old; a newly licensed driver, relishing the freedom that comes with my own car.  I’m perched on the edge of the bed in my best friend’s room, letting her do my makeup.  Country radio is playing in the background, and when Garth comes on, the two of us grab hairbrush microphones and sing “Ain’t Going Down ‘till the Sun Comes Up” at the top of our lungs.  We’re jumping on the bed with the excitement of toddlers, gearing up for a bonfire in the woods.  

*****

I’m a freshman in college, with my fake ID in the back pocket of my low-rise jeans.  My tank top slips off my shoulder as my friends and I embrace and sing along to “Friends in Low Places” at the local bar.  We are young and foolish and full of possibility. 

******

I’m sixteen, in my tiny basement bedroom.  I’m just learning about betrayal, and my emotions are raw.  I’m proud of my new tape/CD player with detachable speakers, and I crank up the volume and play “The Thunder Rolls” on repeat, beating that iconic drum part with my concert band drumsticks on my twin mattress.  

*****

I’m fourteen years old, and mostly clueless about life.  But I’m full of teenage angst and optimism.  “The River” paints a picture of a life well-lived.  It feels like I’m learning a lesson from this song that I don’t fully understand yet.  But I sing along, dreaming of what the future might hold.   

*****

I’m eighteen years old, sitting with my bare feet on the dash of my boyfriend’s pickup truck. We’re sharing a gas station soda and a bag of gummy bears, singing along to “Wrapped Up In You.” I feel the warm wind blow through my hair and I can’t imagine a moment better than this one.

*****

I started dating my first boyfriend in 10th grade.  We were together for nearly three years, and when we broke up during my freshman year in college, “Unanswered Prayers” was the anthem that I used to heal my broken heart.  

*****

Sevens came out during my senior year in High School.  It was one of Garth’s less successful albums, but the heartbreak spoke to me.  The ballads were different than the honkey-tonk music he was famous for, but the track, “You Move Me,” did just that, and I couldn’t stop listening.  “In Another’s Eyes” was heartfelt and brutal and beautiful (and his first duet with Trisha).  To this day, I can sing every word on that album, because I listened to it on repeat for so long. 

*****

I’m a words girl. Lyrics speak to me.  In my teens and twenties, when I bought a new CD, I would slide the sleeve out of the plastic case and listen to the entire album, reading along with the printed words, to make sure I got the full impact of the song.  “Belleau Wood” was the last song on the Sevens album, and the first song that ever brought me to tears.  I played it for everyone I knew, moved by the idea that it was possible to find beauty in the tragedy of war.  

*****

As I started to understand that the world was full of injustice and tragedy, “We Shall Be Free” came out.  It was a social justice anthem that spoke to me before I even knew what social justice meant.  

***** 

I’ve always been attracted to guys with a wild side.  But I’ve mostly been a straight and narrow kind of girl.  “Cowboys and Angels” made me feel understood and seen, and I would blast it on my discman, precariously balanced on the passenger seat of my 1984 Mercury Marquis and plugged into my car speaker.  Every time I hit a pothole, I would have to start it over, and it didn’t even make me mad. 

*****

Garth Brooks wrote the soundtrack to my teens and early twenties.  His music helped me to figure out who I was and imagine who I wanted to be. 

Music.  It changes us.  It speaks to us.  It brings us back.  It helps us dream. 

Tonight, I’m going to drink some hard lemonades and eat potato chips on the tailgate of my husband’s truck.  I’m going to sweat my ass off and sing at the top of my lungs and pack into a stadium with thousands of other people.  I’m going to see Garth Brooks LIVE and make a new memory to add to the list.  

I can’t wait. 

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Lilacs

I love lilacs.  They remind me of my childhood.  In the space between the home where I grew up and my grandma’s house next door, there was a drainage ditch (which we thought was a river) with two lilac bushes nestled beside it.  In between those two bushes, there was a space just small enough that a little girl could sit there with her book and listen to the water trickle by and smell the sweetness of the flowers and disappear into a fictional world.  

When we bought our home, I was delighted to find a beautiful, mature lilac bush in the front corner of the yard.  I don’t hide under the flowers with my book anymore, but I like to cut them in spring and bring them inside… to my living room or my office or my bedroom.  The smell works like a time machine.  

Sometimes I think about that little girl.  Actually, I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.  My therapist likes to talk about her.  So does my mom.  And my sisters.  My stepdad brought her up recently.  

The thing is… I don’t have a lot of memories of her.  Is that weird?  I’ve always had a terrible memory.  My sisters tell me stories that don’t even ring a bell, insisting I was there.  My friends ask me about middle school dances and high school assignments and field trips that everyone else remembers.  I know I was there, but I don’t really recall. That’s not to say I don’t have ANY memories.  I do.  I even have a few pretty vivid ones.  But not a lot.  Not as many as I probably should. 

Is that a personality trait?  Is it biological?  Is it some sort of psychological defense mechanism? 

In a way, I think it’s a blessing.  I rarely hold a grudge, because half the time I can’t even remember what the argument was about.  I’m quick to forgive because I probably won’t remember what I was mad about in the first place.   

A few decades ago, my (then) new roommate and I were just getting to know each other.  We had exchanged a few stories about our childhoods.  Her biological father died when she was a baby.  And I said something along the lines of, “I didn’t really have anything BAD happen in my childhood.”  

Her jaw dropped.  “Are you serious?”  She was looking at me like I was insane.  But I was sincere.  And I was confused.  

“But…  all the divorces?” She asked.

“Yeah, but that’s just what it was.  It wasn’t traumatic.”

“And you practically raised your sisters, right?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And didn’t you say you were kidnapped twice?”

“Only by my parents.  That doesn’t really count.” 

“What about the custody battles?  And when your dad cut you off?  And the times when your mom had you lie for her?  And the cheating and the money stuff and… Jesus, Ame!  No trauma?  You can’t really believe that.” 

But I honestly did.  In a way, I still do.  Thank God for that friend… she’s been calling me out on my delusions for more than twenty years.  

And maybe all of that suppressed family drama (I still resist dubbing it ‘trauma’) is WHY I loved to curl up and escape into somebody else’s world.  I had so many hiding places.  I made a bed in the back of my closet where I could hide and read.  There was a fort in the woods near the house where I would curl up with a paperback.  There was a corner of the basement with a beanbag chair next to the toy box.  

Here’s one of those actual vivid memories.  I must’ve been about 11 or 12 years old.  In our house, we ALL cleaned up after dinner.  And sometimes, I would escape to the bathroom.  After all, you couldn’t get in trouble for having to poop, right? 

Wrong.  I must’ve really been engrossed one night.  I took too long in the bathroom.  My parents called me twice and both times, I snarkily replied, “I’m in the BATHROOM! Can’t a person POOP IN PEACE?” And then I kept reading my book on the toilet.  

Eventually my mom came up and shouted through the locked door.  “There is NO way you’re still using the bathroom.  You’ve got a book in there.”

“I do NOT, Mom.  God.  You’re such a pain.” 

And she stood outside the door, waiting for me to emerge so she could search the bathroom for my book and make a liar out of me.

Another time, she had found my book under the bathroom sink, so I knew that wasn’t a safe place to stash my contraband novel.  What she didn’t know is that I had gotten a lot more creative (and a little bit taller) since the last search mission.  

We had a cabinet over the back of the toilet.  It held towels and toilet paper and was pretty substantial.  The top of it didn’t quite reach the ceiling.  There was a crevice at the top, between the cabinet itself and the decorative piece at the front.  It was just big enough to stash a book, and just small enough to be nearly invisible.  

I finally emerged from the bathroom, and my book stayed safely in that crevice while my mother tore apart the contents of the cabinet.  She pulled out every towel and every roll of toilet paper.  She pulled out every styling tool and bottle of cleaner under the sink.  And she never did find that book.  

Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.  And if it’s any consolation, I’m now parenting my own teens and every snarky remark makes me more grateful for your patience. 

And when I think about that little girl… and that preteen one… and the older, teenage version, I have mostly fond memories.  I love the idea that every version of me is still THERE, within me.  I think I got that idea from Ann Lamont, somewhere along the line, and I think it’s beautiful.  

My love of reading has been inside me forever.  My tendency for caretaking has never left me.  My desire for peace, for connection, for spirituality have been threads that run through my six year-old self, my 12 year-old self, my 26 year-old self, and this current, 42 year-old version of me.   

And those lilacs?  They speak to each one.  

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Mother’s Day Weekend

I’ve been a ball of nerves for two days.  It’s been hard to pinpoint one reason why, because the reasons wouldn’t stop swirling around my head long enough for me to pin them down. 

I think a lot of it was related to my ‘to-do’ list, so I started knocking things off, one by one.  Prepare a children’s message for church.  Fill out the spreadsheet for work.  Write that IEP.  Pay that bill.  Buy the snacks for that event.  Send that email.  Wash those dishes.  

As I get closer to the bottom of that list, the anxiety dissipates a little.  But I’m still a little off-kilter.  In that way that feels like I’m forgetting something. 

I think it happens when my compartmentalizing fails.  

When I left my classroom on Friday afternoon, I knew that I still had some work to do.  I was concerned about two big meetings coming up on Monday.  I still had a little prep to do for that.  And I hadn’t QUITE finished my lesson plans for next week.  There was also some prep to do for MCAS testing, which starts on Wednesday.  But I left my classroom anyway, trying to map out a schedule for how to get it all done.  I still squeezed in a few drinks with some colleagues and a movie with my family.  I knew there was a lot to do, but I didn’t want to give up the things that make me feel whole.  

This weekend, I also had a lot of church stuff going on.  And the church stuff is, quite literally, my second job.  I’m in charge of our Sunday School and Faith Formation, which also means some coordination of special events.  We hosted an event on Saturday, which required some prep and planning.  It was fun, and it went off without a hitch.  PLUS I got most of the work for Monday taken care of, so I was stressed but productive.  And then we had a fun, social event and I had some time to connect with friends and church members who bring me joy. 

This morning, I was in charge of the children’s message and a Sunday school lesson for church, which takes me more time than it probably should.  Yesterday, I had gathered some ideas, but this morning I got up early to work out the details and the kinks.  Mission accomplished. 

But the weekend isn’t over, because it’s also Mother’s Day.  So I’m hosting my husband’s family at my house this evening.  Jack and the kids are doing most of the work, but they still need a little supervision and direction.  I sliced the strawberries and prepped the potatoes and cleaned the upstairs bathroom.  And then I poured myself a glass of wine and headed up to my office.  

And here we are.  I’m writing instead of reviewing the MCAS accommodations one more time.  I’m sipping wine instead of sweeping the floor.  I’m resting instead of checking my work email.  

When I have to focus on all of the things in the short span of a weekend; the family stuff and the work stuff and the church stuff, the busy-ness takes over.  The doing takes over and I forget that it’s okay to just be, well… be-ing.  A human being instead of a human doing. 

But this weekend was good.  I feel like I tried to add balance.  I did some being.  I spent some time with family and friends.  I spent some time in prayer.  I spent some time writing.  I spent some time connecting.  

And now it’s time to spend some time relaxing.  Because, after all, it IS Mother’s Day.  The rest of it can wait.  It will all get done.  It always does. 

Happy Mother’s Day to those who are celebrating.  I hope you get to spend at least some of your day just being.   

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Emotional

It’s 5:30 in the afternoon.  I worked a full day, stayed after school to help a few struggling students, and then spent an hour sitting in the car on the phone with my therapist.  

Now I’m home.  I’ve changed into my leggings and one of my favorite, soft, baggy shirts.  The text on the front reads, “Kindness Matters.”  I’ve got a third of my afternoon Dunkin Donuts coffee left in this plastic cup by my side, and the steak I just sliced for dinner needs to marinate for 30 minutes.  

So I can write.  Or I suppose I could read.  But I need one or the other.  Because words are the thing that can best soothe my soul.  

It all feels a little bit overwhelming right now.  You can tell because I haven’t posted anything in a while.  

What’s new?  Absolutely nothing.  And everything.  Isn’t that the way it always is?  I live the same day; variations on a theme.  I feel trapped.  I liberate myself.  Things get better.  Then worse. 

I get terrible news.  Followed by an inspiring email.  The sun shines.  The sleet falls.  Such is spring in New England.  

I don’t have any insight today.  I just have so many damned feelings.  I’m overflowing with them.  Fear.  Regret.  Joy.  Peace.  Frustration.  Contentment.  In waves, they just keep coming.  They tug me under.  Throw me against the rocks.  Bring me to shore.  

All I can do is roll with them.  Try to feel them instead of analyzing them.  Try to be in the moment instead of above it all.  

My shirt is soft.  My drink is sweet.  My dog is snoring at my feet.  The wind is blowing outside.  

I tell myself to stay here.  To stop following that voice in my head that wants to ruminate or anticipate.  

Notice it all.  Stay in the moment.  My house is warm.  My fridge is full.  The wind is blowing and the sun is shining. 

There is nothing to fear in this moment.  Why do I find it so hard to just stay here?  

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Snowstorm

There’s a shot of Bailey’s in my coffee this morning; a rare treat reserved for the days when I don’t plan on going anywhere.  We’re hunkered down for a snowstorm like the hardy New Englanders we claim to be.  Stocked up on batteries, gas for the generator, and wood for the fireplace.  We’ve got plenty of food in the fridge. While there tends to be a rush for bread and milk during a blizzard, I’m more focused on making sure we have coffee and wine.  And something to simmer in the crockpot all day.  We’re good here.  

I promised myself I would write today.  It’s been way too long.  

When I don’t write, there’s usually a reason.  I like to write something and wrap it up with a little bow at the end.  That’s my style.  I like things to be neat. 

When I’m not publishing, that doesn’t mean I’m not writing.  I’m ALWAYS writing.  It’s how I process things.  It’s how I work through my emotions and talk myself off the edge.  It’s how I think things through and figure things out and make hard decisions.  But when I’m not publishing blogs, it’s usually because I’m still working on it.  I haven’t figured it out.  

But when life is messy and things are ongoing and I can’t find a neat little bow, my writing becomes 18 unfinished, typewritten diary entries sitting on my desktop.  That’s what I’ve got now.  The last three are titled, “Fractured Family,” “Stealth,” and “The things I’ve done wrong.” 

I started them all, hoping to find a happy ending.  I was writing to get to that neat little bow at the end.  And I couldn’t find it.  

*****

Here are some things that keep swirling around in brain and in my writing.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give them neat little bows. 

– Bea is gone.  I may have lost her forever.  For five years, she was part of our home.  To me, she will always be family. But she needs space and she’s disconnected and there’s really nothing I can do about that.  It hurts.  

– My sisters are fighting.  Not just regular ‘sister-drama,’ as my husband calls it.  But real, “We haven’t spoken in a over a year” fighting.  And it’s affecting us all.  My dad is sick.  My other sister is pregnant.  We need our sister connection more than ever and it’s splintered in a way that breaks my heart.  I wish I could fix it, but I can’t.  

– Work is a minefield.  I still love my job.  There are still beautiful moments.  But the joy is hard to find, and the trauma is lingering just below the surface. We are all overwhelmed by new and ever-changing rules.  Mental health is deteriorating and our efforts to build resilience and joy are often met with apathy.  It’s exhausting.

*****

That little list makes it seem like life is awful right now.  But, the thing is, it’s NOT.  Our little family of four is connecting better than ever.  Our home is full of laughter.  The boys are doing well in school and exploring new hobbies and Lee has a job.  I’m using YouTube tutorials to learn how to crochet, and there are moments when we’re all gathered in the living room watching a movie and I’m making a blanket, and there is a log burning in the fireplace and I think, “Hold on to this moment.  It doesn’t get any better.” 

 We’re financially stable in a way that is unfamiliar and entirely liberating.  We’re planning a trip to Florida soon.  My mom has lived there for more than a decade, and we keep saying we’ll save the money to come.  We’re finally doing it.  I can’t wait. 

We have good friends.  We’re so blessed to have friends to celebrate with us and cry with us and share the burdens and the joys.  I don’t take that for granted.  

We have our families.  Our beautiful, complicated, messy, connections that bind us forever, whether we want them or now.  

We are bound. 

We are connected.  

Maybe that’s the neat little bow for this post. 

I reread what I’ve just written.  What’s the theme?  What am I supposed to realize?  What am I meant to learn?

We are interconnected.  We are woven together in a way that is divine and holy and beyond our understanding.  

My student’s anxiety doesn’t just belong to them.  It belongs to all of us.  My sisters’ argument isn’t just theirs.  It radiates through our family.  Bea’s choices aren’t just hers.  They ripple through to touch all of the people who have ever loved her.  But the joy affects us all, too.  My children’s laughter strengthens me… which supports my students.  Our friends hold us up when things get tough; so then we can lift and support others.  That fire in the fireplace and the Bailey’s in my coffee lift my spirits, and there is purpose in that, as well.  Maybe all the time that I spend trying to solve unsolvable problems is better spent seeking joy and strength.

Let go and Let God, right?  You can’t fix it all.  You can’t wrap everything up with a neat little bow.  But you can shift your focus to the things that help you weather the storm.  A fire in the fireplace.  Soft yarn against my fingertips.  A shot of Bailey’s in my coffee.  

May we all be blessed with a little bit of beauty and joy as we weather this storm together.   

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A room of my own

I had my own room for a time in my teens.  I had my own apartment for a few months in my 20s.  But for most of my life, I’ve shared space with various siblings, roommates, and friends.  When Jack and I started dating, I didn’t consciously consider the reality that I just signed up to share a room for the rest of my life. 

I’m a pretty social person.  I enjoy people.  And for the most part, I like sharing space.  I love having someone to talk to, someone to cuddle with, someone to laugh with.  I especially love that that person is my husband.  I want to share a bedroom with him forever.

But I’ve always wanted my own little office.  Since I was a kid, I’ve been slightly obsessed with pretty stationery and pens, post-its and colored paperclips.  I love the feel of a solid stapler in my hand, and the smell of a brand new notebook. The click of my fingers on the keyboard is a calming sort of background music to my thoughts.  An office. A quiet space for working and reading and writing.  Wouldn’t that be lovely? 

Turns out, it is.  It is SO FREAKING LOVELY. 

It’s not entirely finished, but over the past few weeks, I’ve been assembling my office.  With Bea gone, we have an extra little bedroom.  It’s just barely large enough to fit a full size bed, so it wasn’t ideal as a kid’s room.  But it is the perfect size for this.  

*****

When I first started this project, I had a vision in mind.  I wanted a comfy chair.  I wanted lots of shelving.  I wanted calming colors and pretty patterns and knickknacks and tchotchkes that made me smile.  I imagined pretty candles and soothing scents and fabric-covered boxes to hold my memorabilia.  

I have a canvas print of a photo that Cal took on the beach.  The sun is setting and the water is coming in and Lee is a blurred figure in the foreground of the shot.  It’s beautiful.  And I could picture it clearly on the wall in this room in my imagination.  

*****

The first thing I bought for the space was a teal, wire wall hanging shaped like the side of a birdcage.  It came with a few small clothespins on it, and it functions as a pretty sort of corkboard for hanging photos and reminders and business cards.  I bought it at a local antique shop when the office only existed in my imagination.  It felt frivolous.  I was buying something I didn’t need for a room that didn’t exist.  But I LIKED it.  I REALLY liked it.  So I splurged a little.  

A few weeks later, the work began.  We started to empty that little room.  The closet was full of Legos and Light Sabers and Avengers paraphernalia. Cal and I painstakingly sorted it all into piles.  Keep.  Gift.  Donate.  Trash.  To make this new space for me, we had to wade through so many of his memories.  It was bittersweet.  

Once the room was cleared out, I wanted to maximize the space.  The doors came off the closet and Jack removed the built-in shelving.  Now I had a cubby.  The old closet was about 7 feet wide and a little more than 2 feet deep.  I imagined a desk in that space, surrounded by shelves for books and photos and pretty, useless things.    

But if I was planning to sit in that little cubby and create something beautiful, I wanted to look at something beautiful.  Instead of painting the wall, I decided I wanted wallpaper there.  I wanted something that would pop a little.  I wanted something happy and colorful.  

I started at Lowe’s.  Jack and I looked at wallpaper, and while there were some perfectly nice things, I didn’t find anything I loved.  And I wanted to love it.  

That was a new feeling.  I have always shopped for the best deals on the most useful things.  I typically pick the ‘good enough’ version of what I need because it is less expensive or more functional or whatever.  I’m quick to compromise. 

When shopping for new bedding, I chose something with a mandala pattern because Jack didn’t want to sleep in a flowery room.  I went easy on the throw pillows, because he doesn’t share my affinity for decorative fluff.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like what I was choosing; it’s just that everything was a little bit of a compromise. 

The couch that I really loved was crazy expensive, but we found this set in the clearance section that would work just fine.  I don’t love my dining room table, but it is a huge, hefty, functional antique and it was free.  

And so the story goes…

But as I sat there looking at that wallpaper, I thought about my little birdcage.  I love that birdcage.  And I wanted it to sit against wallpaper that made me smile.  

So I didn’t buy wallpaper in Lowe’s that day. I did buy a lovely hanging light covered in crystals to replace the single bare bulb in the closet.  It was sparkly and girly and perfect.  

And then I went home and spent two weeks shopping online for just the right wallpaper.  It was a little expensive.  But it was exactly what I had hoped to find.  A pretty blue and gold floral pattern.  The colors were just right.  The pattern was delicate and light but interesting.  I loved it. 

My canvas print.  My little birdcage.  My sparkly light.  My pretty wallpaper.  I was beginning to gather lovely things.  I was choosing without compromise.  I didn’t have to consider anyone else’s preferences.  I wasn’t limited by a shoestring budget.  

It was a brand-new feeling, and I loved it. 

Jack and I found a chaise lounge in the clearance section at the furniture store, but this time it didn’t feel like a compromise.  It was exactly what I wanted.  A comfy chair with a corner, perfect for reclining and reading and relaxing.  It was the perfect size and shape and color and it was only a hundred bucks.  We loaded it into the truck. 

I found an adorable little clock at a craft store.  I picked it up and put it down and  walked away and came back three times before I finally decided that I needed to have it. I finally bought the paper shredder that I’ve wanted for years. I ordered a cute little spinning organizer for my pens and pencils and paperclips and post-its.  I got candles and fabric covered boxes and pretty throw pillows.  I hung Lee’s paintings and Cal’s photo and filled a basket with yarn for crocheting.  

Lovely things.  All lovely things.  But it’s more than that.  When I sit in this room, I don’t just love it because it’s full of lovely things.  I love it because they’re MY lovely things.  I love it because I had a vision and I made it a reality and I didn’t compromise.  I love it because it is totally and utterly MINE.  

I still haven’t gotten my shelves.  Because I haven’t found ones that are exactly right.  I’m still looking for the perfect curtains.  I want to add some plants.  And all of that will come in time.  

For now, I’m going to sit here and sip my coffee and listen to the ticking of my adorable little clock.  I’m going to breathe in the scent of this candle and admire my kids’ artwork and cuddle up on my chaise lounge with a book and a homemade crocheted blanket. I’m going to pay attention to the feel and the sound of my fingers on the keyboard as I edit this piece and write down my thoughts in a room of my very own.