Renewed Ramblings

 First, let me say that it is remarkable that I was able to trudge through my emails to find the name of this site. Then to have my old posts still be visible seems miraculous to me. Apparently, once upon a time I had lots of thoughts about lots of things and some people actually cared to read them. How wondrous! So being back at the keyboard, typing on this page tonight (after a decade) feels like revisiting a house where I lived previously, and feeling comforted to find that some things have not changed irrevocably.

My cousin Shelley told me a few years ago that I collect people the way some travelers collect souvenirs. A Syrian server at the Plaza Hotel who has become chosen family and occasionally allows me to stay in his home in Brooklyn. A New England coach I met in a bar during a Carolina-dook game and still run across sometimes when I am in South Carolina. A fascinating young pregnant woman from Canada that I dined beside in Rome on a night tour of monuments. She became a FB friend and now parents a rambunctious, school-aged, hockey playing daughter that I see virtually a few times each week. I could go on and on. It has been my experience that every person you pass by has a story that would astound you if you could listen to them long enough. So when fortune allows me the time and space to connect, I collect.

Tonight I was driving home in the dark after an incredibly long, taxing stretch of days and I was listening to the Carolina Hurricanes game. They are playing tonight in Madison Square Garden against the New York Rangers so naturally I was thinking about my friend Stephen Curatolo. I met Stephen on my first trip to NYC in October 2014. I sat beside him at the only New York Yankees game I have ever been to, which happened to be on a Wednesday afternoon and by chance it was Derek Jeter's next-to-the-last game before he retired. Stephen was a bear of a young man, laughing continuously and he seemed to know everyone in our section. He spoke to each one very loudly in the kind of Staten Island-by-way-of-Brooklyn New York accent that you hear on television. He was magnetic. So of course, I struck up a conversation.

Almost immediately he told me that he was a multi-time cancer survivor. I can't remember the type(s) or how many times he had beaten cancer, but even tonight I clearly recall how proudly he proclaimed that most important fact about himself. He was enamored with my Southern accent and when I told him I was from North Carolina, he exclaimed, "the land of the Hurricanes!" We talked a little about hockey and he taught me volumes about New York Yankees baseball. He called my phone and left me a voicemail to prove I had met an authentic New Yorker my first time in the city. I called his grandma in Staten Island because he wanted me to "talk Southern to her." We sat in the sunshine drinking beer and cheering for the Pin Stripes on a random Wednesday in 2014. It was the only time I was ever in his presence physically. 

But, of course, we became Facebook friends and then followed each other on Instagram. He would message me when the Tar Heels won rivalry games. He called me once from Madison Square Garden when the Hurricanes were in town and beat his beloved Rangers. That night he talked about bringing his hockey buddies to North Carolina when the Rangers played in Raleigh sometime. He was a lovely man who posted about his sports teams, his closely knit family, a zillion friends he spent time with around Staten Island...the kind of things that convince you that you are part of someone's daily life because you see the same characters and locations routinely on your screen.

Stephen passed away on May 10, 2019, after yet another bout with cancer...I think it was his fourth or fifth round of battle. He was 30. He had been fighting off and on for over twelve years. He never made it Raleigh for a Canes-Rangers game. But the New York Rangers honored him in several publications and the voice of the Rangers posted in his honor on Twitter. I never knew that until I googled his obituary again.

Tonight the Rangers beat the Hurricanes 2-1 at home in Manhattan. Wherever he is, I am sure Stephen is boasting about it to anyone who will listen in his loud, booming New York accent. It was 3 hours on a random Wednesday 9 years ago. I am not even sure why he is weighing so heavy on my heart tonight. I think Stephen wants to remind me that even at it's worst, life is beautiful and the will to live is nearly indefatiguable. I want to remind Stephen that you never know the depth of the impact you might be making even on a near stranger. I miss you, my friend. And I am lucky to have shared in your astounding story.

DAYS OF OUR LIVES

 

 

"Like Sand Through the Hour Glass, So Are The Days of Our Lives".....the beginning lines of the voiceover for this long-running soap opera was the first thing I thought of when I sat down to write today. When I was growing up my mother, my grandmothers, my aunts, the neighbors....all of the women that surrounded me watched their "stories" every afternoon and talked about the characters as if they were members of our family. As a rite of passage, I became caught up in the romance-tragedy of Luke and Laura on General Hospital in 1978 and my girlfriends would "watch" it with me over the phone every day after school. Ironically enough, the same women who now complain that their children are too smitten with technology to actually live their lives, are the same ones who were raised by the Partridge Family, the Brady Bunch and the citizens of Port Charles.

 

Because I am not a particularly religious person I don't feel comfortable using the word "pray". For me it conjures up memories of being on my knees for what seemed like hours while my Baptist Papaw talked and talked and talked while I was waiting to eat, or escape or go to bed. Because I am a deeply spiritual person I prefer to think of the guiding forces in my life as existing somewhere out in the universe, non-judgmental, all-loving and omni-present. And whether you call it praying or some other genteel sounding verb, I am in continuous communication with these forces inside my head. Lately I have been asking the universe to help me see the extraordinary in my day-to-day life, because if you have ever read any of my musings, you will remember that, for me, gratitude is only defense I have against ugliness and unfairness. Because I have been so blessed to have homes, friends and families scattered across two states, I sometimes feel like I don't really live  anywhere, but instead exist in a constant state of preparing for the next coming together or parting.

 

If the universe is listening, I AM NOT COMPLAINING.....I AM GRATEFUL....please note that I started this thought with the words "so blessed". It is just that sometimes I am so busy preparing for what comes next that I don't feel like I am breathing in this moment, in all its' remarkable glory. So I have been asking the all-powerful to send me opportunities to stop, to notice, to embrace the moments that string together my days, so that I can appreciate the passage of my weeks and months and years. And as often happens when you pray or converse with the universe, the opportunities have come.

 

Yesterday, during the course of  forty minutes, our oldest child had eleven saves in goal, to only one miss. Because sometimes in life you have to commit to going left a fraction of a second before the shooter veers right and the other team scores. But it only happened to him once yesterday and as a result, his team is tied for first place in their league. As I sat in the warm sun breathing in the sounds of the birds and the hum of the energy at the field, I was surrounded by the moms and dads and step-moms and granddads and girlfriends and aunts and uncles and babysitters and neighbors of our community. There was talk of baseball games the night before and prom plans two weeks from now and even though I was there to represent the Highlighter yellow team, I also cheered for the goalie of the pink team because he is one of our "chosen children." In the grand scheme of life I don't think the hour we spent at the field yesterday morning made any headlines and I didn't see the highlights on ESPN. But the laughter and the comraderie and the victory and the defeat, the news shared and the plans made were noticed and embraced....as an extraordinary hour in a day of my life.

 

For the remainder of the day, all of last night and beginning again early this morning, my house has been filled with four boys.....laughing, farting, texting, talking, shooting hoops, eating everything that isn't nailed down and running back and forth to the tire swing in the woods. There have been dramas and disputes....more dialogue about girls than I realized was happening....and a lot of laughter about things I will have to "google" to even begin to understand. I have allowed my children to drink more caffeine, have more freedom, stay up later and ignore more chores that I normally would, because even at 49 years of age, I am still trying to be COOL! I still dream of being the place the kids want to come back to at 13 and at 23 and at 43....which means I cook and clean and listen and try to be like invisible wallpaper so that I will have any insight into who our children are and who they are becoming, beyond those sides of themselves that they show me.

 

I can't say I am completely comfortable with all that I am discovering. And in the grand scheme of life I know it is likely that I will remember these experiences long after the kids and their friends have forgotten them. But I also hope that someday when our sons are working in the yard or frying the bacon, trying not to react too strongly to the insights they will be gaining into their children's lives, they will smile....and breathe.....and embrace the days of their lives.....Because that would be the most satisfying reward imaginable.

Stop.....Breathe.....Listen....Embrace.....There is magic all around us, all the time. The Ordinary is really Most Extra-Ordinary.



P.S.  The boys have just come in to comb their hair and spray on some Axe deodorant.....and they say they are just going out to play basketball....hmmmm, this day may have just gotten more interesting....I think I have some things to do outside!

I'm Not Ready to Make Nice

Forgive, sounds good.
Forget, I'm not sure I could.
They say time heals everything,
But I'm still waiting.

I'm through with doubt.
There's nothing left for me to figure out.
I've paid a price,
And I'll keep paying.

I'm not ready to make nice,
I'm not ready to back down.
I'm still mad as hell and
I don't have time to go round and round and round.
It's too late to make it right,
I probably wouldn't if I could.
'Cause I'm mad as hell
Can't bring myself to do what it is you think I should.

"Not Ready to Make Nice" - The Dixie Chicks


There was a time in my life, circa 2006, when this song was my soul's anthem. I was at a point where major changes were on the horizon, and I had given every ounce of "try" that I possessed  for years and years.  Back then, I could no longer afford to care about what anyone, except my children, thought about me or my decisions. It was a bumpy, unattractive experience and I made a lot of mistakes. But ultimately, my instincts proved right and the paths I chose then led us all to greater happiness and contentment.

And once again, after several weeks of chaos and intense drama, I find these lyrics scrolling repeatedly through my brain. I have lived with myself long enough to know that when I am feeling really angry, the underlying emotions are always fear and disappointment. In all honesty, I am not "mad as hell"....but I am sad as hell. Disappointed that I have allowed myself to be hurt....again....and disappointed in the limited capacities of those involved. I have consistently tried to treat those closest to the situations fairly, to give them the benefit of the doubt as often as possible and to own up to the ways I am contributing to the negative energy. But, alas, my endeavors have brought me back to "round and round and round."

So I am at a point where I am not ready.....indeed, I am no longer interested....in making nice. That doesn't necessarily mean that I want to make "not nice." On the contrary, the dramas are like raging fires that I no longer choose to fuel. Sometimes the best way to continue to be loving and respectful to someone is to withdraw and allow them to live the way they want to live....without judgment, without comment and without intervention. At the risk of sounding trite, I can not control others, I can only control my reactions to others.

In a more perfect state of being I should probably try to forgive....but these folks have not asked for forgiveness. And the very concept that they have done something that I need to forgive is inherently judgmental and blaming. In this moment I am realizing that forgiveness is a gift that I need to give myself, to free up the energy churning inside me. I need to offer the most vulnerable parts of my soul the reassurance that my intentions were good, despite the outcome, and remind my bruised pride, that living with an open, hopeful heart is the price that "I'll keep paying." Forgiveness, especially of oneself, is a difficult, ongoing process. For now, stepping back is as close as I can "bring myself to do what it is you think I should."

Namaste.

Of Mice and Men

On Saturday at 11:45 AM, I will ascend the spires of Cinderella's Castle and process down the staircase into the Grand Ballroom to have a luncheon with the Disney Princesses.....all seven of them! (For the lowly, that would be Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Jasmine, Ariel, Belle and Aurora....although the fine print says that "character appearances are subject to change!'") I will accompany by my four year old granddaughter, the Honorable Ella Echols Bracken, as her lady-in-waiting, although it has been rumored that she is merely an excuse for me to fulfill a life-long dream...and there may be a smidgen of truth to that rumor.

You see, when I was four, back in the pre-historic times, my favorite possession was a large, hardcover Cinderella book. I knew it was the authentic Disney version because the illustrations in my book looked just like pictures in the movie. I wasn't a particularly girly girl, but I adored my Cinderella book. It was only later, during my college years, that I would hear princesses denounced as being anti-woman and against feminist ideals. At one point I even volunteered in a program for at-risk fifth-grade girls that was called "Goodbye Cinderella." Obviously, the focus of the program was to show these young women that they were worthy and valuable, with intellect and talent, and not in need of a Prince Charming to come and rescue them. I have subsequently learned that all fifth-grade girls can be considered "at-risk" because it is an extremely confusing, hormonal time in life...and that fewer and fewer women of any age sit and wait to be rescued.

If I am being completely honest, I will admit that I wholeheartedly subscribed to the feminist perspective for a number of years. And I still believe fervently in the struggle for women to be treated as equals. But I don't see that belief as being in conflict with my love for pink or shiny tiaras or elegant parties where magical things can happen. In fact, the struggle itself should defend my right to love these things just as it should defend the right of any woman to pursue what she finds valuable and worthy. Because for the last forty-three years it never once occurred to me that the story of Cinderella had much of anything to do with the Prince.

My favorite page in my book was the page where the mice and the birds find ribbon and string and work in secret to make Cinderella a dress fit for a princess. And I loved the page where the fairy godmother turned a pumpkin into a carriage and mice volunteered to be Cinderella's footmen. For me, the story was always about the down-trodden girl who triumphed over her circumstances, with support from those who loved her (even if they weren't human). Granted, it took a dose of magic, but just like in "real" life, sometimes something magic happens at the moment when you most need it. And it is true that she did wind up living in a castle....happily ever after, they say...but in 2012 Cinderella would probably apply to Harvard online and use the Prince's wealth to set up a non-profit for the preservation of mice and birds and pumpkins and fairy godmothers.

So, Saturday when we process down the staircase to be greeted by the Princesses, there will not be a Prince Charming in sight. In fact, Cinderella's name is the one on the castle she lives in now....as well as on her castles in California and Tokyo. Of course, my Prince Charming is the one who is making my dream possible. Without him I wouldn't have the means....or the grand-daughter. But my Princess Ella also plays soccer and holds crabs with her bare hands and speaks her mind. She is beautiful, inside and out, and confident because of what has been invested in her by the people she loves. She will triumph over adversity and define her life by her own standards....which is exactly how I saw my storybook Cinderella when I was her age.

Dreams can come true. Even at forty-seven years old. So, come Saturday, I will be sure to wear comfortable shoes and a shiny tiara.

It is All Hallow's Eve. It is dark, and cold, and I am home alone....without the boys, even without trick-or-treaters. Just me and the guinea pig. And thank goodness for Furona G. Pig, running laps around her cage when I gave her a fresh salad. Because as of tonight, we have crossed a threshold. The boys are no longer interested in dressing up or going out on Halloween. Braeden did call a few minutes ago to ask if he could come hand out candy to the kids in my neighborhood. But it was already 7:00pm, it is his daddy's night and most of our trick-or-treaters had already come and gone. I asked him if he was sad that he hadn't gone out tonight and he said, "yes ma'am." I said, "I know....me too."

I remember the hectic rush of Jackson's first Halloween. He was almost 9 months old and he was a "Scaredy Bat." It was a black costume with attached wings, a purple belly and giant bat ears that were lined in purple and tied under his chubby chin. I remember that his dad was wondering why we needed to put on his costume and take him out, sniffling, into the cold, when he was "not going to know the difference."

First, because he does know the difference. He knows it every year when I take out the Halloween decorations and sit out the boys' photos. Jackson has one more picture than Braeden has, and that was the year he was "Scaredy Bat." And, because even way back then, I knew that tonight would come.

Since the first day I became a Mom I have felt like the crocodile from Peter Pan who has the clock ticking in his stomach. I am blessed, and cursed, with the awareness that every moment we have with our children is precious and that the moment just ahead is going to be dramatically different from the moment that just occurred. Make no mistake, I don't always behave in a way that honors the preciousness of our time together. Sometimes I mock the fates by the way I react and the things I say to them. And then I apologize and feel guilty and go to bed hoping that I will be given the chance to get up and try to do better the next day.

But I am smart enough to know that for every 20 hour day I put in now washing PE uniforms and checking algebra equations and worrying about runny noses (still), there will be days when 20 minutes of their time and attention will be a miraculous gift and I would welcome the opportunity to cook and clean for them.

Granted, for every phase we move through, our relationships with our children can become deeper and more rewarding. The conversations we have on a good day now are certainly more enriching, and entertaining, than the ones we had five years ago. At this point in life when they say "thank you" or " I love you, Mom", it is exponentially more meaningful to me because we have been together long enough to know how incredibly hard it is to be kind and thoughtful to each other.

But I am still sad. Because their independent lives are getting bigger and bigger while their dependence on me is getting smaller and smaller. Which means their dad and I must be doing okay, because that is exactly how it is intended to be. It's just that I am so much more in love with them than they are with  me, because their focus is the life that lies ahead of them. They are so eager to be more grown up and I am trying desperately to resist the urge to stand in their way. First it was Santa Claus and losing teeth and worrying about their hairstyles, and now it is Halloween and trick-or-treating. All I know for sure it that the days are very long, but the months and years are flying by.

So tonight, in the cold and the dark, I say, "Goodbye Scaredy Bat. Goodbye Jack O'Lantern onesie that Braeden wore at 1 month, 1 day on his first Halloween. I miss you. But I am grateful for the chance to have known you." Besides, "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," just started.....and even the passage of time can't take that away from me!

The Indulgence of Introspection

Well, it feels like it has been a million years since I wrote a blog and even as I type these words, I have no idea what the next sentence will be. During those million years, I have had a trillion thoughts and taken almost as many pictures of what's been happening in my life. It seems that these days I would rather record the images of my days than talk about my experiences.

Looking back to when I initially started the blog, it seems that I was writing for two primary purposes:  as a way of recording how I had become who I am and as a way of sorting through my most intense feelings....some celebratory, some painful and confusing.Selfishly, I wrote to leave a trail for my sons to have a greater understanding of who I was as a person, when they finally reach a point in life where they might be interested in that sort of thing. Communally, I wrote to share views on the fucked-upness that is often the human condition and hopefully, so the readers might not feel so alone in their own struggles. Admittedly, it was gratifying to feel like my words resonated with people I admire and respect, as well as with strangers who came to "know" me only through the posts. I can honestly say that when I wrote, the words flowed urgently and easily.

And so I have been quiet....metaphorically....for 64 days. I have prowled the streets of Mayodan and Bartow and Key West taking photographs of the world as it presents itself to me in
8 x 10 snippets. I have disovered a deepening joy in being able to "see" the unseen beauty and wonder that I would typically pass by or disregard. And it has been my privilege to share myself and my journey, of late, photographically. As always, the inspiration to approach my life this way came from the work of my soul traveler, David Smith (http://www.moonovertrees.com). But the "eye" I have developed is uniquely mine.

I been busy living my day-to-day, mostly contentedly, and focusing much more on my "being" rather than my "doing". I have accepted that there is a cloak of anonymity that comes with being a woman of a certain age...in essence, you become invisible in a lot of situations where you once garnered notice. Rather than mourning the loss of attention, I find that I am reveling in the freedom of no longer needing to try so hard. Make no mistake, I never want to be a person who wears pajama pants to the grocery store. But I also no longer need to wear trendy ensembles as a form of armor, projecting my "togetherness" outwardly. Honestly, I just want to be comfortable, in my own skin as well as in my clothes, and on occasion, to don a Pink Pirate Princess costume, because I can.

Lately, my mantra has been Maya Angelou's admonition that "people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget the way you made them feel."
I would postulate that in fact, most people can not listen or be open to your ideas, until you connect with them in some way emotionally. And, unfortunately, this can often be most difficult with the people closest to us, the ones we profess to love the most. Something extraordinary happens in every beings' life every day...it is only a matter of being present enough, often enough, to actually hear those we love when they try to share these occurences with us.

And so that is where I have been....mostly in my house(s), mostly with my boys and my husband, and mostly inside my own head. But before you start to gag on the bit of vomit coming up your throat as you read this, remember that I have also been busy cleaning the guinea pigs cage, mowing the grass, shopping for groceries eight days a week and trying to hold my temper while a disrespectful pre-teen (or two) questions every move I make every waking moment. I still live here on this big round ball with the rest of ya'll....I am just trying to keep my eyes and ears open more often than my mouth, so that I can catch as much of the magic as possible.

Quest for Serenity...or Sanity...

There is something about trying to parent a 6^th grader that has taken me back to my “junior high” years. Maybe it is all the angst, or all the excitement that comes with having your toes on the edge of  a more adult world. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have been listening to Classic Rock. But my emotions are swirling in a way that feels 1977ish.

In 1977, I was a big kid….and I don’t mean just “big-boned”. I mean almost 6 feet tall and overweight. I was clumsy and loud, with skin that seemed to be perpetually broken out and hair that was straight and fine and limp…..during the days of Farrah Fawcett and Charlie’s Angels. Thankfully, I was very smart and made excellent grades because otherwise I would have had nothing noteworthy going on. Also, I had a knack for ingratiating myself with the popular people, either through luck or through cunning. I kept score for the volleyball and softball teams so I knew all the girls who were athletes and their jock boyfriends. I even cheered for a few years because my broad, strong back made me an excellent “base” for the 90 lb girls to build stunts around. In 9^th grade I was Vice-President of Beta Club and a Student Council officer, so if you looked at my yearbooks from this era it would appear that I was square in the center of the “It” crowd.

Except I really wasn’t. Most days I felt like I sat just on the outside of knowing whatever secret it was that all those beautiful people knew. I studied their casual confidence and hungered for it. I dressed the part and I talked the talk, but in the darkest recesses of my soul, I felt like a fraud. Emotionally, it was pure agony. Psychologically, it was the highest highs and the lowest lows, almost every day. Back then my self-esteem hinged on so many factors outside myself, that were beyond my control, when what I really wanted was to feel like I fit in.

Looking back, I am certain that my family bore the brunt of how sad and angry and scared I felt inside. And in all honesty, the distance and tension that exists in our relationships to this day can, in large part, be traced to this period of my life.

Now I watch my oldest going through some of the same emotions and I am on the receiving end of the confusion and anger. I realize that since the day each of the tests read “pregnant”,  I have been basing my parenting philosophy primarily on NOT doing anything the way my parents had done it. For years now I have falsely believed that if I tried to be more involved and tried to be more focused on my sons’ emotional well-being, then I could help them avoid the pitfalls that clouded so much of my life then and still occasionally darken my mood. Unfortunately, I WAS WRONG….about so many things and in so many ways.

For all of my efforts (and those of their Dad), here we are… dumbfounded by the mood swings and the intensity of the emotions…wondering what in the hell we are suppose to do now. Even as I type these words I am questioning whether I should be sharing these thoughts with the cyberworld. Don’t  I owe my children more privacy than that? What if writing is only the selfish act by which I work out my own crap? Truthfully, I don’t have the answers anymore. I don’t have the energy to pretend that I have the answers. And obviously, living authentically is going to be more about the questions than the answers. As my wise Uncle Mickey used to say, “The only thing that never changes is the fact that things are always changing.”

So apparently, now is going to be the time for me to change my parenting philosophy. Because as painful as it has been coming to this point, the reality is that most children are only doing what they need to be doing at any given moment, so that they can grow in the ways they need to grow. I believe it is not their behavior or their misbehavior that creates our difficulties. Rather it is our inability to manage and cope with the behavior and misbehavior that causes us to lose sleep and spend days with lumps in our throats and knots in our stomachs. Undoubtedly, our children are the ones sent from some place more perfect for the purpose of helping us grow into the  people we are meant to be. And for the majority of us, that process involves learning and re-learning lessons related to patience and self-control, even under the most dire of child-raising circumstances.

The message that has been resonating through my core and spilling out in my tears for the last few days is this:  I must accept and forgive the circumstances that shaped me, even if I never fully reach any understanding of them. Forgiveness is a gift I am being required to give…for my own sake. Only by doing so will I have the energy to keep growing and changing…to keep living my life to the fullest.

Intent and diligence are the hallmarks of forgiveness, not necessarily coming to any semblance of understanding. The Universe has also made it abundantly clear that I will not be able to guide or help anyone…or any one… until they can feel and trust that I am giving them my acceptance. Paradoxically, I am going to have to give my sons a level of acceptance that I don’t always have to give to myself; an acceptance that I most definitely did not feel at their ages. Apparently, Acceptance precedes Discipline and Guidance, not only in the Webster’s Dictionary, but also in the Book of Life Lessons for Parents.

I have no idea how to even begin to convince my children that I can accept them just the way the are and exactly for who they are. Granted, I have no intention of allowing them to seize the power and call all of the shots. More likely than not, tough love will always be the foundation upon which I build as a parent. But fortunately for lots of us who struggle, children are typically more forgiving and resilient than the adults in their lives. And their reservoirs of unconditional love are deeper than ours. Simply put, they will give us lots of opportunities to figure out what it is they want and need from us. Today, I am guessing that for our boys, it will begin and end with Acceptance.