My Parachute is Lime Green

It happened again. I woke up at 3:13 a.m. and I’m not with my old employer anymore. It must be me! Actually, all deadpan humor aside, I already knew that before I left my job. I just reached the jumping off place where I knew, instinctively, that it was me or them. Either I was going to continue another two years of sleepless nights worried about things that I could not control, or I was going to package up the worry, put the itchy twilling apart twine around it and hand it back to them – pressed and neatly folded. Well, that was the intention anyway. That last day, I handed them back the shirt bunched up in a ball with dog poo in the center and congratulated myself for being civil and giving the socially acceptable two weeks notice. I exhaled when he said, “You can go home today.”

Now I’m worried that I am unemployable. I dipped my toe back into the pool of social work and found an Alzheimer’s patient screaming Ukranian vulgarities at me. It was a universal truth and I recognized the sign as it was stamped on my forehead, “Simply does not have THAT much compassion.” Even when she calmed down, the SueAnnie that hid in the suitcase as a toddler was still waiting the oncoming slap. I have come to accept there are parts of me that remain slightly askew. Okay, very askew.

So here it is… I have a new job. Tra la la. I think what I am finding out is that my ego cannot be defined by what I do professionally. Of course, this is an age old (like from my 20’s) lesson that I keep relearning. The definition of insanity rings in my head like a knock-knock joke. “The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing again and again expecting different results.” It’s not about them – it is very much about me.

Embrace gratitude.

My ass!

Michael Douglas with his horn rimmed glasses is screaming in my head, “I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!” Well, yes, I kind of am. I have VISA to consider, not to mention the rent for the new place. That and I’m kind of in my mid-40’s without a 401k, RSP’s or even the slightest idea of how I will support myself when I am reduced to a non-existent pension.

One thing for certain, my periods of learning are becoming shorter and shorter, kind of like my hair.

I like my new job, I really, really do. The people are nice. The office is heated and there is a window to cool it down. I have a desk. I am employed. Hallelujah, brother, do I hear an “Amen?”

Do You Hear What I Hear?

“Father God, may the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight.”

Look at these two pictures and I’ll tell you a story.

The first picture was one of the thirty-one trees in the home of Terry and Sandy Deforge-MacKean in Lively, Ontario.  If you click on their names, you’ll see childhood and love in motion.

And yes -- that IS a pride tree.

The second picture was from the house next to the one that had the second party I attended tonight -- and that was Mike and Kim's in Copper Cliff, Ontario.

At Mike and Kim’s house – we ate good food, sang hymns and carols, discussed repentance, deliverance and speaking in tongues at the grocery store.  We laughed, we cried… we were fed physically and spiritually and all of it – all of it – in, under, over and around the name of Jesus Christ.

Why is it, do you suppose that both of these pictures, both of these “signs” cannot co-exist in the same house of worship?  Let me correct that, because there are congregations now where they do exist in the same house of worship.  Why can’t they co-exist in all houses of worship? 

I’m having great difficulty returning to the church; I really am.  It’s either that my foot has grown too big for the shoe, or the shoe has grown too small for my foot.  I miss hymns.  I miss the fellowship of song and praise.  And yes – I admit it in my steely little heart – I miss Jesus.  That being said, every single time I darken the door of a church lately, I feel like I don’t belong there anymore. Why?  For several reasons, actually… the first one being that I do not believe and can’t believe that Jesus is the only way to God.  I cannot believe that God would have a selected list of people who have prayed the sinner’s prayer in a pique point of emotionalism (and then lived the rest of their lives tripping over their brethren in the street) trump an atheist ladling out mashed potatoes in a soup kitchen.  That makes no logical sense whatsoever.  I cannot believe in a God that does not celebrate the love of two married men or women who have the world of children and wonder lit up throughout their home – as much as He would the celebrate the live Nativity Scene at Science North.  Now there’s a dichotomy.

I want to be a minister in a church where everyone is welcome.  I want to be a chaplain of a faith that excludes no one.  Please God, show me that church and I will fall at the altar weeping tears of joy and I will serve You until I cease to draw breath (and for however many lifetimes after that).  Well, actually, I’ll serve You regardless – payback, you know… but it sure would be nice to have someplace where my belief system actually fit in with, oh… I don’t know… 10 other people.  I want just a dash of reincarnation, a sprinkling of the love of trees and nature.  Perhaps a dollop of do no harm – that would be nice.  I want people to be married in the church because of how they commit their lives and love to the people they love.  I want a place where we can lift our voices in song and praise to a God that loves us back.  And if the Old Testament really was You at some point in history, I really like the theology that You knocked up a virgin, had a kid and got a grip on your anger issues.  Everyone – every – one… is redeemable.  I mean, You saved me.

My prayer this Christmas, Sir… is that these two pictures – with 10,000 more to follow in varying light and color displays of the EXACT SAME STORY – could become one. 

Amen.

(Sing it Bing... click to here to hear the musical conclusion to your Sunday morning SueAnnie sermon.)

Hunter and His Habit

Writer inserting internal dialogue of her favorite canine:  "Hi, my name is Hunter.  I am a garbage-aholic."  SQUIRREL!

There you have it, I've outed him -- broken his anonymity.  I am a bad, bad pet owner.  See, here's the deal.  Hunter is a pound puppy.  When Sarah and I first met him he was behind a wall of glass marked "quarantine" and he had his back to the nice people knocking on the window. Occasionally, he would throw a look over his shoulder in disdain.  Not open malice, or teeth-baring fear... just "really... I've got better things to do than listen to you tap tap tap and make googly eyes at me."  He was disenchanted with the human race.  Possibly this could have happened because his prior "owner" -- master, lover, companion, friend, pet-addict, lonely person type "A" -- whatever moniker you prefer, was a homeless man.  I'm guessing that they practiced dumpster diving as an art form.

We took him home.  He does not like Science Diet.  He does not like Kibbles and Bits; although he does like the generic Nibbles and Kibbles.  Mostly, Hunter likes garbage and when he can get it, used chewing gum.  Bubbalicious.  If nothing else in this world -- you know, I'm a half-decent mother.  I really am.  It's taken me a lifetime to get up the courage to say that and even now I'm quaking in my boots.  So -- I tell this dog, "Listen, bub... that stuff isn't good for you.  I promise to cook you an egg every Sunday for the rest of your furry life -- whether we are eating eggs or not -- if you would simply refrain from the garbage."  He eats his egg, enthusiastically promising to choose a new path.

He burps and lies down like a good dog.  All of us breathe a sigh of relief because we can go to bed tonight knowing that he can't get into the kitchen garbage can with the gray clasps that lock the lid on.  He's in  his house, surrounded by people he loves.  We wake up the next morning, there's dog shit behind the living room couch and what's left of the garbage is strewn from the kitchen to the bathroom.  Or maybe he's been considerate and kept the rancid sour cream lid as his personal welcome mat at the front door.  "No, no, buddy..." becomes "Are you out of your (expletive inserted here) doggy brain?!?"

We are sleep-deprived, exhausted pet owners.  We have hidden the garbage can in the bathroom.  We have kenneled him.  We have shut the bedroom door and missed the cool, Fall breeze (that simultaneously airs out old dog farts).  Basically, we have tried the "perhaps He'll find a higher power, get a sponsor, work the steps" route.  We were perfectly willing to hire the Dog Whisperer -- but he was booked through 2020 and I have a wedding coming up.  I'm thinking about joining a support group for family members of garbage-aholics.  But you know what they say, "Can't teach an old dog new tricks."  Especially when he continues to choose garbage over food.

Hunter, I love you... STOP THAT!!!

Character Recipe - Frank or David?

Okay, here it is.  I do not know anything about how to develop a character because I've never written fiction.  I do know how to explain the character of a living human being I've encountered.  It starts with the fact that my reader doesn't know them at all.  With that in mind, how will I create a character that doesn't exist except in my imagination?  How will I keep him consistent and believable?

This has been playing on my mind for the last three days and I happened upon a blog hop on a new page I liked recently called "Fellow Writers" on Facebook.  (Thank you Jessica L. Degarmo for leading me there.)  I am excited because I have made a few friends on Authonomy, feebly attempted to edit my own book, and have had venereal writer's block, also known as the Clunk, since September of 2010.

Frank or David is the question.  The main character in my first attempt at fiction needs a name.  I figure if I name him first then I can create a visual in my mind.  People-watching is great recreation.  Frank has the name because he would be a play on honesty. 

I know a Frank from my childhood memories.  He was my father's assistant in the pharmacy and he was a hippie that drove a VW bug.  This character is a carny.  He's the mechanic in charge of taking care of a metaphysical carousel.  So, I live on the main street of my city and we affectionately call it "the drunk walk."  There are plenty of Franks out there wandering home.

David?  David is a poet (yes, the same Psalmist or a variation on theme).  Problem is that David, to me, is a blond-haired, blue-eyed sweet boy.  I don't know why but that's what I see in my mind.  I have an inkling of where I want my main character to go because I thought about the story before I went for any characters.

Hell, I never was any good at recipes (much less following directions)...let me try this another way.

1 cup of Steampunk (nuts and bolts included)
1/2 tsp. of curiosity bordering on fascination
2 heaping tbsps. of cynicism and hard living
Dash of hope
Blend well with biker charm school and served without Chianti (he's sober)

I have a feeling the newbie is in for a whole lot of learning and I'm excited to give this blog hop a try.  Hope I did okay.

Change

I think the junior high assignment used to be, “What Did I Do This Summer” or “Where Did I Go This Summer.” Some such, that opened up the gates for the new school of learning to begin.

At the end of May, my husband departed for a two month military training course in Gagetown, New Brunswick. All of my married life – for both marriages – I fought against any type of lengthy separation largely because I was raised by a single parent and spent a lot of my time wishing I wasn’t alone. I hated being alone. When I was alone bad things happened either with my mother or simply by myself. In my layers of memory that fear still lived and breathed. Added to that was what kind of parent would I be to Sarah without the balancing force of Christopher when my anger reared its ugly head.

So I prayed. I walked and I prayed... had long conversations with God about why I was afraid. Most of them were completely unspoken in my head or out of it, but I think that He knew what I was saying in the deepest parts of me that have no language. Please, don’t let me be like my mother. Please don’t let me be like myself, let me be better.

I was better. It wasn’t that I didn’t get angry, I did. Sarah is at the tender age of “me, myself and I.” We all visited that age and some days I still live there. It makes for great memoir writing. Hunter, our dog, managed to catch several glimpses of the anger that lives inside of SueAnn – especially when he chewed up the second pair of flip flops. He sat, ears lowered under the kitchen table avoiding the sweep of my broom. “In the box!” I yelled. The box being his safe spot, his kennel.

To my credit, Hunter spent a lot of time being a beagle. He gets a scent and drags me around the block, down the hill, up the hill – at one point turning my 200 pound frame halfway around with my feet struggling to catch up with my body as he lunged at yet another bicycle rider, growling with his hackles raised. He really does not like many people and finds that he has to be territorial right up until the time that Apollo, the pit bull and something much larger mix chases Hunter up the hill, down the hill and around the track again. Nearly every morning we were greeted by Buddy, the white schnauzer/poodle mix. Buddy’s mom and Hunter’s mom would have them sit to get rid of the leash and they would advance, stop... stare... advance, stop, stare...until one of them (usually Buddy) took off galloping at breakneck speed toward the other one meeting one another in a jump, a circle... a run. You know, I don’t know Buddy’s mom’s name. I just know her as the nice woman who waited for me from 5:30-ish until I got there at 6 and we would walk a couple of laps with the dogs and I would need to go back to get Sarah out of the shower. I had all these grandiose plans about contemplative walking meditation and prayer. Those were supplanted by two dogs and two moms meeting one another in joy. The last day before we went on our vacation, there was a woman sleeping in the park. She was huddled under her sleeping bag and three dogs, off leash, greeted her with curious growls and yips. It seems there are more and more homeless people in our neighbourhood and it worries me for Sarah – and it worries me for them. She looked up at me and declared, “I am not homeless, I am having a hard time.” I said, “Well, I was homeless and it wasn’t safe for me. Get off these streets as soon as you can. For men, it’s one thing – for women, quite another.”

The days ticked on by and Christopher and I texted each other on our cell phones sometimes six or eight times in a day. I don’t think one day went by that we didn’t talk at some point on the phone and life just continued. There were bills to be paid, dishes to be done, laundry on Wednesdays. I entertained myself with lunches out with my cousin-in-law, Bill and my mum-in-law, Barb. My friend Gaetan would meet me with her dog, Gizmo (a Yorkie) and we would walk together and talk. Gaetan belongs, very much, to the grouping of Margo, Dani, Kay, Yancie, Krista, to the human beings I have chosen to call my family. I think I might have found a friend up here, maybe. I am reluctant – at best – to form face to face human friendships because I am solitary and lazy when it comes to relationships. But I found that this does not make for a healthy SueAnn when my best friend is in New Brunswick; it is something that needs work. I depend upon my husband far too much to be everything for me and need to grow past that.
And so I did.

Our vacation is another blog, it was magical and this is our last full day of fun in the sun... Wendy is coming after lunch and we’re going to talk about the history of Stone Cottage and her family. She’s an artist, a painter and a potter. We both have kids in their 20’s and are constantly amazed by the twists and turns of that age. It’s time to stop writing and go outside. Sarah’s already gotten smacked in the mouth by the ball, been in to the plastic baggie full of ice and her father’s lap. Then there is the beach to explore...

Blue Valentine

“I’m interested in family dramas because, you know, because I feel like in a family, you really get to know who a person is. You get to know the contrast of a person, the light and the dark inside of a person.” – Derek Cianfrance

I watched a movie last night called Blue Valentine. The cinematography spoke when the characters were not provided words and it seemed to me that the writer wasn’t sorting out his parents’ marriage or juxtapositioned questions of self. Cianfrance had made this movie speak to a much larger population. In the interviews, it’s mentioned that he re-wrote the script 75 times, that the film took 12 years to make and that the actors lived together as a married couple… creating budgets, grocery shopping and having Christmas. In the world of digital manipulation, I found it intriguing that Michelle Williams had signed up and sat with this script for 6 years and Ryan Gosling had it for 4 before the story came into its own.

Sorted in with the on-line reviews was Jackie Cooper’s: “Gosling and Williams are terrific but the movie is a downer from start to finish. Not just ‘Blue,’ this is a ripped, torn and shredded Valentine.” Why do people think that looking inside the why’s of what we do as human beings is a bummer? It’s the journey. If life has a sign up sheet of “okay, check off this lesson and learn it” then this film would be a term paper on romance, on marriage, on how we love one another and harm one another. It would be a very clear reminder to all of us to embrace the reasons we fell in love to begin with and to hold onto them like a preserver when the tides get rough…and boringly normal.

Gosling commented that if he had to shoot the movie again, he couldn’t because he had put everything he had out there and, afterward, had to do a comedy with Steve Carrell just to shake it off. Williams said that as the script was being written, and re-written, her life’s perceptions had changed and she brought to it this agonizing restless ambition, the drive to have the two cars, the picket fence, all of the “things” we are supposed to have. Both characters lost sight of what they had, him in the quiet desperation of how do I please thee let me count the ways and she in how do I change thee and make us both so much better. How many relationships endure that?

The last scenes as the credits roll are pictures of the two of them from different times in the film, snapshots burning in July’s fireworks. Gosling said that he watched one of the pictures burning, crisping into a heart shape from the outside where the only remainder was their lips touching. I would imagine as the house lights came up, the married couples were reaching for one another’s hands.

It was a Blue Valentine.

Birds of Paradise

In the month of June, Relay for Life events pop up like dandelions; they are everywhere. Rita and I were talking with one another at work, she is from our Sault Ste. Marie office and I am located in Sudbury. I had divulged to her that my best friend had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and I felt badly because I couldn’t go to Texas to be there for her when she went for her mastectomy. Rita suggested that was there was something I could do – I could walk in her honour. She said that she had a list of 37 people she was walking for and I knew that one of those people was…Rita. She is a survivor of breast cancer.

Sarah and I headed for the Sault at 8:00 on Friday night. She had been on a field trip that day and spent six hours on a bus. We were getting ready to spend three and one-half more and that day, everything tried to get in my way of going. First it was that the person that was going to take Sarah for the weekend bailed and I couldn’t go until later. Then we headed out and I had forgotten to fill the car up. That’s a big mistake in North Ontario. You don’t head anywhere out of Sudbury without a full tank. So, we were 30 kilometres down the road and had to turn around because I didn’t know where the next gas station was. It seems like I wasn’t supposed to go. Then I thought about my best friend. About how she taught me to go to any lengths and she didn’t stop and wait for a good time; she trudged ahead in spite of common sense and took me in anyway.

We arrived in the Sault at midnight-ish and there were still people on the track. Thank God that the Relays for Life go all night long because I would have missed it. I called Rita from the parking lot and Sarah and I snapped a picture.

I’m here to tell you that Sarah looked I felt. Rita greeted us at the gate and off we went. People were all over the place. She said that it had thinned quite a bit from the beginning of the night because there wasn’t room to pass another person on the track when she started. People were walking six lanes across in clumps. There were the signature candle tributes to people who had passed, who were in treatment, who were just diagnosed – who survived cancer. I remembered from the first RFL event I attended and I asked where the word “Hope” was located. This group had added additional instructions.


We stopped to read the tributes and I found myself biting the insides of my cheeks because there were children’s faces shining back at me.



Rita told me her story as we walked around the track; of her initial diagnosis, of the lumpectomy and of the chemo afterward. She told me about her hair growing back and the divine discovery of a Julia Roberts’-like blonde wig from “Pretty Woman.” What I saw on Rita’s face was sheer determination. She had seen her worst fears realized and walked through them – and past them.

The next morning I woke at the ungodly hour of 10:00 a.m. I don’t think I’ve slept until 10 (seriously) for five or six years, maybe longer. Something was answered for me that night and I slept without dreaming. Rita was already up and in the kitchen making coffee. Sarah was in the shower and we had about fifteen minutes to trade the opening exchanges of spirit that women do. I read her my favourite passage out of Richard Bach’s “Illusions” and she showed me two recent purchases…birds of paradise. Rita loves birds. She writes children’s books. One that she allowed me to see early on was about hummingbirds. Whereas my writing would send children into therapy for years; Rita has a way that she educates while she is providing warm instruction. She is a Mommy to her toes.

Ruth is Rita’s sister and I believe they have one sister in between them, Helga. The baby is Karin. Ruth arrived for coffee and we sat on the back patio in comfy chairs greeting the morning chattering louder (with more laughter) than the birds. Ruth looked over at Rita and said, “You have something on your cheek, here…” and she reached over and brushed whatever it was away. Then Rita said, “You’re really looking good. Getting ready for your daughter’s wedding?” I watched them together and the casual way that they took care of one another without forethought or embarrassment – sisters. I find that when women are gathered together we discuss the things that make everyone uncomfortable – the squishy, emotional things, the secrets. To me, that is a chief strength in women – our stories, our ability to give the knowledge away that we’ve earned and stumbled upon. When Ruth made to leave, I asked if I could take a picture or two of them. The first one was beautiful.


That’s Ruth on the left and Rita on the right. The second one was unexpected and it was more beautiful.


Ladies – this is what we do for one another. We are the birds of paradise.

Alone

Chris is away for seven weeks in New Brunswick. For the last eleven years, twelve in June, he is has been my constant companion. Constant through even fistfuls of fear pushing at him, constant through sludging through the past looking for seashells, constant through job loss, money woes, all of those things that make marriage a truly grand place to be. Before he left he asked me why I push him away when I am afraid. I'm working on that answer.

You know, I think frequently about the absolute silence I receive when I write and I wonder if my words are too self-pitying, or angry... or how is it that they make others so very silent. I've always wanted to be popular, hence the whole sit on Oprah's couch goal; but I remain awkward. I am alone in a room full of people. I am alone with people reaching out to shake my hand. I am alone in my writing, I can only hear my own thoughts. I'm quite certain the only fiction I'll ever write is self-delusion.

Why is that ok? For my entire existence I've sought the approval of other human beings. I can't even say that I think we all do, because I don't know that. I only know me. I think I've been afraid -- stark terror afraid -- of being alone because I am alone with me.

The veil of depression is that I never know when the veil is on and when it is off. I can sense frustration, anger, all of the symptoms of the disease of doubt. Is it really depression or is it that my husband is away for six more weeks and I don't know how to be alone?

I have a new friend. She has been extending her hand and I'm afraid to take it. I pass her by in the car and wave. I motion that I'm in a hurry. I can't go to meet tonight, Sarah needs me. I can't meet tonight I have to grocery shop. Gotta run -- I'm late, I'm late for a very important -- you finish the rest. I've justified in my mind that I am on retreat. The dog walks in front of me and runs circles around my legs; all I can hear is the sound of the sand crunching on the track and the prayers I am saying out loud.

"...release me from the bondage of self so that I might better know thy will..."

Made a Decision

I'm up at 1:59 a.m. and I have the kid upstairs to thank for it. I never realized that not getting my sleep was so disturbing to me -- until I wasn't getting it. Funny how perceptions change, isn't it? At 19 years old or 20... being up at 2:00 in the morning meant a really good party was going on. At 23 years old, it meant that Ben wanted his bottle and at 25 years old it meant that Katie wanted hers. I slept pretty well through until age 35 when Sarah came along and then I promptly turned her and her bottle over to her father. At 44 I walked into my employer's office rubbing my eyes going, "what the hell is this?" Turns out a lot of women in their mid-40's aren't sleeping, don't sleep...and they don't die from it either. Who knew?

So, at 45 -- I've made a decision. I'm going to use these sleepless hours to write. Warning: I might write things that make absolutely no sense to anyone but me. Well, hell, isn't that what blogs are for?

I've been reading this book by Iyanla Vanzant called "Peace from Broken Pieces" and when I wrote The Truth About Whales I really thought that my experience would help someone, anyone. When I didn't get the responses that I thought I should, I wondered what the purpose was in the writing, at all. Self-promotion was exhausting and unfulfilling, at best. Finally, I resigned myself to the fact that I wrote the book for the one person who needed it the most -- me. This is what I am understanding from Ms. Vanzant's experience. All of the "victimhood" in my life to date has been voluntary and oh my God, if you only knew how shocked I am to have written those words.

In my spiritual journey for this lifetime I have chosen the victim role many times in my living. Sometimes I didn't have much in the way of choice -- until I was 10 or 20 years down the path still reliving what happened. That was my choice.

The greatest, kindest, most difficult and heartbreaking thing my son taught me was that I have no control whatsoever about what happens to another human being. I can be a part of their path, their living, their time here -- but it isn't my business to fix them. That belongs to them -- and in my belief, to God.

No one could have helped me if I hadn't sought it. Even in a stupor I was seeking. Twelve step recovery programs talk a lot about sobriety being a gift. I think that the grace I was given to be breathing up until the minute I found AA was the gift. What happened from 1986 until March 22, 2011 has been about choice. Today, this is what I have learned.

My husband just arrived and told me to go to bed. :)

The Walk

I have the stomach flu and I am irritable and grumpier than usual. I stayed home from work yesterday and slept all day long – it was wonderful and I needed it. This morning I got up, got my clothes out for work, opened the refrigerator door and just about heaved. Picked up the phone and called in sick again.

For those of you who don’t live in Canada, we have walk-in clinics that you can go to if you aren’t feeling well. They’re very convenient, but sometimes you might sit for two hours or more to be able to see the doctor. I just wanted to know if what I had wasn’t an ulcer. So I brought my book and picked up #89, waiting to be called like I was there for take-out.

People watching is my hobby because I believe that there are countless stories in conversations, in the way people sit, in how their bodies move. I watch them all the time and stories swirl in my brain. It’s great entertainment if you don’t have the stomach flu.

I should physically describe myself. I’m 5’1” and I weigh about 220 pounds. On top of that, my hair is spiked, I’ve got black circles under my eyes and when my face has no expression at all, I look surly. People often think I’m angry when I’m not even mildly peeved. It’s kind of embarrassing really because, inside, I’m a ball of emotion and I cry at the drop of a hat...or at least a good GE commercial, anyway.

Sitting in the chair as far away from the door as possible, away from any infants, with my back to the wall – I settled in with my book and was all snugly inside my blanket-coat. Before Christmas, my husband took me coat shopping at the French River Trading Post and I finally got the rainbow-colored sweater coat that I had eyeballed for two years. It’s particularly warm and cozy; and it is so thick that the coat requires its own seat at the movies. Reading, I heard this little boy. He was babbling and singing; fidgeting in his chair and generally being all of 3 or maybe 4 years old. I looked up from my book and smiled in his direction, letting everyone around me know that the surly woman in the gay pride coat was thinking that the little monster was cute. Smile!

Creeping silently back into my book, I tried to concentrate on a paragraph and I heard his mother say, “Stop being so bad! Stop talking to me like that!” He was standing in front of her and she had her hand around his wrist. The younger woman she had with her was trying to circumvent whatever was happening and pulled the boy away to put him on her lap. Then she placed him back on the chair and they played rock, paper, scissors until both of them lost interest. I went back to my book.

“STOP playing with those blinds! I told you to behave...” the mother leaned over him and was face to face, scowling. She didn’t even have the temerity to whisper. Personally, I always used to say to my kids – in a whisper – “If you haven’t realized it yet – you keep behaving that way and sooner or later we’re going to be alone.” Generally, that got their attention right away. The next question in your mind, did I make good on my threat? Stupidly, the answer is yes. More than I would ever care to admit, I promise you.

Ok, so now I’m talking to myself in my head and I’m saying, “SueAnn, this is none of your business. Yes, she grabbed his wrist, yes she twisted it. Yes, she got right in his face...” and I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. It was the old fight or flight feeling of “I have to say something. I have to protect him. I have to stand up and deck her properly.” So I continued talking in very stern tones to myself, “You are a grown up. If you deck her it’s called assault. This is socially unacceptable behaviour. And besides, you are that brash American Yank living in Canada where the people are polite and don’t go up and deck bad mommies.” Back to the book... my stomach was doing belly flops in stress acid.

I could feel it. I could feel the little girl in me going, “Be good. Be good and she’ll be nice to you.” Well, yeah, that’s me, and it happened a long, long time ago. And I wrote a book and outted my bad mommy. That isn’t this woman, it’s not today. It’s a memory.

“If you don’t stop what you are doing, I’m going to take you for a walk.” She’s got him by the wrist again and he’s kicking his snow boots at her, not a full out tantrum but he’s scared and not willing to back down. Other people are coughing politely into their hands and looking away. I get up half out of my chair and then sit back down. I’m too angry to do what I want to do. So I sit and watch. I’ve put my book down and I’m looking right at her. I won’t break my stare. I smile. She has no idea what is smiling at her.

Finally, after what seems to be hours, they are called into the office and he walks past me. I want to grab him and say, “Listen – you talk about those walks, ok? You tell everybody within earshot about what happens on those walks. Ok?” And I don’t. I duck my head into my book and lament that I had my chance to say something and it has passed. Admittedly, I feel relief.

The woman, her friend, and that little boy walk out the door. I go into see the doctor and they’re gone from the lobby when I get out. So I’m walking toward the doors between the clinic and the pharmacy and here comes that mother – and she’s alone. I’ve got her now.

“Excuse me? Ma’am? “ My Texas is coming out. “Excuse me?” She turns to look at me and stops, even though she’s in a hurry. She’s young. Her eyes are light green... almost sea green. She has braces. “Erm... well, I couldn’t help but hear what was going on in there and I want you to know that you have a smart little boy. He knows how to push your buttons.” She smiled, “Yes, he’s a handful, he really does.” “Well, ma’am... boys like that will push every button you have if you let them know what they are...and he’s a smart little boy.” She nodded, still smiling, and my heart was calming. I smiled at her again. “But ma’am, one more thing, I have a suggestion. The next time he acts up like that – YOU take the walk by yourself, ok? He doesn’t need any more walks.” She stopped smiling and got the message.

You just never know who is listening in the clinic. You might just end up on YouTube... or at the end of the arm of a 220 pound woman who is walking down memory lane.

Who Knew

You know, we cry less now. And I'm not saying that to make you feel guilty in Heaven. I don't think guilt exists in Heaven, anyway. It's a hallmark that joy comes more frequently than the sorrow -- or even just a day, a plain old day. Plain old days come before the gut-twistng "why's," now, or the dull ache of just not wanting to feel anything at all. Those days are over. Thank God.

When the grief of your loss visits me, I know it isn't you. I used to wonder if you were settling your soul upon my body so I could taste what you felt that day; so that my questions would be answered bit by bit. I say taste because at those times I would feel this bitterness well up in me and it would come out of every opening on my face. It would wash and wash through me and out me until I could physically taste the grief.

Grief is such a polite word. That wasn't grief. It was anguish, it was torture, it was C.S. Lewis' "the eternal vivisector." NOW I understand what he meant! It's regret. I think I'm going to make regret a swear word in our house, just like we did with hate. You can drop the f-bomb in the house and get away with it. Say hate, and all three of my kids could say it in chorus, "Don't say hate, say 'dislike intensely.'"

Pink wrote a song called "Who Knew" and in the video they make it about a romance, about a boy/girl break-up. The lyrics speak too plainly and I'll let them finish what I have to say here. I was walking the dog this morning and the song came on. I jokingly told Chris that I sobbed in the jail parking lot, I snuffled on Applegrove Street. I horked up a big old ball of snot on Alder Street and by the time I got to our door it had almost passed. I sat on the steps in the hallway, took off my boots and the dog dried me off instead of me drying him off. You'd really like him, Ben.

I'm sending you a note to Heaven to tell you that you haven't been forgotten and you will never be forgotten. You are loved... imperfectly, sloppily and with lots of tissues, loved.

Mom

Who Knew <~~~~ click please

How do you know a Christian?

Now, I know a lot of people who talk about being a “Christian.” They belong to the most attended church in town. They are active in the adult Sunday school; they even serve on the church council. Some of them are leaders in their communities, publicly recognized for their efforts. None of this is a put down. I congratulate them on their efforts. They might even give money to a homeless person if they knew he or she wouldn’t drink it or shoot it in their veins. Those are what I call christians.

One lady, I’ll never forget her. She worked at the food bank here in Sudbury. I really liked her, a writer. We bumped shopping carts at the local Food Basic and she asked me what I was doing since I wasn’t volunteering at the food bank anymore. At that time, I was working with the volunteers at the Elgin Street mission on Saturday mornings, serving breakfast. She commented, “Oh, I see. Well, you know, the school that I come from says that we don’t help people giving them food for free.” Yeah – to quote Bill Engvall – there’s your sign. She’s a christian.

On the opposite side of the aspen tree is Kate. Kate is one of those fiery Scots – probably from a long line of Presbyterians. She used to work the Highland games slinging cans of haggis for recreation. Since I’ve known her, she’s worked in a couple of different jobs and been part of at least two 12-step programs, maybe three. She’s got a cat that’s skirting the edge of mortality. She was one of the first people to recognize my ire at God because it was something we shared. All this mumbo-jumbo about God being nice; what’s up with that? God is the entity that brought us more misery than anything. Because all this time we thought we were doing good -- bad things were happening. Children turned away from us. Money dogged us at every turn and we spent years in financial insecurity. And here we were, praying like mad – to the maddest of Matter. Ok, ok… anti-matter.

Kate and I have had more than one discussion that ended with, “I don’t know why God doesn’t like me.” The thing I find so odd about her is that she’s the one who gives me books about Father Tim, the Episcopal priest in Jan Karon’s Mitford series. Kate was the one who held my hand via email, telephone and any way she could when my son died. Every single time she showed up was when I was in the midst of a wrestling match with the Almighty – carrying messages full of “keep breathing, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day.” She doesn’t shy away from saying, “Yeah, your God… you know what the hell He did to me this time?” And I laugh and ask her to tell me all about what He did. If doubt were a religion – both of us would be elders in the church by now.

So, here’s a quandary. “Religious Tolerance says the most common definition of a Christian is one who is ‘a follower of Christ and his teachings.’”

I don’t know if Kate is a follower of Christ. If it’s the same guy I’m thinking of, she’s more of a bar stool mate. His teachings? Well, let’s give some examples:

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” – Matthew 5:7

I know that every single time I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth to the point of swallowing my ankle, Kate didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

“When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” – Matthew 6:5-6

The story of Father Tim arrived on my doorstep when I was angrier with God than I had ever been in my life. I was so angry with Him that I wasn’t yelling anymore. I was silent in my rage because I didn’t have the energy or the will left to fight. A card and a book arrived in the mail. The card said, “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.” On the inside, written in the prettiest cursive I know, it said, “I really do believe in you – you’re one of the toughest, most resilient people I’ve ever had the privilege to know…and remember the promises – it will get better!”

Recently, Kate was telling me that Charlie requires medication that she can barely afford, her physical pain is tearing at her and she doesn’t really know how much longer she can hold on to – well, anything. She’s tired.

Today, I came home from work and I’m tired. I think I’ve got a touch of the flu combined with a dose of the “I miss my children being in my house-itis.” Most of all, I think I miss my eldest daughter because she’s growing up and away from me. Hell, she was growing up and away from me at 12, but I didn’t mind it as long as I had charge over her laundry. I had some measure of control then, anyway, right? No clean underwear for you!

In the mail today was a package from K8’s Books and I knew, immediately, that Christmas had arrived on my doorstep. It was a copy of Fannie Flagg’s book, “A Redbird Christmas.” And Kate – I know that redbirds and cardinals are different, but my sponsor believes that when a cardinal shows up at your door, someone who has passed to Heaven is thinking about you. I believe that when a redbird from California shows up on my door, I’ve been blessed by a Scottish angel.

I’ve got something for you, my friend. God isn’t angry with you. God isn’t punishing you. God isn’t about that – and you already know all of these things. I think you shout them to me because you know that we are clanging… symbols. We are channels of His peace, teachers and students of the capital “C” Christianity. And no, silly, I don’t believe that Christ is, was or ever will be the only way to God. I believe he was a carpenter’s son – a fisherman’s and a whore’s best friend. Being a capital “C” Christian is not about spouting your beliefs – it’s about sitting, holding hands in the darkest days of doubt and waiting patiently for good things to return. You know, they always – in all ways -- do.

Here’s my Christmas certainty for you – my friend.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” - Matthew 6:25-26ish

Amen. <~~~ click, please….

Parachute

I keep trying to write this book about being happy. It’s only fair, right? You write a book about the darkest times of your living – and subject people to those night terrors; so, now, you need to show them the light in your living. The fact is that I’m not there right now. I’m in a place that I’ve revisited so many times in my living that I’ve lost count. I’ve removed my finger from the page in my heart and stuck it in my ear to futilely block the raging, internal dialogue.

One of the things that carried me in my life is my ability to keep track. When the controller of my company (note that word, controller) asks me where he put the piece of paper that justifies this purchase or that “clawback” – I walk into my office, know exactly where to lay my hand. It’s simple. If you always do things the exact same way, if you label the folder, if you staple the pieces together, it’s always easy to find. Then, I get my pat on the head or the back, my reward.

Why can’t I do that with my life? Why can’t I put away the pieces that hurt me? By this time, I should be able to take the story and neatly file it away, compartmentalizing it so that the tendrils of shame or self pity don’t wrap themselves around my arms and pull me headfirst into the filing cabinet, abruptly slamming in regret. I continue to offer my open arms to the past, to the things over which I had no control.

The song, “Parachute” has been non-stop repeat in my brain for the last month. I admit that it is “The Wind Beneath My Wings” kind of pop pabulum with a good, universal message.

“And when the world gets sharp and tries to cut you down to size
And makes you feel like giving in,
Oh, I will stay, I will reign, I will wash the words and pain away
And I will chase the way we push, the way we pull
You’re beautiful.”1

My mind gyrates at 3:34 in the morning and I move from side to side trying to find comfort. Why did this person at work choose to send that piece of paper out into the void without asking my permission? Do I have the right to give them permission? I have the knowledge, I have the responsibility, I have the title – but not the respect. So I get in there and demand my respect because if no one in the entire universe is going to stand up for SueAnn, damn it… I will.

Wow. Now there’s a control freak on the loose if I ever heard one. Save yourself from the hurricane of “Cover My Ass” paranoia, find shelter! The truth of the matter is that the employee never thought about what kind of terrorizing effect this would have on my ego. Never took a split second before putting that piece of paper out to whoever it was and hit the “send” button on the fax. Much the same way that I didn’t have an inkling of what I was doing when I originated the same sin a couple months back in the reverse direction; the machine was in movement, get out of my way, I’m busy.

Friday morning I was in the bathtub and I had the entire day off. I was reading the last bits of a book, a cherished book, telling me to take care of myself. Not – “Hey, SueAnn, go out and seek a massage, a spa, a retreat in the Caribbean.” It was saying, “Be your own advocate.” Well, what’s the difference between an advocate and a bully? Perception. Again, and for the billionth time in my learning, it’s all about perception.

The people who have been reading The Truth About Whales get quiet. They don’t know what to say. I’m standing in front of them, as a child, a teenager and an adult with a ten foot sign that says, “I was harmed.” How long do I have to carry that sign? It’s an old sign. It’s been used a lot. And now, it’s out in print in a whirlwind of no control. The reviews I find most frightening are the ones that nail me as a survivor, as someone championing a cause. Yet, that’s the same printing on my sign, isn’t it?

Is the insanity ego? Tell me it isn’t ego because, well, that’s just embarrassing, common, and disgustingly normal. In the school of the human condition, I want to be an “A” student. I want my academy award. I want to say, in my best and most girlish voice ever, “You like me. You really, really like me.”

Secretly, the truth is that I’m sick of my sign. I’m exhausted from the worry and the anger of carrying it. I want, desperately, to take care of SueAnn and have not a clue on the face of the earth exactly how to do that. Re-runs of Glee and Hershey’s Kisses do not keep the stories at bay.

In that same book, the author says that we have to champion our thoughts. If we have no control over the things that enter our minds, or that happened to us as children; then we do have to find a way to think responsibly. Meditation might help. Taking a breath before the rant, or at least twenty-four hours before hitting “send,” might help. For me, putting down the sign and stepping quietly away from the past is a good start.




~~~~~~~~
Please... by all means, go listen and buy that pop pabulum song, Parachute... it's just wonderful.

1 - Monahan, Pat and Gregg Wattenberg. “Parachute” Lyrics. Save Me, San Francisco. Columbia 2009.

How to Make Pierogies

Some people mark their family with baptisms and weddings. Others find one another again and again at the annual family reunion. I found mine in the half-moons of dough and cheesy mashed potato filling.

Lisa rings me up. My English friends say that and I love it... "rings me up." Lisa is my sister-in-law and she's back in the arms (and nosey goodness) of her family here in Sudbury. She calls and says, "We're getting together to make pierogies at Tracy's. Wanna come?" Do I want to come. Are you kidding? Going to Tracy's house with family is fun. It's laughter and Niamh, our then three or four year old niece, flooding the bathroom. She was standing there watching the water flow over her hands making tiny rivers to the kitchen. It's Brian's playful grabs at Tracy's apron strings and Tracy, full of a whole two glasses (or three) of red wine, falling asleep in his lap. My daughter, Sarah, calls the Lands the "Big Family." So, I've got the receiver in my hand and I'm laughing at Lisa's welcome call... saying, "Oh, hell yes, I'll come."

We've been threatening to get together and make pierogies from scratch since I got here in the winter of 2005. Aunt Polly is the most famous of the pierogy makers, she made them for my wedding as her gift to us. Barb, my mother-in-law, always says that making them used to be a six-beer job. Her children, then, were an assembly line of kneading, cutting, rolling and stamping out circular dough pieces.

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 large beaten eggs
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/3 cup water

(Now, that's only dough for 1 1/2 to 2 dozen pierogies according to About.com...to do what we were doing you need a bit more than that)

When we got there, my sister-in-law, Steph was getting the baby, Deirdre, out of their new Dodge Grand Caravan. The woman has four children, she needs a Caravan. Isla was in her seat crying because her tummy wasn't feeling good and Daddy was taking her home. Rhys, their son, proudly showed my husband, Chris, how the speakers got turned on and off at the steering wheel and Jeff, Steph's husband, was showing me how the floor moved back to reveal hidden storage space for things like... Christmas gifts. Jeff, Rhys and Isla took off for home. Chris took off for the armories. I followed Steph and the girls into Tracy's house -- glad to be around family. Niamh and Sarah immediately took off for the playroom in search of tea sets and Barbies.

"Look, she's walking..." Lisa was following after Deirdre as she toddled around the kitchen headed straight for the same stairs that all of the kids had learned to come up and down upon. Tracy reached for the baby gate as naturally as reaching for a tea towel.

It's all the girls, minus Tracy's daughter, Elizabeth, who was hosting a movie night for the Women's Center and my sister-in-law, Martha, who was missing us, too, at her home in Cambridge. Both names were mentioned and they were counted among us, peeling potatoes. The stuffing for pierogies, one of them anyway, was mashed potatoes with cheddar cheese mixed in.

• 4 pounds mashed potatoes
• 1 pound shredded Cheddar cheese
• salt and pepper to taste

This is Mom (Barb) dispensing of the remaining peels, Lisa washing up and Steph grating the cheese because I didn't get a picture of us peeling potatoes, I had a knife in my hand, instead.

And this is what you have to stuff that dough with:

Tracy's Brian came downstairs long enough to eat supper and then fleetfooted it back upstairs to watch television. A kitchen full of five women is an earful for any man. All we have to do is say the word "penis" and they run for the hills. Lisa kept covering her ears... I poked at Mom, "Say it again..."

So the filling was made and our stomachs were growling. Tracy made dinner for us to that we could take a break in between shifts and Mom made rolls (some of which were immediately confiscated and put away for Libby when she got home). Her brother, Nick, walked through the door and immediately went for the rolls. There was only one left so Lisa willed him her roll and saved us all from the wrath of a roll-less Libby.

We try to get the adults to eat first so that the kids can go into the dining room -- no such luck. Sarah smelled the chicken and came out, looking at my plate with puppy eyes. Niamh followed right behind her because she had been promised that Sarah would share her Dr. Pepper. Brian wandered downstairs and Tracy joined him in the dining room with the children.

At Christmas and Easter, Tracy's house is filled to the brim with her two parents, three sisters, one brother and their spouses and their children. So, the kitchen and the dining room tables are always full. People move in between the rooms and it's always a shuffle as to what table you'll be at this year to talk with the person who was in the other room last year. The best laughter is when Nick and Jeff reenact whole scenes from Saturday Night Live's Jeopardy skits.

Alex Trebek: "What is the sound a dog makes?"

Sean Connery: "Moo."

Alex: "No, we would have accepted 'bow-wow' or 'ruff.'"

Sean: "Ahhhhh, rough is just the way your mother likes it, Trebek."

Dinner's finished, the dishes are washed and Mom is standing, counting out the ten cups of flour that we will use to make the dough. One... twooooo.... threeeeee....

Somebody starts talking about sex. It's not Lisa... And all the guys have gone back to their respective hiding places so it has to be...

Mom giggles and says, "Damn it! Now I lost count!" She begins again. One. Two. Three. Four. She punctuates each count with rapping the knife against the measuring cup and we count with her.

Below are Tracy and Lisa discussing springy dough:

Now comes the hard part and something that takes a master's touch -- rolling out the dough. Pierogy dough should be thin enough to become a casing for the potato and it tends to be a bit springy so you really have to knead it and roll it out smoothly. Not only that, but Lisa rolled out every centimetre of that dough so her arms and her back were sore by the end of the night.

See how thick that dough is? With Lisa, not for long!

Steph showed me how to stuff and seal the pierogies. You take the flat disk and spoon the stuffing on one side. You need to seal it with water. So you dip your fingers into a water bowl our a glass and trace your finger around the circumference of the circle. Then you fold half of the disk over the stuffing and crimp the edges, sealing them with the water on your fingers. It looks like this:

And this, this is me and Steph working at those wee buggers:

It was getting late...and all of us were tired but still laughing. Steph went home with Deirdre and Niamh because the baby was tired. Lisa drove them home because, unbeknownst to us, there was a freezing rainstorm going on outside while the kitchen was busy inside.

When the adults tuckered out or were busy cleaning up the pots and pans, Sarah got in the middle of it and learned to make pierogies!

**********

I don't have a picture of this last part, so I'll just describe it to you. Can you hear, in your memory, the laughter -- the easy comfort of family? Have you had meals prepared by all the hands that have hugged you, tickled you, patted your shoulder or reached out when you needed it the most?'

That's the best recipe for pierogies I know.

SJL

12/10/10

The Heart of the Matter

Mr. Henley has it right and I'm fairly certain that it took him a couple of decades to learn all of the wisdom that is contained in these verses.

"There are people in your life who've come and gone,
They let you down, you know they've hurt your pride
You better put it all behind you baby, cause life goes on
If you keep carrying that anger, it'll eat you upside,
I've been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it's about forgiveness,
Forgiveness,
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore..."

Not everyone that I know and love is going to understand what I am trying to accomplish with The Truth About Whales. They will take from their own life experience and interpret or perceive their truth in my words. There is a ton of anger in that book because that was primarily the emotion I felt when I was writing -- that and regret. I was plowing my way through twenty plus years of wreckage of the past and explaining to myself why I did the things that I did. Not what they did, what I did. Not how they felt -- how I felt. So the book was selfishly, totally and unapologetically about SueAnn. It felt like taking the ragrug in my soul outside and whacking it so loudly I woke the neighbors. When I was finished, I knew there was something put to rest inside of me and I could live with the consequences of my book.

My father did not hear the amends within the book because, contrary to what I had been told, he hadn't read it. "I choose not to live in the past" was what he said on the phone and, you know, I applaud him that. He is not the same man I knew at five and six years old so much as I am not the same child he knew, I am an adult. What I was trying to tell him so ardently was that I made nearly every single mistake that I knew of -- that he had made -- and I understood. Blame has a very difficult time withstanding self discovery. For all of us, I think that is what age achieves. We finally know what it is to stand in someone else's shoes and go, "Oh, that's why."

Last night a friend emailed me and said, "I didn't like the book on many levels" and my ego immediately went, "But...but...but..." Today I'm waiting to find out exactly what it was she found objectionable (gee, there are SO many things that are downright narcissistic and rude about my book -- which one to pick). A couple of people who have known me for years and years said, "You were too hard on yourself about x, y and z." Well -- I was hard on the majority of the people who played any part of my life - still am. I always have questioned - and judged -- and will question some more, it is who I am as a human being.

What keeps going through my head and my heart is, "It's about forgiveness." Well, hell...that's the sequel, isn't it -- after all.

Collecting the Shells

Happy Mother's Day to all of the women who raised me. The short list includes: Dolly, Shirley, Margo, Leslie, Charlotte, Danielle, Jonna, Sarah, Kate, Mary, Barb, Bev, Elaine and Lorraine.

I woke up this morning at 4:00 and realized that I had to write. My muse is an early riser and she does her best between 3 and 4, so I knew exactly who it was. "Aw com'n..." I mumbled and attempted to nestle back into our newly foam covered mattress. No such luck. Then my mind started to whirl with the pictures and the glimpses of what I should be up writing about. I saw Dolly's picture in my mind, the one of her as a child. I think that is my comforting frame of reference because children are blameless. Right behind that I thought to myself that I had been beating her over the head and shoulders for most of my life -- and that's when the tears came. Rather than cry all over the pillow and cause my husband to wake from yet another night of sound sleep to entertain my muse... this is what I wrote.

~~~

It took me twenty years to catalogue my anger, to tell the story, to have it in my hands as proof positive that I wasn’t imagining it all and I really did have the right to be upset. At the end of the book, I was much as where I began, with a death that I could not solve and my own life to appraise, find the faults and the forgiveness… and move on.

I met an author on a website slush pile, a place for people to present their writings and back one another’s quest to become published, finally. She claimed to be a medium and I gave her the socially-acceptable amount of doubt and lit my candle quietly, sitting there hoping that she might choose me. She did. Her message back to me was that my mother, the same mother that I had skewered publically to all of my family, friends and complete strangers passing by, forgave me. She forgave me for my anger. Lorraine told me that when I got stuck writing, I could ask my mother for help and she would give me the words.

If I could go back and pick up the pieces of the eggs lying scattered on the slate floor of my memory, my hands would not go unguided. There would be hands that were slightly darker than mine with their nails manicured and painted in 1970’s green glitter. She would wipe the makeup that was smeared on my face with her tears and spit and I would flinch away giggling, “Mommy – ewwww.” When I asked her to explain the marks to me she would tell me the whole story, holding nothing back, and admit to me that she was in more pain than my child’s mind could fathom. I could hold her pain, for just a second, because she wanted me to find the catalyst for forgiveness. Then, she would reach for me and help me to stand up again from the floor where I laid waiting for the slap that never came.

For twenty years I waited and when the opportunity came to deny me the right to tell my story – she chose instead to guide my hands, picking up the pieces together.

Letter to Ben - March 4, 2010

Dearest Ben...

So I thought I was finished the book and wondered if our communication had come to an end because I ... finished the book. The anniversary of your death came and went without so much as a whisper because I was embroiled in the recovery from surgery gone amok...

...I'm not finished. I'll never be finished because I will never forget you... or put you aside. I want to. I want the grief to be at an end, to close the chapter, put the book on the shelf as Kegerreis wisely advised. It is not possible.

It is not possible because you lived. It is not possible because I have work to do in your honor -- in our honor, in the name that we chose at birth and will die with the same. Then we will enter into the next phase of learning. I wonder who you will be next. I wonder if I have already seen your eyes sparkling back at me, your mouth formed in a infant's hello. Or if you trotted past me wearing fur... it is possible!

I'm writing to tell you I haven't forgotten. I'm writing to tell you that our work is not over and I need you. I'm writing to tell you that I love you with all my heart and my life isn't the same without you in it -- so here you are, selfishly snatched from Heaven's embrace to walk the ghostly plane with your obsessive mother. Perhaps I am lingering, holding on to the wisps of your comet light. I shall be grateful for it, anyway... for having had you at all.

With much love...
Mom

What's Next?

I finished the book last week -- the one I've been writing for the last twenty years or so. I don't really have any rushing feelings of relief or joy. It's done! There's this sense of calm. Kegerreis was right. Just because the book is finished doesn't mean that it isn't a part of who I am as a human being. I've put it up on the shelf and will remove it to edit for publication and after publication, I'll bring it down to help anyone that asks.

February 1st is right around the corner. This will mark the 4th year that Ben is gone. Recently he came to visit and it was ... well, it was wonderful. I was preparing for surgery, I had a boobechtomy (fancy word I know) and I was afraid. I was having a major part of my anatomy reduced and didn't really know what to expect. I asked for God to give me a direct sign that everything was going to be ok. Reading Buechner's sermons inspired me to go directly to the source and say, "Puh-lease let me know this isn't a dumb decision."

I got up in the morning and turned on the TV to watch the weather/news and lo and behold Robin Williams was talking with Annabella Sciora in her version of hell, her doubt.

I grinned... "Hello Ben." What Dreams May Come was our favorite movie, mother and son. I sat there for a bit in silence, tears dropping... and grinning like an idiot. I had my sign. My angel was watching over me. I told Chris and Sarah and then resolved that I was probably just looking for signs. Man, it doesn't take long for doubt to creep back in, does it? Went to work, cleaned off my desk, said "See you soon" to my co-workers and went home carrying my feelings of generalized anxiety.

Went into the bedroom, turned the TV on to watch weather/news and hollered, "Sarah, come here, I'm not crazy!" Cuba Gooding Jr. was showing Robin Williams that he needed to move on.

So do I.

Have You Ever Seen an Angel?

Really a rough draft... submitted it today to "Soul's Code." Let's see what happens. I haven't written anything at all for months, really...

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Did you ever see an angel?

Today was a rough day. Seems like every Saturday morning I show up lately there's an undercurrent at the mission. I only go every two weeks because that's all the stimulation I can stand at a time. There are so many souls,so many of them in transition, in stasis, so many of them trying to fend off whatever haunts the alleyways of their path. Today we distributed a little bit over two hundred plates. That could mean that one hundred people came up for seconds. And then again, we ran out of plates because there weren't enough in the cupboard to make the cycle of eating, dispensing, washing,steaming and back on the counter again to feed. So we started putting a hard boiled egg, a piece of bacon, a piece of a mozzarella cheese and two pieces of toast in pink plastic cereal bowls. It's very difficult to tell someone that they've already had two plates and they can't have anymore until after11:00 a.m. when we are fairly certain everyone has been fed at least once. You know they are ravenous, and not just for food.

I stood and served today even though I came in announcing that I was in a funk and didn't want to mess with people today. I didn't want to say, "Good morning, would you like a piece of cheese," I wanted to say, "Leave me the hell alone." That's what depression does for me; it pulls me back away from all of the chaos of living and sits with me, silent, watching. There are seasons where too many feelings circulate for my brain and my heart to process all of them; too many thoughts and not enough energy for them all. An empathetic soul is not without limitation or want.

The mission is a place where people in Sudbury come to be fed. The food is free, and some people argue that we're not helping people by giving them food. We should be giving them programs. Well, I've lived on the street before and there were days where all I wanted was an egg and a piece of bacon. The people who come are young, so young that they still have the arrogance of "I should have." Some are old, and they come not for the food, but for the company. I can feel their stories radiate off of them. Everyone is there for a purpose. Who am I to dictate what the purpose is? I'm there to serve.

It's very hard not to get attached to the people, even though the meager training I have says to keep my distance. Evidently, the professor who advised me against a career in social work was correct. I feel them and I can't tell you that it is always pleasant. I'm repaying a debt I incurred when I was nineteen and twenty years old, with the arrogance of "I should have."

Of course there are favourites. Of course there are people with whom you connect and you want to help them, to somehow make a difference. It's excruciating to watch them cycle in their moods or their psychosis. We have a young woman who has gone from hugging to wrenching and trying to pummel in two short months. She thought she was pregnant, and I'm certain she went off of her meds; only to cycle again into the disease of self-medicating. She lost the baby. Angry, she's walks up to the counter and steals a handful of napkins. She doesn't want food. It's like approaching a dog that's tied at the post. "Don't take so many, there are so many others." Do you come back with extra napkins in your hand or a hand at all? When do you comfort, and when do you fear?

After everyone was served, after the bowls and plates and discarded food was rounded up from the tables; washed, cleaned, dispensed of, we were alone to catalogue the goings on. Our friend, our favourite is banned from the mission for an indefinite period of time. She's smashing cups outside, she's defiant and angry. She's hurt and hurting others; threatening other customers who can't or won't speak up.

We look for angels in our midst when it is convenient. We offer to perform charity work for the self gratification or the repayment of debt. We serve to satisfy the hunger within our own souls.

Yes, I know, there are angels in our midst; but have you ever seen an angel?

Thank you, Julie Powell

My daughter went to a birthday party tonight at Build-a-Bear. There are only so many opportunities to go on an actual date with my husband, Chris, and not have to pay a babysitter. The night didn't get off to a very good start. There was some miscommunication in two women trying so very hard not to inconvenience one another and we were standing in the Build-a-Bear with all of the fur-lined backpacks and sparkly Hannah Montana flip flops with a lady who called herself "Grandma" saying, "Why don't you and your husband join the party?"

Lady -- I don't want to join the party, I want to go to dinner with my husband and get to "Julie and Julia" by 6:40 p.m. She was insistent and her dentures kept clicking, punctuating her invitation. Well, I'm a Taurus with a Leo ascension. Guess who won?

Chris and I ended up at Boston Pizza anyway waiting for the child's mother to arrive so we could politely ask her to completely abandon our child to her care while we trotted off to hold hands in the dark. She said, "Yes!" Halle-freakin'-lujah.

I didn't really know what to expect of the movie. I saw the trailers and laughed at the high-pitched whine of Meryl's Streep's Julia Child. I love Amy Adams in anything and the scene where she's on the floor having a tantrum was adorable.

What I didn't count on was the writer's voice in that movie. Nora Ephron did an impeccable job blending the two stories -- but it was Julie's story that caught and held my attention. Here is this woman working listening to people's troubles after 9/11 and you can tell she's trying her very best to do a good job, be attentive and caring... and they don't care who she is or how hard she's trying. Of course they don't, they have problems a lot larger and more important. Doesn't everyone? And she's struggling and trying to find what it is about her that is going to make a difference at all. Of course I'm making all of these teenage wistful assumptions based solely on the movie -- but that's what caught me. Someone who really wanted to make a difference and found a way to do it.

Julia Child's husband told her at one point in the movie, "Your book will be published and it will be something that changes the world." Oh, how I wish... how I wish.

I've begun my blog at www.blogger.com. I'm giving it the same title that I gave my book. Warning: I don't always write about happy things. I am the Janis Ian of blogging, I'm certain. I do write honestly, however, and I write with humor even when discussing morbid obesity. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you enjoy it so much that I get published and my book changes the world.

Thank you, Julie Powell... you gave me hope. You did it!

http://juliepowell.blogspot.com/