In Thirty Minutes

In thirty minutes I leave to meet up with fellow participants at the Stonecoast Writers’ Conference. Tonight is set aside for our first check in, registration, and a commencement address. I’m feeling intimidated, out of my league, jittery...very, very small. Two nights ago I returned from an eleven day road trip with my daughter, son, and husband. Although I was filled with anxiety prior to leaving on this adventure--for I am such a worrier--I lived in the moment during those days, soaking in the sights of the different locations we visited, taking stock of how nice most people are, even when they are strangers, and reminding myself often of the speed in which the days of our lives race by, faster than those city drivers who have escaped to the freeway and who seem to enjoy honking at our van when they spot the Maine license plates.

Since getting home, safe and sound, I find myself reflecting upon how funny life can be. How emotions can sneak up on you at the strangest of times, such as when I almost cried when trying to explain to a salesclerk that the new dress my daughter was wearing had a security tag that hadn’t been taken off the day before, or when it seems God has sent you an angel in the form of the big line-backer of a hotel desk clerk who takes one look at you and who listens to the story of your recent stay in a New York City closet of a hotel room, and then decides to upgrade you to a full on suite at the lowest rate he can give you. Or the friendly waiter who, more comfortable speaking Spanish than English, tries to give you the recipe for that salsa that your 12 year old boy is wolfing down in record time.

With thirty minutes to go before I throw on a sundress and a pair of sandals, taking a quick minute to measure my face in the mirror as I think of how poorly I’ve done with that promise to drop some pounds in the past month, I try to remind myself of how sweet it’s been of friends to tell me that I’ll do great at this week of writing, and of how my husband reminded me of the importance of being confident and proud of who I am and the silliness of thinking I need to be anything different. Taking to heart this morning’s homily at Mass, it’s time for me to shake off the dust on my shoes if I should meet anyone who discounts my voice or what I have to say. It’s time for me to be open to the blessings this week will present to me, for I know there will be many. It’s time to smile at that reflection in the mirror, extra pounds, new wrinkles and all, and to have courage to continue my journey, not only as a writer, but as little ol’ worry wart, emotional, hopeful, anxious, excited, jittery, but also beautiful-in-my-own-skin me.

Draft One

Tonight I accomplished a goal of mine. I wrote out a rough draft of a short story. This may not seem like much of an achievement for someone who teaches Creative Writing and who has written close to 400 blog posts, but writing fiction has never been easy for me, and to bring a story to some point of closure is an intimidating task. In many ways, as strange as it may sound,  I feel a story of fiction is more revealing than a memoir piece and therefore, I feel very exposed in sharing this here tonight. But I am taking this bold step because to craft this story, as rough as it may be, has allowed me the chance to say, "THERE! I did it !! I wrote SOMETHING!" And from here I can only move forward. So, for better or for worse, pun intended, I'm putting my rough draft here on my blog. I welcome any comments in regards to the story, style, or functionality. I know my Fiction writing class next week will provide me with additional help too.

*****************************************************

Of Loss and Love--a Fictional Story....Draft one.


Day 15. It turns out, I’m going to be okay. I knew this all along of course, but it took the release of my spirit and of his to bring me to this point. I will never again be afraid to fall.

Day 9. Met the sweetest guy today. I’d worn my new heels, those pretty turquoise strappy wedged sandals that I had picked up last week. They were high but easy to walk in, or so I thought. I parked my car to the left of the grocery store’s entrance and as I got out of the driver’s seat, I made a quick turn back to the door when I realized I’d left my keys in the ignition. I don’t know why but I was suddenly alarmed. I had not locked the car, but for some reason, I felt the need to gasp. My friends tease me for my gasps and occasional screams over the smallest of dramas. “Oh! She dropped a spoon! How traumatic!” they tease. Well, everything would have been fine as I turned back to the door of my car if I hadn’t turned my ankle. I suddenly felt myself falling. But out of nowhere, he appeared. He caught me under my arms, a graceful dance move had we choreographed it, and he brought me back to balance. I held onto his forearms for what seemed a little too long, and then slowly let go as I turned to see who had caught me.

“Oh I am so sorry. Thank you”, I found myself sputtering an embarrassed apology.

“Are you okay? That was a close one”, my hero responded with a slight laugh.

I finally saw his face. I knew him. Didn’t I? I couldn’t place him at that particular moment, but I felt sure that I should’ve known his name. I took in his face as I reassured him that yes, I was okay. He was my age, in his late 40s, handsome with the perfect amount of crows’ feet wrinkles and slightly graying brown hair. He smiled at me but what I was most struck by was the way he looked into my eyes. It seemed he was searching for something. The intensity was subtle, as contradicting as that sounds. I, perhaps, should have been uncomfortable with how fervently he held me with those steely blue eyes of his, but on the contrary, I felt a comfort and a reassurance that I had not felt in quite some time.

As I often do, I struggled between the thought that I should move on, as gracefully as I could, and my desire to stop time, right then and there, so I could fully appreciate this moment. And as typically happens, I found myself dismissing him with another “Thank you”, one that had a tone of finality. He picked up on that, said something or other about being glad he’d been there in my moment of need, and then he was gone. Damn it. Why do I always chase people off when I most want more time with them?

Day 3. Their voices were driving me mad. They chatted about the array of molded salads on the table and how those had always been his favorite. We had been at the reception for nearly two hours and my feet hurt but not nearly as much as my face. I had been smiling and holding it together for the sake of everyone and I was at my breaking point. I refused to sit down. Doing so would entrap me quickly; I recognized that fact. So instead I moved from group to group, pausing frequently to excuse myself. Sometimes I moved to the food table to carry an empty container back to the kitchen. The catering crew quickly grabbed the dishes out of my hands and sweetly admonished me for doing their job, but I think they understood how much I needed to stay busy. One time I had tried to sneak out to the lobby’s bathroom, only to be cornered by one of the women from the church. “Oh, you’re the youngest, right? Oh how I remember you when you were just a little thing”. God help me.

Making my way back to the hall, I snuck through one of the hall’s exit doors, a door that led to a dark unused staircase that brought me to the main floor of the church. Afraid to find someone there, I sat down on the steps, leaned my head against the thick wooden railing, and closed my eyes.

Day 2. Everyone would arrive today. It had been 18 hours since we’d each received the call. The four of us made it home as quickly as we could. I was there in just six hours’ time, the third to arrive to comfort her. Jack had been the first, beating out Brie by thirty minutes, a feat quite remarkable given that Brie lived only 40 minutes away. But Jack had always been one to make swift, impulsive moves and having heard the news, he was in his car driving north. He hadn’t even packed himself an overnight bag. Stephen would arrive last. He came in the door drunk. He always did make a dramatic entrance.

Day 12. I had escaped again...this time to the bookstore. I made my way to the back of the store and found my favorite leather chair. No one would find me here. I’d driven 50 miles from home, unsure at first where I was going, but after some time walking the beach, I suddenly needed to be near books. I needed a place of comfort where I could disappear but in a protected setting. The beach held too many temptations. There I could cry with abandon and the waves crashing to the shore would still drown the sound of my grief, allowing me to wallow. But tucked into the soft leather chair, close to the shelves housing authentic stories all around me, I had perspective. My story is no more, no less tragic than theirs. Here I can cry, but only for a short time before being noticed. That will keep me from losing it completely. I don’t want to be noticed.

Day 4. We drove home in silence. I had tucked the earphones in before entering the car. My husband would be hurt by my avoidance but he’d be kind enough to let me be. I turned on my side, almost into the fetal position, and was grateful for my short stature. Tucking my knees to my chest, I watched the trees speed past my window and I lost myself in the music. He stopped for gas and asked me if I was hungry. I ignored him. I knew I was hurting him. He wanted to be there for me, to comfort me or to distract me, but I knew he’d give up after awhile, and he did. The three hour drive home wasn’t nearly long enough.

Day 8. My husband packed a bag and headed to his brother’s house today. He said he understood I needed to be alone but that he couldn’t take it anymore. He said I was being selfish and hurtful in not talking to him, in not at least trying to connect with him with basic civility. I stared at him blankly as he explained that he’d be staying there for the next several days. When he left the driveway I took in a deep breath and exhaled. A smile formed on my lips. It’d been a week since I’d felt even the smallest ounce of joy.

Day 11. He called. I didn’t pick up the phone of course. I let it ring, but he left a message for me and curiosity got the better of me. His voice had a tinge of sadness in it. He said he’d run into me the other day and that I hadn’t seemed to recognize him. He said we needed to talk. He told me he’d be over in the morning and that if I didn’t want to talk, that’d be okay. I could just listen. He said that he was going to bring me some brochures to look through and that I’d then have to make a choice. He said he loved me, that he was not giving up on me. He said something more but I hung up then. I had heard too much already.

Day 1. My Dad died today. Congestive heart failure. He was 88 years old. It’s funny. He’s been dying ever since I can remember. He’s been preparing me for this day for nearly 40 years. I’ve seen him clutch his heart and shout out in alarmed pain, only to have him rub his chest and complain about old age, since I was five years old. But today, as he stubbornly went outside to trim the branches of a neighbor’s tree, he clutched his heart for the last time. No matter how much I thought I’d be prepared for this day, I’m not. Goodbye Daddy.

Day 13. I reluctantly picked up the phone on the third ring. “Okay. I get it”, he said. “Please don’t hang up. Give me five minutes. Just five minutes, then I’ll stay away for as long as you want me to. I miss you. I need you to come back to me. I know you’re hurting but I know I can help you feel better...if you’d just give me a chance”. His voice cracked and he stopped for a second to compose himself. “Okay, when I got there and saw that you’d left, I placed three brochures in the mailbox. I want you to go to the mailbox and find those after we hang up. I just need you to pick one. Please do this. Just pick one of the three brochures. Leave the other two in the mailbox. I’ll come by tomorrow and check the mailbox and I’ll see which one you’ve chosen and that’ll be all I need from you, okay?”  I surprised myself and said, “Okay”. Then I hung up.

I pulled a scarf from the closet, wrapped it around my neck and walked outside. The driveway, long and curvy in its slope to the street, had long been one of my favorite features of our modest home. I walked it slowly and getting within 10 feet of the mailbox, I began to tremble. Opening the mailbox would mean I was committed to making a choice between three unknown brochures. What was he doing to me? I thought of the bookstore’s leather chair, and the cool ocean breeze. But there was no going back. I pressed on. I opened the mailbox and pulled out an envelope. Inside were three brochures, just as he’d said.

Brochure number one was commercially made. It had come from our local travel agency. It featured various sites from Ireland, my father’s home country. On the brochure, there was a small post it note that read, “Let me take you to where his life began. There you can begin your life again. And maybe, hope upon hope, that’ll continue to be a life with me”.

Brochure number two was also professional in its appearance. It advertised a grief support group that meets in the next town over. Again he’d affixed a post it note. “Know that you are not alone. You are never alone. Let someone help you see this. Begin to heal”.

Brochure number three was different. It was hand-made, an 8 by 10 inch piece of paper, folded into thirds and featured my husband’s messy handwriting. On one side there were pictures, shots taken of my Dad and I over the past forty plus years. On another side there were quotes about love and loss. I flipped the brochure over and that’s when I spotted it, a picture of my Dad walking me down the aisle at my wedding. What was it he’d said all those years ago? I remembered. “On this day I lead you to the man who will take you wherever you want to go. I have taken you this far, and I wish I could walk beside you always, but it’s time for me to release you to another’s protective embrace”. On another fold of the brochure there was our wedding picture, a shot of my husband and I dancing at our wedding reception. He was twirling me with one arm and he had the other arm positioned to catch me lest I fell.

I couldn’t help it. Taking a close look at that photograph made me gasp. He’d been there all along, swooping in to catch me when I stumbled. Prepared to hold me until I held my balance on my own. And always looking into my eyes, searching for something, anything, or everything I had to give.

The third brochure also had a post it note attached. It read simply, “I release you”.

Day 14. He returned to find only two brochures in the mailbox. I had made my choice.

Sharing the Bench

If I took care to tiptoe down the stairs, I sometimes caught her. I did not let her see me, for I knew that if she did, I risked it ever happening again. I became sneaky. Hearing her fingers on the ivories, I made my way only to the top landing. From there I could hear her playing the keys, however rusty in technique. She played only because she thought she was alone.

I’d once, unknowingly, walked up to her in the den. Her hands leapt off the keys when she spotted me and I excitedly told her I did not know she could play piano. She pretended not to hear me. Moving swiftly, she stood up and tucked the music book away inside the bench, then promptly left the room. That’s when I realized my mistake. From then on, I stayed on my high hidden perch, realizing this melody of hers was especially beautiful in its rarity.

A few years later, we moved to the house across town. It was a smaller home but it sat proudly on a beautifully landscaped lot and gave the appearance of being much larger. The piano had found its place on the lower floor of our house. I never heard Mom play it in the new home. Maybe, knowing the music would be carried easily up to the second floor, she only played when I was out of the house. I don’t know. But, in any case, I never heard my Mom play again.

I’d begun taking piano lessons the year before the move and although I could no longer walk to my teacher’s home, I soon began taking my bike. I carried a small backpack and at my lessons I progressed through levels of instructional books and began learning pop tunes, much to my delight. Once a year the students put on a recital. I took these in stride. I wasn’t overly nervous of playing in front of others, but I did not anticipate each year’s recital with any great excitement either. The truth is, from an early age, I knew my relationship with the piano was going to be a casual one. I had only begun taking lessons because my teacher had told my Mom my fingers were too small at age 8 to take up the guitar, the instrument I had wanted to play. I loved playing piano, but I suspected correctly that I was of average talent. I should have practiced more. I often was too distracted. I’d sit at the bench faithfully for 30-60 minutes a day, but after going over each of my assigned pieces, the piano was the backup for my singing. I worked to refine what would become my number one instrument, my voice. But my time at the bench was not in vain, for in the years to come, the piano would open doors for me.

My father who, like me, loves to sing, began asking me to play the piano or the organ at my grandmothers’ nursing homes. The two of us developed quite a following. Residents at the homes came to look forward to our visits. We’d play and sing each week. That’s when I first learned of the joy that music can bring to others. As the elderly men and women congregated in the hall to hear me play, I felt good. It didn’t matter how well I played, only that I showed up to entertain them.

In five years’ time I would join the school’s jazz band. The atmosphere of the school’s music room and the band directors I worked with, gave me a home. My fellow musicians became my closest friends, and a few became my first boyfriends. Moving to the high school, playing the piano introduced me to two gifted pianists. I had been right. I was of average talent. But the talents of the two older girls I shared parts with went far beyond their ability to play the piano, and their kindness and acceptance of me gave me a confidence that I have never abandoned.

Our jazz band went on to win many awards, even after the two gifted pianists graduated and I was left at the keys with younger players. I had my last recital at age 18, but by then Mrs. A and I had established a habit of talking for the better duration of each week’s lesson. She’d become a dear friend and I never forgot her words to me. At one of my final lessons, she told me that she realized early on that I wasn’t going to work hard to master the piano, that I however would enjoy my time at the keyboard each time I sat down to play. She had wanted to foster that love of music, that natural sense of musicality. “I just wanted you to keep playing”, she told me. I thank her for that.

As I grew up, Mom rarely sat down at the piano bench, at least I didn’t see her there much. But she loved to hear me play, even years later when she and Dad brought the piano to my new home that my husband and I had bought just prior to the birth of our first child. I admit, since becoming a Mom, I don’t play often, but I do still play. I’m pretty rusty and I am shy about playing in front of many people, so I understand where my Mom was coming from, all those years ago. But I have pounded out the melodies to audition or church cantoring pieces for my daughters and I, and I once joined my son’s cub scout troop, volunteering to play the accompaniment as they sang Christmas carols at various nursing homes. I still love to play from my favorite book of Chopin pieces and I do take out my pop music books from time to time and I let the music fill my home, no matter who is listening. My children don’t sit at the top of the stairs, however. Most of the time, they are right there with me, sharing the bench, and singing.

Center of the Universe

When Sydney was born and was growing through her toddler years, it was easy to see that I was the center of her universe. She and I were, and are, very close. But when Emma was born, it didn’t take me long to discover whom the center of her universe was to be, her big sister Sydney. Oh, I knew she loved me, as fiercely as I loved her, but Sydney was her role model. Understanding the idolization I had of my own big sister, I understood and accepted this. It even made me smile. But with Sydney going off to college in the fall of 2010, I have to admit, I was a little unsure. Would Emma and I be lost without her? Or would the two of us grow closer? I hoped for the latter, of course, but I didn’t want to try too hard or have too high an expectation. So I relaxed and let time answer the questions. 

The night before Sydney was to leave for college, both Emma and I were anxious. We bonded in our trepidation and, has always been our nature, in our nervous state, we got silly. Quickly naming a pair of plants, we both grew antagonistic. We told Sydney she’d been replaced. "Albert and Eva" would keep us company from now on. Sydney rolled her eyes at us both as Emma and I, tired and exhausted in our emotions, laughed until we cried. The next day we watched Sydney leave with her Dad, making her way to college. Emma and I went upstairs to my bed, fell into each other’s arms, and sobbed. We hung onto one another for at least an hour. And it turns out, we never let go.

In the months that followed, Emma and I grew closer. The year brought us new challenges and incredible unanticipated hardships, such as when our beloved family dog had a stroke and had to be put to sleep. I will never forget how Emma was there for me that morning. That morning taught me that if I ever had to face Hell on earth, I would be okay if she were by my side. We bonded in our struggles at the start of 2011. Luckily the year improved. But I’ve come to realize that there is no one I would rather face heartache with. Emma is strong, open, mature, and real. She is a force to be reckoned with, but she also has a tender heart. Together we laugh easily and often. We cry too, at all the sad movies, and when we need to de-stress. It seems we're an awful lot alike.

Sydney is home for the summer and Emma and I have each fallen back to some old patterns. The girls go off and giggle in their shared bedroom. I spend time with Sydney and we return to our heart-to-heart talks during our time alone with one another. But every so often Emma comes up behind me and gives me a hug. We continue to talk, to share, to cry, to laugh, to dream. Together. That’s when I know that the fall of 2013 is going to be pretty darn difficult for me. With both daughters gone off to college in a year's time, there’s only one thing I will be holding onto in September 2013. His name is Paul. We'll have five full years alone together, without his sisters. I hope he's ready for me. Because he's going to become the center of MY universe, whether he likes it or not.

Moment by Moment

Imagine that you and I are sitting on the dock together at camp. We’re right at the end of it, dangling our legs over the edge. The water is cool but not cold, soaking our skin up to the calves. As we look over the lake to the beautiful mountain right in front of us, we feel a slight breeze wafting away our worries. That’s when we begin to share our stories, our ideas, our dreams. Our hearts unbind. These are the moments that transform us, that loosen the knots, that awaken our souls. We are in awe of everything that connects us. Maybe we’ve known each other since infancy. Maybe we have played here since childhood. Maybe we have never parted from one another. Maybe it’s been years since we last talked like this. Maybe we met only recently. It does not matter. We’re here now. Living in the moment. Feeling safe and fulfilled. At peace.

This has always been the place I have run to...from pessimism, from loneliness, from sadness, from stress, from pain, from insecurity, from chaos, from fear, from worry. I know that in years past I have often come here alone. But your life and mine intersect here today, and I stop running. This is where I realize I am safe. The world can continue to spin faster, coming undone with each turn, but here I will not take notice. Here I will feel the water, the breeze, the touch of your hand and I will breathe deeply, deeper than I have in months. Here I will look at you, see you smile, and know that you are happy. Living in the moment, you are happy, safe, fulfilled. At peace.

So I join you here, in the here and now. Today. Tomorrow. Always. My heart unbinds and I am transformed. Imagine that you and I are sitting on the dock together at camp. We’re right at the end of it, dangling our legs over the edge. As the breeze picks up, I inch closer to you. You take my hand, and I know what’s true. You have always loved me, and all that binds us will never fade away. I will forever feel safe and fulfilled because even when I am alone on this dock, I know I am never without you. Here I will always be...at peace. Taking things moment by moment.

Timing is Everything

Last week at this time I was securing a loan to help my firstborn daughter buy her first car. A “good deal” had fallen into our lap, thanks to the work of my 84 year old father who had taken it upon himself to help me shop for a vehicle for Sydney, and on Friday, my daughter and I took off after work to drive to my hometown to purchase a 2007 Ford Focus with 40,000 miles on it. We stayed with my parents Friday evening, bought the car Saturday morning, had lunch with my folks, then dropped in to visit my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and grand-nephew before going our separate ways. I returned home Saturday night in our family van. Sydney enjoyed a night with her friends before making her own way home Sunday evening.

The timing of this car purchase had seemed quite inconvenient to say the least. My correcting folders continue to burst at their seams and my tears at the end of a department meeting last week remind me that there’s a lot on my plate that demands my time and attention, but as I have grown older and wiser, I have grown to trust the value of following my gut when it comes to making decisions on the best course of action to take--for my students and for my family. Perhaps putting my daughter’s needs and wants before my own, I took the weekend’s adventures as they unfolded and I made the most of that nearly four-hour car ride with Syd. Have you ever noticed the best conversations with our loved ones often occur in a car? We talked about school, sang along with the radio, enjoyed hot dogs and ice cream, and allowed the freedom of the open road to invigorate us.

After taking a test drive and buying the car, bright and early the next morning, we headed back to my parent’s house. I soaked in the laughter of my Mom and Dad as we sat and ate pizza together on Saturday afternoon. I memorized the touch of my parent’s hugs as I said goodbye before we left,  and I later felt the warmth of my sister-in-law’s embrace and enjoyed my brother’s teasing of my short stature, “You’re such an Oompa Loompah!” when we dropped in on them both before heading out of town.

And although it’d have been easy to jump on the highway and not get off an hour later, I knew I’d made the right decision to make a pit stop to visit my niece and former flower-girl Ashleigh, and I was moved by my little grand-nephew Liam’s affection as he immediately jumped into my arms when he saw me at their door. Oh sure, this trip may have come out of the blue and have seemed quite inconvenient initially, and yes, I’ve written this blog post in denial of those bulging correcting folders which are still at my side, but in truth, following my gut all the way to my hometown and back was the right thing to do this weekend, and this reminder of the importance of all that truly matters could not have come at a better time.

Number Five

After an unexpected visit from a former student today, I find myself dragging in my motivation to score some papers after school. The brief talk I had with Jess has made me pause in my day, thinking of how the gifts that we teachers sometimes receive unexpectedly--the very return of the "products we help cultivate"--revisit us and restore our energy to continue our walk forward. I am grateful for that. So, beyond my normal struggle with procrastination when it comes to my correcting of lengthy research papers, I am also distracted by thoughts on how, at the end of a teaching year, I am always so moved by written and verbal expressions of affection and appreciation--from students and parents alike. Twenty-one years of teaching has taught me one thing for sure: I may stumble at times but I strive to live fully, purposefully, passionately, playfully, powerfully...each and every day.

Today as I tried to find the exact wording of the famous Henry David Thoreau quote, “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived," I came across this quote on an anonymous blog: “You are, after all, the average of the 5 people you spend the most time with”.

I don’t know if that statement has been scientifically proven or refuted, however, I don’t need to know. I believe it’s true. Each day I meet up with an average of 80 people. There are those who walk through my classroom doors and there are those whom I have lunch with. There are those I go home to, and those I see and hear from for just a few minutes as they ring up my groceries or as they comment upon my latest email or “online status update”. I am privy to words and insights from all ages--not only from my teens but from my 12 year old child and my 84 year old father. I hear words of wisdom, hope, faith, and love contrasted with expressions of complaint, cynicism, anger, and entitlement. And thinking back on that serendipitous quote I came across today, I stop and ask myself, “Who am I the average of? My husband? My kids? I do spend a lot of time with the four of them. And who might that fifth person be? Who is my number five?!"

It’s an interesting question. I’m not going to attempt to answer it today. But I have been thinking this afternoon of how hope breeds hope and how cynicism breeds cynicism. I am touched that Jess came by today, that she told me how she reads my daily FB status updates nowadays and how she misses me and “just wanted to come by to see (me) and to talk”. Maybe Jess is my number five today. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling a little extra sweetness and tenderness as I end my work day. And maybe this is why I will continue to put my everything into the work I do as a wife, mother, daughter, sibling, friend, and teacher. Because if I am someone’s number five--today, tomorrow, or maybe everyday, I want the average of the person he/she is to be positively influenced by who I am.