A Love Story

The moment lasted for so long that I had enough time to count all the perforations in your summer leather jacket.
I diligently studied the collar, noting how it creases after years of you stealing a quick stretch of chin forward.
The collar used to have more stars sewn along it, but the one in the back is missing, leaving just the holes from the stitching and the slightly whiter leather underneath hinting at it's existence.
I wonder if you know that it's gone.
The details come in and out of range as the streetlights move across the sky but I can safely ignore the frantic pace set by highway speeds because I know, in this space, the moment will just keeping holding still for me.
I started counting but quickly lost myself the pattern.
This jacket says it all but does so quietly, assured of it's proper place in the scheme of this thing.
I think of you, the day that you flew through the air and broke the zipper on the arm and I'm vaguely jealous of that brief freedom, even knowing that your freedom was probably infused with trepidation - or even fear.
Even knowing I would never be brave enough to take it if it were offered.
Still it sits there, that jealous piece, and all I can do is touch your shoulder and share it in some physical way I don't fully understand.
If I put my mind to the task, though, I know the understanding will come to me - I have so much time.
My heart wants to tell you to keep going. Find the road along the wall of bluffs, where my left side is cooler than my right and I can hear the water.
Find the curve with the perfect apex and no one in our way.
Find the moment with me and hold it gently.
And in the world of imperfection that we struggle through I'm so deeply sorry for all the wounds that still bleed;
I can begin counting the scars healed over and I'm sad for those, too, in a regretful way.
Suddenly the moment changes and becomes something different, something faintly crazed
And then I go back to my usual state of being, turning in time with everyone else.

Some things I just don't do very often.

Sometimes I think the only time I come here is to whine. Then I think: So be it.

It's another one of those mom things. And food things. And life things. This is procrastination. I'm afraid to start because I don't know where it's going and am not sure I have the resources for a wild ride.

I've been married for 12 years. My oldest child is nearing 9yrs old now. Add in the next two and we've got a similar set up to the kind of family unit I grew up in. I'd like to think I've made some improvements.
I tell them I love them everyday.
I've learned how to listen to other people.
The dog sleeps on the couch.
I'm trying to embrace generosity.

I know there are things that I fail in, things I see as problems and am working towards improving but aren't quite there.
I yell too much.
I rush to judge.
I lack consistency.
I'm easily overwhelmed.

One of the biggest changes in my adult life from childhood is my diet. I cook healthier food than we usually ate when I was a kid. Look around, I've written on this before. Food came from a can, and a lot of it was fried. Starches filled the plate. Fresh fruit was a rare portion of my daily intake. Now, I work hard to serve a dinner with one protein, one vegetable, and one fruit. I actively attempt to educate my children about healthy choices. If it weren't for the produce market nearby, I'd be broke funding their fresh fruit or veggie habit. This. This is Good.

These changes mean that much of what I cook as an adult is not the food I ate as a child. Also, I learned to cook after leaving home. I have tons of memories related to eating with my family, but unless is was Christmas cookie season, we didn't help much in the kitchen. Mom did her thing. We ate dinner. I don't even remember who did the dishes, but I bet it was her. My sisters probably know. The point is, I didn't leave home with culinary skills - I learned those on the fly from a Betty Crocker ring bound cookbook.

A few years ago, my sister gave me the new updated version of that cookbook. My copy was pretty battered, with food stains on the pages and the rings no longer closing properly. But the old one still hangs out in the closet. I just wasn't ready to let it go.

How I digress.

One big exception to the "no cooking with Mom" generality: chicken and dumplings. Mom would put the chicken in a pressure cooker. Can you hear it? The chi chi chi chi chi.... woooooooosh.... Then she'd mix up the dough for the dumplings. She made a flat dumpling, dropped in the pot like a big noodle. She'd roll it all out then cut it with a dull knife (ragged edges are better!). Then my sisters and I would take turns dropping the noodles into the pot of boiling broth while Mom turned her hands red stripping the hot meat from bone to throw it all back together. Then - like magic - hot dumplings, chunks of chicken all in your bowl.

We made this today. Stood in the kitchen, I rolled out the dumplings. I watched the kids joyfully dropping them in the pot. Ari said "I've never had these before!" Because in all these (almost) 9 years of her life, 12 years I've been married, (almost) 15 years since Mom died I've only made chicken and dumplings once before. And this time, just like that one time before, I can't actually eat it. The kids say it was great. And it smells so good. But with a bowl in front of me, I have no appetite. There's a stone in the middle of me and no room for dumplings.

I had a salad.

I hate to leave it here. Something else wants to be said but I don't know what. Something that takes the edge of hard, bitter grief. Something that transitions a little towards melancholy, giving you a hint of a romantic heart. Because some days I do have that. It isn't always a stone dragging me down. Sometimes its also a hint of a smile, standing in the kitchen, watching the kids have a good time.

Logjam

Words are freeing and captivating and disappointing and defining and more thing than I can truly understand. When they're all jammed up inside my head it makes me feel lonely, alone. They can drown out everything else, screaming at me but without sense.

It's a love/hate thing between me and words. It's why I refuse to have a 'word a day' calendar, that much new vocabulary would overwhelm any love I felt and leave me with hate. That would be a dark day.

I caught sight of myself today, looking fairly normal but feeling so disconnected. Trying to connect just left me feeling like a failure. I care about all of you but I can't bear to say your names. It makes me feel crazy.

In ten years from now I want to be a little less crazy and far more connected. I want the love of words to smother the hate. I want to rejoice over all of you and pour this love from my soul to my life. I want to look fairly normal and feel that way, too.

Somewhere, deeply masked by all this rambling is something a little poetic. If you find it, let me know. I've been looking for it.

Song? Why yes.

I have some very talented friends. One of them took an old poem and made into this awesome music. You can hear it http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/song_11963608

Scars

I've cleaned myself up. I sparkle, almost, and it hurts to look at my reflection too closely.
It seems I don't bleed for anything anymore and I miss it in a visceral way, I resent myself for taking it away.
No matter how many times I say enough or how much effort I make to clear the atmosphere it's always lurking and always waiting and I hate it as much as I ever did;
I just don't cut it out anymore.
I've locked the poison away somewhere and convinced myself it isn't there;
I've given back to myself the gift of believing my own lies because it seems the only way to stay sane while
I maintain the basic truth that love is a light in my soul, untarnished, unfettered, unquenched.
I want to take all these scars and make something beautiful out of them but I'm so fettered by the hopelessness they carry;
I am left to override and create something better instead
And I cry a little for the lack.
I used to think an ocean of tears couldn't wash away anything. Stripped of all other defenses, I'm beginning to wonder if the tears are an offense
The offense I've been needing all along.
Weeping strikes me as romantically beautiful while honorably vulnerable,
In truth my face turns red and the sounds I make will never be music but
Love is a light in my soul, untarnished, unfettered, unquenched.

Curses.

How do you tell someone that your depressed? The words don't even seem to fit right.

I'm doing my thing. I get up, help the kids, fold the laundry. I take responsibility and see it through (almost) all the time. OK. A lot of the time. And I'm doing all the things that are supposed to be hleping.

I'm afraid of what this would be if I weren't doing those things. Far, far wrose, I'm sure. I'd probably stop getting out of bed.

But what do you do when you're already doing all the right things, and it's getting worse anyway?

There are two of me. One of them just wants to lay in bed all day long. That one is getting louder.

Have you ever stared too long into something bright, then looked away? The white spot in your eyes stays with you, for awhile. Then it fades away and everything is fine again. That's how this depressive thing is supposed to work for me now. It's there, in my eyes, for a little while. Then fades away. But this spot just keeps growing.

I want to cry all the time. I don't hardly cry at all. I'm tired, but afraid that all of this will get worse and tomorrow will be the day I can't leave it behind and go about my business.

I don't want to let anyone down. I don't want to sink below the surface. I want to... just feel better. Just feel normal. I want the spot to fade away.

But I've been wanting that for awhile, and it's not working.

None of this makes much sense. That's how I feel. That's how the depression feels. Such a stupid word for this thing. So sanitized. So ordinary. I think I might be broken.

Not quite a late night ride.

After four years of not riding on a motorcycle, we've gotten back into a place where we can (and do) go out together. I don't drive a bike - I'm just a trusting passenger. Marc's been driving for 15 years or so. The new bike is great, the time together is better, and tonight it worth writing about. So here I go.

The ride is so smooth that even at 70 mph I feel like I could just step off the bike. It's kind of a scary feeling, knowing how momentum and gravity would grab a hold of me and shake me like a rag doll, flinging me around in a fit of discipline to my flight of fancy. I used to feel like I could just fling out my arms and the wind would take me. Somewhere not of my own making. Someplace new. I feel differently now, a bit more stupid and a bit more wise, and so now I know I'd have to step down to be so complacent.

Riding a motorcycle is an incredibly intimate thing. The bike we bought is a big one, and we sit tall - even with a regular pickup truck cab. As we move along, I feel like I can see everything, and nothing. It feels too awkward to lean around Marc to see the road ahead. Turning around seems foolhardy. But up, down, left or right - I see the faces of other motorists as they move themselves somewhere else. I see the billboards, the clouds, the building lights, the construction crews. And everyone moving, moving moving in their own place, with their own agenda, and all of us rolling on the same pavement to get there.

It's not just a visual thing, it's a physical thing. The motorcycle forces me into contact with Marc, our only barriers the protective gear we clad ourselves in. When we slow abruptly, our contact isn't even voluntary - it's all about the forces around us. I want to close my eyes and lay my head against his back but the helmet and my height are all wrong. And more than a physical thing I have to put myself into his sphere as he controls this expensive powerful machine that carts us both along.

Bigger than this, constant and ever changing, the wind. It rushes by calm but changing. As we shift, move around traffic, along the geography, it's constantly shifting. Through all my gear I can hear and feel the power of it. I can smell where it's been or where we've been. It's a sensory deluge, and calming in a strangely amazing way.

This experience, out there tonight, held something poetic. It's not always like this, it can't be. I don't think I could stand against the tide of such a siren song, if it were always like this. I'm not sure what made tonight so precise and I don't care to know - in my weakness, I would simply try to recapture it and face failure again and again. My heart wouldn't take such a beating.