I realized today that it's been almost seven months since the last time I heard from my brother. The last phone call I received lasted for 30 seconds - long enough for him to ask something of me and for me to say no. I haven't had an actual conversation with him for over 9 months. I don't know where he his, how he is, what he's doing. This is the way he wants it to be.
It's an incredibly weird thing. Our relationship was always oddly complicated by the parenting role I was forced into with him. I'm not his mom but I'm more than his sister. I was forced to lead him but not empowered to teach him. I did a very poor job of the whole thing and it's a great example of how teenagers struggle to be good parents without help from more mature people. All of which is neither here nor there, sort of, but goes a long way to hint at my complicated connection to my brother.
And now he's gone.
Some days, I want to whine about the whole thing. I'm supposed to just keep going as if nothing has really changed. He removed himself from my life voluntarily and (I assume) is moving along in his own journey. He didn't tragically disappear and there's always the lingering possibility that one day he'll call me up to say hello. Having lost my mom I do understand what that possibility can mean, what hope it carries. But the circumstances regarding his absence don't really make everything all OK.
I've lost something, and it's pretty big.
A part of me is so very angry with him for creating this division. I think that it wouldn't be so hard for him to email me sometimes, just to let me know he's alive. But that probably wouldn't be enough either.
I'm trying to mourn my brother, knowing he's out there somewhere. It's surreal and confusing. A part of me needs to grieve for the loss of him but the rest of me sees that need as self-indulgent. After all, I say, he's not really gone. I can't help but wonder how many times I'll think that and for how long before I'll cry.
If all this sounds like going around in circles, it's because that's where I'm stuck. Circling the absence of a person who meant so much to me. A person who's gone but isn't, a grief that's real but denied.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Monday, July 09, 2012
After being gone for a week, it's only natural that everyone is going to ask me how the vacation went. The problem I'm having is trying to concisely answer the question while still being authentic. It's harder than you'd think.
We were gone to Cornerstone Festival, an annual event I've attended for the last 12 years. Marc has been to 27 fests. My children have gone every year of their lives. We mark our year with the fest - is it pre-fest, or post-fest? When Marc would interview for a new job, he'd tell them the week of July 4th was required time off, or no deal. This is the extent to which attending the festival was part of our lives.
This year was the last one.
It's hard for me to tell you why attending the fest was so important to us. We each had a different reason and each year surprised us anyway. Yes, it was a christian festival, but it wasn't always about religion. Some years I learned a lot about myself. Other years about other people. Some years I spent a lot of time feeding my academic yearnings, other years just hanging out enjoying the sound. Cornerstone was like a detox for our lives. No cell phone reception. No television. No school work or house repairs. As a music festival, it was also about the bands. But frankly, you can catch concerts throughout the year (and we do). If it were only about the sound, we wouldn't have made this an annual trek. At the heart of it,Cornerstone was about relationships. Connecting with another person, in person and personally.
This years festival was organized and billed as a final goodbye. And if something has to end, it's always easier (a little) with a good party as a send off. We've been watching Cornerstone struggle. Blame other festivals. Blame the aging loyal attendees. Blame the economy. Blame the 'success' of 'mainstream' Christianity. Throw out a wide blanket of blame and I'm sure you'll come up with something reasonable. The blame is irrelevant, though, to the consequence. Fewer folks buying festival tickets. Fewer bands able to afford the stop. A smaller festival. Debt to deal with. Weariness. We knew the end was nigh, and I'm grateful for the chance to say farewell.
So, how was my vacation? It was hot. Temperatures in the 100s with no rain, no clouds, no a/c, no relief. More trips to town just for the a/c of the car and a chance to actually eat something without feeling ill. I've rarely sweated that profusely. The last trip to the lake wasn't even cooling, the water was so warmed by the sun. No rain means so much dust I'll be coughing it up for a week. And I know you're wondering about the facilities. The heat means each porta-potty was like it's own solar oven and practically unbearable during the day. Which, honestly? Didn't matter much because no matter how fast or much I drank I just sweated it all out. We spent more money on cold drinks and lunch in town than usual, cutting into our music budget. After being home for a day I'm so tired just the thought of carrying up the laundry to fold is doing me in. My vacation was a ton of work and in many ways completely miserable.
And then. There's always something else to the story. It's not really about trying to find a silver lining. But I'm smart enough to know that there were fantastic things about this trip.
The lack of rain led to clear, bright skies at night. The stars were enormous in the sky. I spent one concert laying on a blanket next to Oliver (2yrs old) and "catching" the stars from the sky with our bare hands, then throwing them back to see how magically they landed in the right places. The Milky Way was breathtaking and I stood in a field with Arianna (9yrs old) admiring it at 2AM. The moon was huge and yellow when low in the sky and as it rose the craters were so clear. It reminded me of last year's festival, laying on the blanket, a tangle of arms and legs as all three kids slept around me and listening to one of my favorite bands while staring at the stars.
We've had 9 festivals full of children sleeping under the stars while taking in some amazing sounds.
We did go to the lake hoping for a bit of relief. I may have not appreciated it, but the boys had a blast. They built an island on shore, flooding the waterways with the plastic wagon, and creating a whole new place. They ran into the water laughing hysterically, feeling so confident and daring. Oliver would throw himself in, then set off paddling along. Xavier (4yrs old) is normally very insecure about water but the gentle slope helped him find a large play area shallow enough for him to walk around. The water wasn't cool, but it was a ton of fun to hang out in.
I met new people and got to think about how I've ended up here and saw all the good things. I talked with old friends and could see the struggles as part of a bigger picture. I sat under the sky and remembered to be poetic. I fell in love with my family again.
And then the end came. We said goodbye. We cried. We drove away from the festival at 2 in the morning and arrived home as dawn came across the sky. This year, it's not just about the end of a festival but about mourning.
How was my vacation? It was a lifetime. It was a way of life.
The. End.
We were gone to Cornerstone Festival, an annual event I've attended for the last 12 years. Marc has been to 27 fests. My children have gone every year of their lives. We mark our year with the fest - is it pre-fest, or post-fest? When Marc would interview for a new job, he'd tell them the week of July 4th was required time off, or no deal. This is the extent to which attending the festival was part of our lives.
This year was the last one.
It's hard for me to tell you why attending the fest was so important to us. We each had a different reason and each year surprised us anyway. Yes, it was a christian festival, but it wasn't always about religion. Some years I learned a lot about myself. Other years about other people. Some years I spent a lot of time feeding my academic yearnings, other years just hanging out enjoying the sound. Cornerstone was like a detox for our lives. No cell phone reception. No television. No school work or house repairs. As a music festival, it was also about the bands. But frankly, you can catch concerts throughout the year (and we do). If it were only about the sound, we wouldn't have made this an annual trek. At the heart of it,Cornerstone was about relationships. Connecting with another person, in person and personally.
This years festival was organized and billed as a final goodbye. And if something has to end, it's always easier (a little) with a good party as a send off. We've been watching Cornerstone struggle. Blame other festivals. Blame the aging loyal attendees. Blame the economy. Blame the 'success' of 'mainstream' Christianity. Throw out a wide blanket of blame and I'm sure you'll come up with something reasonable. The blame is irrelevant, though, to the consequence. Fewer folks buying festival tickets. Fewer bands able to afford the stop. A smaller festival. Debt to deal with. Weariness. We knew the end was nigh, and I'm grateful for the chance to say farewell.
So, how was my vacation? It was hot. Temperatures in the 100s with no rain, no clouds, no a/c, no relief. More trips to town just for the a/c of the car and a chance to actually eat something without feeling ill. I've rarely sweated that profusely. The last trip to the lake wasn't even cooling, the water was so warmed by the sun. No rain means so much dust I'll be coughing it up for a week. And I know you're wondering about the facilities. The heat means each porta-potty was like it's own solar oven and practically unbearable during the day. Which, honestly? Didn't matter much because no matter how fast or much I drank I just sweated it all out. We spent more money on cold drinks and lunch in town than usual, cutting into our music budget. After being home for a day I'm so tired just the thought of carrying up the laundry to fold is doing me in. My vacation was a ton of work and in many ways completely miserable.
And then. There's always something else to the story. It's not really about trying to find a silver lining. But I'm smart enough to know that there were fantastic things about this trip.
The lack of rain led to clear, bright skies at night. The stars were enormous in the sky. I spent one concert laying on a blanket next to Oliver (2yrs old) and "catching" the stars from the sky with our bare hands, then throwing them back to see how magically they landed in the right places. The Milky Way was breathtaking and I stood in a field with Arianna (9yrs old) admiring it at 2AM. The moon was huge and yellow when low in the sky and as it rose the craters were so clear. It reminded me of last year's festival, laying on the blanket, a tangle of arms and legs as all three kids slept around me and listening to one of my favorite bands while staring at the stars.
We've had 9 festivals full of children sleeping under the stars while taking in some amazing sounds.
We did go to the lake hoping for a bit of relief. I may have not appreciated it, but the boys had a blast. They built an island on shore, flooding the waterways with the plastic wagon, and creating a whole new place. They ran into the water laughing hysterically, feeling so confident and daring. Oliver would throw himself in, then set off paddling along. Xavier (4yrs old) is normally very insecure about water but the gentle slope helped him find a large play area shallow enough for him to walk around. The water wasn't cool, but it was a ton of fun to hang out in.
I met new people and got to think about how I've ended up here and saw all the good things. I talked with old friends and could see the struggles as part of a bigger picture. I sat under the sky and remembered to be poetic. I fell in love with my family again.
And then the end came. We said goodbye. We cried. We drove away from the festival at 2 in the morning and arrived home as dawn came across the sky. This year, it's not just about the end of a festival but about mourning.
How was my vacation? It was a lifetime. It was a way of life.
The. End.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Microfiction Monologue
Sometimes, I wake up and think "Wow, that dream would be an awesome short horror story." Today was a day like that. This time, I actually wrote it all down. I'm calling it Microfiction Monologue, because I don't do dialogue well.
Caught
The apocalypse started with a fire. Not a meteor shower, nuclear disaster, or volcanic eruption. A six story office building downtown started burning, filling the sky with an acrid smoke. It was Luke’s office building towering over the block so we identified ourselves as gawkers and took off for the best spot we could find around the perimeter. That was weeks and weeks ago. Before the end of our world came the authorities would have assigned fire investigators to the disaster and sought a cause. A task force would have been created to study the malfunction of the bridge, which prevented fire fighters and the curious alike from crossing the river into downtown. Now, though, there are bigger fish to fry.The last time I walked through the office I stopped to admire the new shelves displaying company alcohol. Spirits, liqueurs and mixers all paid for by the boss man to help smooth over those fried employees. When I close my eyes to sleep, I see those bottles. First, their contents are lit seductively by the surrounding flames. Then labels start to peel and char in the heat. Finally, the plastic slumps over softly while the glass shatters and booze runs until it hits the flames and is set on fire, too. It’s a beautiful scene of death in the midst of our horror, and the waste of it makes me want to cry.
How things went from an office building fire and misbehaving bridge to military law and a broken civilization I can’t say. If I were clever, could blithely throw out some excuse for my lack of memory but cleverness isn’t a valuable skill right now so I’ve given it up. Every ounce of energy I have goes into surviving this place, if only so that I can drag my husband and remaining children into survival with me. Trying to recall the crisis that brought us here only fills my head with screaming - my own screaming, as it turns out, from those frantic moments when my son’s hand slipped out of mine and he was swept away by the indifferent mob. My voice has gone back to it’s normal volume but I’ll scream for him forever. I suppose the end of my civilization happened when I lost my grip.
Life, now, has been taken over. It never was my own and now even less so. We’ve been assigned to the wild predator unit, tracking down animals that managed to slip away during the crisis. Luke has some tracking skills leftover from boyhood outdoor experiences but I’m just a weight he carries. There’s no reason to this assignment, the animals are best left to scrounge what they may while we worry about clean water and corrupt unit managers. I wasn’t consulted on any of this, however, so I do my best to learn about prints and scat during the daylight. Surviving doesn’t really require success at our assignment so I set it aside with the sun to work on teaching Luke and our children how to navigate this stinking social system ruling our lives.
The four of us come together every night and hang on to each other, each ready to throw the hook and line to reel another back into our tight fold. Temptation runs rampant here; there are so many ways to leave and none of them beautiful. I only sleep after checking and rechecking that our lines are woven together and anchored properly. When I dream, there are five of us standing on the bridge watching the office burn.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, April 16, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
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
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