Silence

My spirit is crying out for something greater than this casual turn. In the midst of all that is ugly and beautiful, there is no solace.

The balance of success and failure.

I love this job of mine, staying home and raising my kids. Sometimes I yell too much. Some days I'm too frustrated and we can't make any progress. Some nights I burn dinner and struggle to make everything work out ok. But sometimes it all goes right.

This job breaks my heart every day, and that's a good thing. I think that means I just might be doing it right enough.

Bare spots...

There's a hole in my soul
like a withered bare patch
in the lawn outside my door

Killed like the grass
by the decisions I've made--
piss-poor; yet those patches
are just acidic with waste

I don't pretend I can fix it
regrow it,
even accept it,
but I know that I can eventually
adapt to it.

I will make a path, a new way,
through the lawn of my life.
I will turn that bare-worn spot
into a stepping stone to better places.

My soul is not whole, but that's okay.
My path is not built, but it will be someday.

guest appearance because I can't revive my own blog this way

My brain is like swiss cheese - full of big holes information slips through (and away).

I sat down here to write a sad but inspiring blog post about my mother. It's just past midnight, so it's no longer officially the anniversary of her death. But it's bearing down on me. It's left me agitated and grumpy all day. Then, when I was in the middle of putting the wet laundry into the dryer, I remembered something about my mother. Something that led into a sad but inspiring blog post.

Only, before I actually started crafting the post, I forgot what that thing was. That thing I remembered, that was hard but sweet, too. Some elusive memory of her that felt good to talk about and, with more sweet and less bitter.

But then I forgot it.

So instead I'm writing a post that's more bitter and less sweet. And the only reason I'm not crying overtly is because I'm holding on to the anger that keeps me sane. The anger keeps the tears pooled along my eyelashes, elegantly poised to fall at any moment. The anger kept me going for so long. It's hard to let it go.

So. Thirteen years ago, Mom died. She never met my husband or my kids. She never walked through my house, or saw me become something better than I was then. And in the end, it's not about what she missed but what I missed from her - support, love, kindness, familiarity, that life long relationship. Because she's gone, and I'm not.

Which, at a seriously bottom line point, is the reason I've gotten this far without her.

If I had more space, I'd plant a rose garden.

I was recently recounting some of the bigger landmarks in my past. Sort of like a tragic overview version of "This is My Life." I was in a psychologist's office, and she's new to me. Lots of questions, lots of ground to go over. I don't think there's one particular issue that has led me to the quagmire that is my personal neuroses. It makes that introductory phase of therapy hard. Friendships, too, actually, but that's a whole different blog post.

While reviewing aforementioned landmarks, I realized that yes, this is the month marking my mom's death. As a matter of fact, it will be 13 years since her death next week. July 16, 2010. Gone 13 years. The weight of that makes my eyes close and pulls me down toward the earth. This is not something I usually contemplate, as that would push me into an incredibly unhealthy place. I miss her and my heart hurts. It always will.

After having this realization, I was thinking about a trip to the cemetery. It's kind of traditional. Not specifically for me, as I figure I can be depressed anywhere, but in a generic kind of a way. When I do make this trip, no matter what time of year, I leave behind some fresh pink roses. They were predominate in her funeral sprays (casket and standing), and even decorated the coffin we buried her in. There's a bitter macabre part of me that knows those roses are going to wither and die, on the ground at the foot of her tombstone.

At the store, there was a bouquet of fresh pink roses. I bought them. Then I decided to keep them for me. There's still something bitter and macabre about it all. I put them in a jar, with some water, and I walk buy them all day long. I want to remember her life, not her death, but it's too tied up all together.

I wish she was buried in a place where I could plant a live rose bush. That might be healing. For me, anyway. I know she doesn't care.

I'm terrified that when I die someone will seal my body in a box, then another box, and throw dirt on top of it. Logically, I know it doesn't matter as I won't be there anyway. Emotionally I haven't caught on. My wish is that they'll wrap me in some basic linen and put me directly into the Earth. Then somebody who loved me can come along and plant a tree.

Some new poetry

The bare bones of this poem filtered through my head this evening but I wasn't able to write them down immediately. I find this happening lately, and by the time I have a chance to spin the words out of my head they've disappeared into the fog. I was determined to hold on to these, this time, and found myself repeating them over and over. I made it a priority to work with them, and I'm fairly pleased with the result.


Traveling

It’s not quite late; twilight, an exhalation in my day.
I’m driving comfortably - I know these roads and this car today, and the rhythm of the pavement under the wheels feels like an echo to my heartbeat
It keeps me going.
The quiet is full of sound as the wind rushes through the open windows and cars speed by on their own missions.
The night is almost here and the day bears down with one last effort;
I can feel the dry film of sweat on my face, smell the end of the day, feel the worries and trials dragging on my shoulders and then
I see it.
Twilight, the perfect time, as swarms of fireflies come up from their soft earthen rest.
As the pavement pulses around us the side running grass comes alive with bursts of yellow pinpricks,
Like a monumental birthday cake
Like a fireworks display
With a blink and a switch the grass is alive in a new way.
I yearn for it, to be in it.
In my mind I stop and sit in the middle of this choreographed rising, ignoring the grass burns and insect bites, and with each rising blink I let go of a piece.
Each soaring firefly bears away a part of me, my worry, my trial, the weight pulling at my shoulders and heart
Until I can lay peacefully down on the Earth, breathe in the scent of evening, and find rest..
The road brings me back to myself;
I carefully tuck this existential experience into a pale blue envelope and file it away for the future,
Against a time when the fireflies fall to the Earth under the weight of my burdens
Or when I am incapable of giving away such things.

In other news, I do not excel at this motherhood thing.

I just put together Oliver's mobile tonight. The joy with which he contemplated it was worth the 5 minutes and $15. He quite happily stared while doing his superman imitation (one arm extended, one bent in front) and kicking his feet. I'm glad I took the opportunity to get it together.

But, he's nearly 4 months old already and I'm just now getting around to it. Add it to the list of today's failures:
1. Was not prepared properly for leaving with all three children for Ari's dress rehearsal. Leaving took more time.
2. Bread was moldy and in moment of total lapse couldn't think up a substitute, so we ate fast food in the car.
3. Combine 1 and 2 with a wrong turn, and that explains why we were 25 min late for dress rehearsal.
4. That moment in the grocery store when I completely lost my patience with a tired crabby 2 yr old.
5. I didn't have a grocery list, and so now I have to go back soon because I didn't get everything we needed.

I could go on, but I won't, because that makes the point. My days are usually full of these moments. Hopefully, I can take the end of the day and find enough moments when I did the right thing, the good thing, and find some kind of balance. The problem I have is that the big failures, the ones that just don't feel like they balance, tend to sneak up on me and worry at my sense of peace. They vary widely, but it all boils down to this: Have I done more harm than good? And how do I really know?