Allow me to explain my melodramatic analogy -- I feel very spun around and dizzy and like I'm in the middle of something noisy and unrelenting.
I am shrinking again. As of Saturday, I was back down to 125 pounds again. And that was before all the physical activity of moving on Sunday, so I think it's possible I'm even smaller now. This is not good. I am aware of that. I am working on it. (So, please keep comments to yourselves.)
I'm still trying to process A LOT of stuff from the last several days.
Thursday night, I spoke to my friend Daniel. I always describe Daniel as my biggest cheerleader. He is. He's also one of the most gentle and loving people I've ever met. I use these five words to describe him: beautiful, creative, inspiring, supportive, radiant.
We were talking on Thursday, because we are trying to help each other overcome some of our fears so that they will no longer stand in the way of each of us writing. He'd said he was going to make a list of all the things he was afraid of in preparation for our call. I did the same. While I was thinking about all the things that scare me -- and it's an insanely long list -- the Sarah McLachlan song "Fear" was playing in my head. The chorus: "But I fear / I have nothing to give / I have so much to lose."
And I started thinking, "What do I have to lose?"
The truth: Nothing.
I risk rejection. Potentially some loss of stability, but that's REALLY pushing it. Rejection is the biggest thing. (And, I've survived rejection before. I survive it all the time, in fact.)
I have nothing to lose.
Daniel talked about having a "concrete hat" -- this helmet that just weighs you down with all the insecurities and voices saying you're not good enough and ruminations on failure. I could totally relate to that.
The more he talked about how much he could weigh himself down, the more astounded I was. Here is this guy who is my hero because he's so full of kindness and light and seemingly so unafraid of throwing himself out into the big, scary world in order to pursue the things that bring him joy and all the while his inner voices are telling him he doesn't measure up. And, his voices are identical to mine.
Screw the voices.
I have nothing to lose.
I'm going to at least try to get this concrete hat off my head for good.
Goethe said, “Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.”
And I realize, that's the key. It's about doing it. Just doing it. You can't expect life to come to you. You can't just sit on the sidelines hoping and wishing and trying to be a good person and believing that that's enough to make good things happen for you. Oh, be a good person, but also go out there and CHASE DOWN JOY. (How many times do I have to learn the same lessons?)
Friday night, I met some friends for dinner and then we went to see Dennis Lehane read. Dennis was my mentor for one semester during my MFA, and he led many of my workshops. The man is a brilliant teacher. Really -- I think he taught me more than any other instructor I've ever had. Just being in a room listening to him talk about writing made my brain start to explode. (Maybe because it was already near exploding because of the conversation with Daniel the night before, but maybe because it would have exploded just listening to Dennis.) Turned out, almost my entire old writing group was at the reading. Afterward, we went out for drinks. Just being in that company again made me itch to write.
By Saturday, my two-week-long-cold-from-hell had finally subsided. This was good, because we had a bout. In the downtime waiting for things to start, Evil handed me a program. She said there were some new pages this time around. As I flipped through, I saw the letters "DFTBA." Then I looked up and saw that the message was to "GK." It was a message commemorating the second anniversary of Rehab asking me to be her derby wife. (And, as unlike me as it is, it's also the second time I've forgotten our anniversary....) I may forget our anniversary, but I will try very hard to remember to be awesome.
Sunday was moving day. It looked like it was going to rain any second. Thundershowers had been predicted. Jamie, Kate, and I wrestled my insanely (and I mean that) heavy double rocker/recliner down the stairs of my old apartment, into Jamie's sister's truck, and then up the stairs in the new apartment. Magic happened. There is not other explanation for how that couch made it into the new living room. Jamie, Kate, Penny, and I moved all the big, heavy stuff. I still have a few trips to make to the old apartment before I'm completely moved out and ready to clean it all. I have so many bruises all over my body, it looks like I survived some kind of horrible accident. But it didn't even rain until today.
Here I sit in the new apartment, in the almost fully set up "office" where I will be writing. Being in a new space surrounded by the things that inspire me most feels good. Sitting down and doing the writing is still incredibly intimidating.
But, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
My life is killing me
That's what I said to George, the guy who cuts my hair, when he asked how I was when I came in for my cut a couple weeks ago.
He said, "That's a new one. Usually people say, 'My back's killing me' or 'My leg's killing me.'"
I said, "Nope. It's my life."
And, that's how it's been feeling. More than overwhelmed -- like my life is actually trying to do me in. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuch all at once.
I'm in the middle of moving. I love (love love love) the new apartment (except for the ridiculous lack of closet space). But I hate moving. It takes a lot out of you. And it makes you feel scattered.
Plus, I've been trying to move in the rain, with a cold. Not remotely fun, let me tell you.
And there's that -- I'm finally starting to feel like I MIGHT be getting rid of this nasty cold I've had since last Sunday but, per usual, it has totally worn me out. This is the third or fourth nasty cold I've had this year (which is only six months-old). I know I'm getting sick a lot because I'm letting myself get rundown a lot. I should take better care of myself, but it's hard. Hard to take the time to slow down. Hard to remember to eat when I'm not hungry. Hard to remember to take vitamins. Hard to sleep, even though I never get enough....
And then there's the writing. I was hanging out with my friend Daniel last week and he reminded me how much I NEED to write. (He even offered to prod me on a regular basis, to get me to FINALLY finish my damn novel.) A lot of my not-writing is about fear, and I don't want to let fear rule my life anymore. But, a lot of my not-writing is about my life getting in the way. It's hard to focus on things like writing when most of my stuff is packed in boxes (and the rest NEEDS to be packed in boxes), when I'm making lists of things I have to do (call the cable company; fill out a forwarding card at the Post Office; change my address in 8 bajillion places....) and forgetting to eat or being too tired to eat and then not sleeping anyway.
And this is just one small part of what's been stressing me out lately.
And, as much as I've been saying my life is killing me, I was mostly handling it okay. Until today. Today, it rained. I let myself sleep until noon (although not well, because my little old, senile cat kept waking me up by howling at the top of her lungs for no apparent reason). The only productive thing I managed to do between noon and 7 p.m. was shower. Then, I finally put a bunch of stuff in my car and headed to the new apartment. I finished taping the bedroom, so I can paint some night this week after work. There's so much more I could have/should have done. But I didn't. I just couldn't get myself going.
The point of this blog was supposed to be my mission to Keep Working on Love -- seeing the bright side of things, chasing down joy, choosing wonder, etc etc etc. I believe in all of that, and I'm still trying. But, sometimes there are days like this, too. Days where my life is killing me and I feel like I can't get anything accomplished and and and and and....
He said, "That's a new one. Usually people say, 'My back's killing me' or 'My leg's killing me.'"
I said, "Nope. It's my life."
And, that's how it's been feeling. More than overwhelmed -- like my life is actually trying to do me in. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuch all at once.
I'm in the middle of moving. I love (love love love) the new apartment (except for the ridiculous lack of closet space). But I hate moving. It takes a lot out of you. And it makes you feel scattered.
Plus, I've been trying to move in the rain, with a cold. Not remotely fun, let me tell you.
And there's that -- I'm finally starting to feel like I MIGHT be getting rid of this nasty cold I've had since last Sunday but, per usual, it has totally worn me out. This is the third or fourth nasty cold I've had this year (which is only six months-old). I know I'm getting sick a lot because I'm letting myself get rundown a lot. I should take better care of myself, but it's hard. Hard to take the time to slow down. Hard to remember to eat when I'm not hungry. Hard to remember to take vitamins. Hard to sleep, even though I never get enough....
And then there's the writing. I was hanging out with my friend Daniel last week and he reminded me how much I NEED to write. (He even offered to prod me on a regular basis, to get me to FINALLY finish my damn novel.) A lot of my not-writing is about fear, and I don't want to let fear rule my life anymore. But, a lot of my not-writing is about my life getting in the way. It's hard to focus on things like writing when most of my stuff is packed in boxes (and the rest NEEDS to be packed in boxes), when I'm making lists of things I have to do (call the cable company; fill out a forwarding card at the Post Office; change my address in 8 bajillion places....) and forgetting to eat or being too tired to eat and then not sleeping anyway.
And this is just one small part of what's been stressing me out lately.
And, as much as I've been saying my life is killing me, I was mostly handling it okay. Until today. Today, it rained. I let myself sleep until noon (although not well, because my little old, senile cat kept waking me up by howling at the top of her lungs for no apparent reason). The only productive thing I managed to do between noon and 7 p.m. was shower. Then, I finally put a bunch of stuff in my car and headed to the new apartment. I finished taping the bedroom, so I can paint some night this week after work. There's so much more I could have/should have done. But I didn't. I just couldn't get myself going.
The point of this blog was supposed to be my mission to Keep Working on Love -- seeing the bright side of things, chasing down joy, choosing wonder, etc etc etc. I believe in all of that, and I'm still trying. But, sometimes there are days like this, too. Days where my life is killing me and I feel like I can't get anything accomplished and and and and and....
Thursday, May 20, 2010
"We become our choices."
- Jane Hirshfield, "Rebus"
I am notoriously indecisive. It's not just that I have a hard time making up my mind. It's that I see things from multiple points of view (usually, I think that's a good thing; sometimes, it's incredibly annoying, even to me). I often want things at opposing ends of the spectrum. So, it makes coming to even simple decisions pretty difficult. Plus, I'm not a huge fan of change. It takes me a long time to adjust, and I don't like that. In most cases, I'd rather stick with the familiar (even if it's agonizing) than dare to test the unknown.
Or, at least all of that used to be true.
I've been chewing on an epiphany since Monday. It's been coming in little pieces here and there as I've worked my way through my sister's Percy Jackson and the Olympians books.
I was telling my therapist on Monday how I think I need to move (for a variety of really excellent reasons) but that I feel kind of guilty about it. I was trying to read her expression and figure out what she thought I should do and she said, "I'm trying to figure out what you want." I told her I didn't know what I want. (I didn't realize until recently how bad I am at that -- figuring out what I want -- I suck at it. Big time.) By the end of the session, she helped me see that I really did want to move (for lots of reasons) and that I actually was kind of looking forward to a change. Which was all very unusual for me. I said as much. She said she thought that it would be good for me to do something that might be a little out of character for me and for me to feel good about making a change, a fresh start.
The next night, while reading, I stumbled on a description of the god Janus. He's the god of doorways. Of beginnings and endings. Of choices.
And that's when it felt like the sky fell in on me for a second. See, I've already started packing some of my stuff. Earlier in the evening, I'd packed up all the doorway/archway pictures I had in a corner of the computer room. I talk a lot about how I have a thing for doorways (and archways) but that I don't really understand it. Reading the description of Janus, it felt like things were really starting to click.
In Monday's therapy session, I'd also updated my shrink on my project with the pink letters. I showed her how my friend Mia proved (via PowerPoint) that she'd completed her first mission. I told her about the second missions I'd sent out, about the journal I'm keeping with ideas for missions. She said that it's my childlike wonder that gives me such a unique perspective -- that most people lose that when they grow up and so they settle into boring lives and don't take risks like they could/should and pass up adventures.
I've been thinking about that a lot. Two people that I respect a lot (because they don't BS) have identified my childlike wonder as my best quality. And, honestly, I never really got that. The funny thing is, one of my FAVORITE lines from my FAVORITE book is "Charles was unsure of what to do next - he wanted more badly than ever to be taken over by genuine wonder" (Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold). I love that book because it's all about wonder and magic and redemption and healing. It's about using wonder and magic TO heal.
I saw a FABULOUS apartment on Sunday, and the guy showing it to me had his two little kids with him. The 4-year-old said we were going on an adventure as we went into the apartment and then he said, "Adventure is out there!" (I missed the reference to Up at first, but I think that's why Up is one of my favorite movies -- because it's about not giving up on your dreams and making time for adventures and the things that make you happy.)
And then tonight, I was reading the last of the Percy Jackson books. There's this bit of dialogue toward the end: "Percy, for so much of my life, I felt like everything was changing, all the time. I didn't have anyone I could rely on. ...I hate it when people let me down, when things are temporary." And I just thought how much I could relate to that.
I hate temporary and flux and change. But, here I am, wanting to embrace change for the first time in my life. But not just that. Making a choice (not just passively continuing to stick with the status quo) is a kind of adventure, an acceptance of risk, an invitation to wonder.
I still don't know that my perspective is all that unique or special. But I'm starting to realize that the person I really am -- the person I want to be -- is the girl who invites wonder. The girl who chases down joy. The girl who knows that adventure is out there and attempts to find it. That's the kind of person who remembers to be awesome (most of the time, anyway, and that's certainly good enough).
I choose wonder. I choose magic. I choose goodness. I choose kindness. I choose joy. I choose adventure.
And I know there are risks -- disappointment and instability most of all, and those are the things that scare me more than pretty much anything else -- but it's worth those risks, isn't it?
I am notoriously indecisive. It's not just that I have a hard time making up my mind. It's that I see things from multiple points of view (usually, I think that's a good thing; sometimes, it's incredibly annoying, even to me). I often want things at opposing ends of the spectrum. So, it makes coming to even simple decisions pretty difficult. Plus, I'm not a huge fan of change. It takes me a long time to adjust, and I don't like that. In most cases, I'd rather stick with the familiar (even if it's agonizing) than dare to test the unknown.
Or, at least all of that used to be true.
I've been chewing on an epiphany since Monday. It's been coming in little pieces here and there as I've worked my way through my sister's Percy Jackson and the Olympians books.
I was telling my therapist on Monday how I think I need to move (for a variety of really excellent reasons) but that I feel kind of guilty about it. I was trying to read her expression and figure out what she thought I should do and she said, "I'm trying to figure out what you want." I told her I didn't know what I want. (I didn't realize until recently how bad I am at that -- figuring out what I want -- I suck at it. Big time.) By the end of the session, she helped me see that I really did want to move (for lots of reasons) and that I actually was kind of looking forward to a change. Which was all very unusual for me. I said as much. She said she thought that it would be good for me to do something that might be a little out of character for me and for me to feel good about making a change, a fresh start.
The next night, while reading, I stumbled on a description of the god Janus. He's the god of doorways. Of beginnings and endings. Of choices.
And that's when it felt like the sky fell in on me for a second. See, I've already started packing some of my stuff. Earlier in the evening, I'd packed up all the doorway/archway pictures I had in a corner of the computer room. I talk a lot about how I have a thing for doorways (and archways) but that I don't really understand it. Reading the description of Janus, it felt like things were really starting to click.
In Monday's therapy session, I'd also updated my shrink on my project with the pink letters. I showed her how my friend Mia proved (via PowerPoint) that she'd completed her first mission. I told her about the second missions I'd sent out, about the journal I'm keeping with ideas for missions. She said that it's my childlike wonder that gives me such a unique perspective -- that most people lose that when they grow up and so they settle into boring lives and don't take risks like they could/should and pass up adventures.
I've been thinking about that a lot. Two people that I respect a lot (because they don't BS) have identified my childlike wonder as my best quality. And, honestly, I never really got that. The funny thing is, one of my FAVORITE lines from my FAVORITE book is "Charles was unsure of what to do next - he wanted more badly than ever to be taken over by genuine wonder" (Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold). I love that book because it's all about wonder and magic and redemption and healing. It's about using wonder and magic TO heal.
I saw a FABULOUS apartment on Sunday, and the guy showing it to me had his two little kids with him. The 4-year-old said we were going on an adventure as we went into the apartment and then he said, "Adventure is out there!" (I missed the reference to Up at first, but I think that's why Up is one of my favorite movies -- because it's about not giving up on your dreams and making time for adventures and the things that make you happy.)
And then tonight, I was reading the last of the Percy Jackson books. There's this bit of dialogue toward the end: "Percy, for so much of my life, I felt like everything was changing, all the time. I didn't have anyone I could rely on. ...I hate it when people let me down, when things are temporary." And I just thought how much I could relate to that.
I hate temporary and flux and change. But, here I am, wanting to embrace change for the first time in my life. But not just that. Making a choice (not just passively continuing to stick with the status quo) is a kind of adventure, an acceptance of risk, an invitation to wonder.
I still don't know that my perspective is all that unique or special. But I'm starting to realize that the person I really am -- the person I want to be -- is the girl who invites wonder. The girl who chases down joy. The girl who knows that adventure is out there and attempts to find it. That's the kind of person who remembers to be awesome (most of the time, anyway, and that's certainly good enough).
I choose wonder. I choose magic. I choose goodness. I choose kindness. I choose joy. I choose adventure.
And I know there are risks -- disappointment and instability most of all, and those are the things that scare me more than pretty much anything else -- but it's worth those risks, isn't it?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Woman on a mission
About two weeks ago now, I sent out 15 letters on hot pink paper (so they would stand out). I sent them to people I thought either would participate in what I had in mind, or people I really WANTED to participate (because I totally wanted to see what they'd do).
[If you are reading this and are sad you didn't get a letter, it's probably because I thought you had enough on your plate right now and would be too busy to play. But, if I was wrong, and you WANT a letter, let me know....]
The letters were identical. They mentioned things that inspire me (Nerdfighteria and Matt Harding's bad dances and The Beckoning of Lovely and 13 Little Blue Envelopes). I told my friends how I'd been sending a lot more mail lately, because I realized how nice it is to GET mail and how I'd been sending a lot of people a lot of quarter-machine toys.
I proposed a mission. If they chose to accept the mission, they would simply have to prove (by whatever creative means they chose) that they accomplished the mission. Then I'd mail another mission -- I'm keeping a journal of ideas. We'd go back and forth until one of us decided to stop. If anyone wanted to assign me missions, I would follow the same rules. The guarantees: Nothing would make anyone go broke, cause humiliation, or physical pain (unless by accident); they would get MAIL; it would be fun.
So far, none of my friends has demonstrated fulfilling the first mission (which was to send a quarter-machine toy to someone they hadn't seen in at least six months, with a note saying they were thinking of the person). But, several people have said that they were inspired by the letter, several are definitely working on playing along, and at least one person is now plotting what seems to be a campaign of similar adventures for me.
This would be Mia.
Mia is a very good friend from derby, who now lives in North Carolina and so I don't see her nearly as often as I should. She randomly emailed me a couple of days ago with some cryptic questions and clues that ended with her saying that I will be receiving a series of tasks at some point soon that would make it all come clear. (She has now also read 13 Little Blue Envelopes, so I'm sure she's got more inspiration than most of my friends....) Then, she texted me to ask me about the location of my office and the hours I work. When what she was planning couldn't come together, she promised a letter would arrive yesterday.
Last night, my friend Kate and I had planned to go see A Nightmare on Elm Street. I've never seen the original. I didn't really want to see the new one. Mostly, I said I'd go because:
a. Kate really wanted to go and couldn't find anyone to go with her
b. I hate it when I can't find someone to do stuff with me, and most things are more fun with a friend
c. I thought it would be handy to be able to say to her someday, "You know that time we saw A Nightmare on Elm Street...." and follow it up with a request for a huge favor
So, I texted Mia before we left that I hadn't received the letter she mentioned, and off we went to the movie. After the movie, Mia texted to say I should check my e-mail, but by then we were back at my apartment watching Where the Wild Things Are -- this was because I love the movie, Kate had never seen it, and we both thought it would be good to watch a decent movie after having spent two hours of our lives we couldn't get back watching the ridiculous excuse for a remake we'd just seen. (Yes, it was that bad. It was JUST bad.)
So, when the DVD finished, I ran upstairs to check my email. By this point, it was near midnight. Kate and I had planned that she would stay over so we could go exploring Central Maine today (she's never really toured the wonders of this part of the state). Mia had sent me a Power Point presentation. It told me I had to be at the Dunkin Donuts down the street at 7 a.m. sharp this morning. I looked at Kate and I said, "We're getting up early tomorrow."
And so, we did. At 6:45 (after a very restless night of sleep -- I think I got a total of three hours, and all I can say about those three hours was that I dreamed about my mom a little. I don't remember the context of the dream or what happened, but I know that she was there, and it made me happy to dream of her again), we drove down to Dunkin Donuts in our pajamas.
And there in the parking lot was Mia, who, as far as I knew, was not going to be in Maine again until August. (She will be here again in August, for a longer trip.) This time, she was here for a Sister Weekend, and she snuck out while her sisters were sleeping to meet me (and Kate) for breakfast at Dunkin Donuts.
It was a very nice surprise, and well worth the sleeplessness and getting up even earlier than I do for work on a Saturday morning.
Afterward, Kate and I got ourselves dressed and wandered around Gardiner. She'd never been to Reny's, and we needed to remedy that. I picked up some random toys and things to mail people as part of my ongoing mission to mail random things to my friends.
We went to Hallowell, and I bought a bunch of cards at a shop that is going out of business. One of them, is an awesome birthday card. On the outside: "Remember when you were young and gay?" Inside: "well, thank goodness you're still gay! Happy birthday!" Now I just have to figure out who gets it....
It was raining and crappy, and we'd covered the cute little towns near me in a very short space of time. There isn't much to see in Augusta (and, anyway, we'd seen it the night before), so off we went to Waterville, because Kate had never been to Marden's or Governor's either.
We had grilled cheeses at Governor's (yum) and had a little adventure in Marden's. Some random shopper had left a dog toy on a shelf in housewares. The toy: A fuzzy squirrel slingshot. For real. You pull the slingshot (attached to the squirrel's mouth), and let him fly 50 feet. As soon as you let go, the squirrel chirps. I dared Kate to let him fly in an empty aisle in the store (not thinking she'd actually do it). She did. The dog toy was only $1.99. OF COURSE I BOUGHT IT.
I also bought a "make your own kazoo" kit, because I thought it would come in handy for the next Lovely project I undertake.
Marden's does not have quarter machines, so on the way back from Waterville, we stopped at the Augusta Shaw's, which has some pricey quarter machines. We both got a couple of little toys out of it (and Kate almost broke one of the machines) and then we came back to my apartment.
Kate went home to nap. I stayed home to nap. I napped for a good couple of hours. Oh, how I hope my sleep tonight is not TOTALLY messed up from this wacky circadian rhythm.
But, it's been a fun couple days, and I'm psyched to find out what else Mia has in store for me, and I'm excited about mailing random gifties to my friends and plotting the next Lovely adventure.
[If you are reading this and are sad you didn't get a letter, it's probably because I thought you had enough on your plate right now and would be too busy to play. But, if I was wrong, and you WANT a letter, let me know....]
The letters were identical. They mentioned things that inspire me (Nerdfighteria and Matt Harding's bad dances and The Beckoning of Lovely and 13 Little Blue Envelopes). I told my friends how I'd been sending a lot more mail lately, because I realized how nice it is to GET mail and how I'd been sending a lot of people a lot of quarter-machine toys.
I proposed a mission. If they chose to accept the mission, they would simply have to prove (by whatever creative means they chose) that they accomplished the mission. Then I'd mail another mission -- I'm keeping a journal of ideas. We'd go back and forth until one of us decided to stop. If anyone wanted to assign me missions, I would follow the same rules. The guarantees: Nothing would make anyone go broke, cause humiliation, or physical pain (unless by accident); they would get MAIL; it would be fun.
So far, none of my friends has demonstrated fulfilling the first mission (which was to send a quarter-machine toy to someone they hadn't seen in at least six months, with a note saying they were thinking of the person). But, several people have said that they were inspired by the letter, several are definitely working on playing along, and at least one person is now plotting what seems to be a campaign of similar adventures for me.
This would be Mia.
Mia is a very good friend from derby, who now lives in North Carolina and so I don't see her nearly as often as I should. She randomly emailed me a couple of days ago with some cryptic questions and clues that ended with her saying that I will be receiving a series of tasks at some point soon that would make it all come clear. (She has now also read 13 Little Blue Envelopes, so I'm sure she's got more inspiration than most of my friends....) Then, she texted me to ask me about the location of my office and the hours I work. When what she was planning couldn't come together, she promised a letter would arrive yesterday.
Last night, my friend Kate and I had planned to go see A Nightmare on Elm Street. I've never seen the original. I didn't really want to see the new one. Mostly, I said I'd go because:
a. Kate really wanted to go and couldn't find anyone to go with her
b. I hate it when I can't find someone to do stuff with me, and most things are more fun with a friend
c. I thought it would be handy to be able to say to her someday, "You know that time we saw A Nightmare on Elm Street...." and follow it up with a request for a huge favor
So, I texted Mia before we left that I hadn't received the letter she mentioned, and off we went to the movie. After the movie, Mia texted to say I should check my e-mail, but by then we were back at my apartment watching Where the Wild Things Are -- this was because I love the movie, Kate had never seen it, and we both thought it would be good to watch a decent movie after having spent two hours of our lives we couldn't get back watching the ridiculous excuse for a remake we'd just seen. (Yes, it was that bad. It was JUST bad.)
So, when the DVD finished, I ran upstairs to check my email. By this point, it was near midnight. Kate and I had planned that she would stay over so we could go exploring Central Maine today (she's never really toured the wonders of this part of the state). Mia had sent me a Power Point presentation. It told me I had to be at the Dunkin Donuts down the street at 7 a.m. sharp this morning. I looked at Kate and I said, "We're getting up early tomorrow."
And so, we did. At 6:45 (after a very restless night of sleep -- I think I got a total of three hours, and all I can say about those three hours was that I dreamed about my mom a little. I don't remember the context of the dream or what happened, but I know that she was there, and it made me happy to dream of her again), we drove down to Dunkin Donuts in our pajamas.
And there in the parking lot was Mia, who, as far as I knew, was not going to be in Maine again until August. (She will be here again in August, for a longer trip.) This time, she was here for a Sister Weekend, and she snuck out while her sisters were sleeping to meet me (and Kate) for breakfast at Dunkin Donuts.
It was a very nice surprise, and well worth the sleeplessness and getting up even earlier than I do for work on a Saturday morning.
Afterward, Kate and I got ourselves dressed and wandered around Gardiner. She'd never been to Reny's, and we needed to remedy that. I picked up some random toys and things to mail people as part of my ongoing mission to mail random things to my friends.
We went to Hallowell, and I bought a bunch of cards at a shop that is going out of business. One of them, is an awesome birthday card. On the outside: "Remember when you were young and gay?" Inside: "well, thank goodness you're still gay! Happy birthday!" Now I just have to figure out who gets it....
It was raining and crappy, and we'd covered the cute little towns near me in a very short space of time. There isn't much to see in Augusta (and, anyway, we'd seen it the night before), so off we went to Waterville, because Kate had never been to Marden's or Governor's either.
We had grilled cheeses at Governor's (yum) and had a little adventure in Marden's. Some random shopper had left a dog toy on a shelf in housewares. The toy: A fuzzy squirrel slingshot. For real. You pull the slingshot (attached to the squirrel's mouth), and let him fly 50 feet. As soon as you let go, the squirrel chirps. I dared Kate to let him fly in an empty aisle in the store (not thinking she'd actually do it). She did. The dog toy was only $1.99. OF COURSE I BOUGHT IT.
I also bought a "make your own kazoo" kit, because I thought it would come in handy for the next Lovely project I undertake.
Marden's does not have quarter machines, so on the way back from Waterville, we stopped at the Augusta Shaw's, which has some pricey quarter machines. We both got a couple of little toys out of it (and Kate almost broke one of the machines) and then we came back to my apartment.
Kate went home to nap. I stayed home to nap. I napped for a good couple of hours. Oh, how I hope my sleep tonight is not TOTALLY messed up from this wacky circadian rhythm.
But, it's been a fun couple days, and I'm psyched to find out what else Mia has in store for me, and I'm excited about mailing random gifties to my friends and plotting the next Lovely adventure.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
How I spent last Sunday night....
Dear Ma,
If I’d known I was going to do this and I’d told you about it ahead of time, you probably would’ve thought it was nuts. But, it’s no crazier writing a letter to your dead mother than it is writing a letter to the main character in your novel – who exists solely in your own head – and I’ve done that a couple of times. Of course, I’m not saying that’s sane, either, just that I’ve done it.
I was putting new sheets on my bed just now, and found myself staring at the shelf full of snow globes across the room. After you died, I took almost all of the snow globes I’d given you, and a couple that other people had given you, too. That shelf is ridiculously full now. I realized that I don’t think any of the snow globes I had before actually came from you. I wonder if snow globes really were something you liked, or something we pushed off on you, because we gave you one once (the carousel one – all three of us pitched in and bought it with our own money – I think I was in third grade and it sat on the windowsill in the kitchen FOREVER until it grew a fungus on the top of the carousel and a bunch of the water evaporated out of it…that one is still at the house) and you liked it and then it just became this thing that people got you for every gift-giving occasion.
Sometimes, I wonder if snow globes were for you like ham sandwiches for me in second grade. Do you remember that? I once told you I liked them, and then they were in my lunch EVERY DAY until I would pull the ham out and just eat the bread and mayonnaise (ew)…and, yes, I think that IS part of why I gave up eating meat just two years later. I’m kidding. I was destined to be a vegetarian long before that. Remember when I stopped eating fish sticks, because I was afraid they were the cousins of my goldfish, Door-y? Remember Door-y – so named, because our front door was the first thing I thought of in the car when you and Dad asked what I was going to name him. I remember dragging my pillow out into the hall the night that you said Door-y wasn’t looking so good and we’d probably have to flush him in the morning. I felt like it’s where I needed to be. I remember Dad finding me when he got up ridiculously early for work and he put me back to bed. I don’t remember what ended up happening to Door-y. I think I probably missed his last moments.
Do you remember when Dr. Willis put Buster to sleep? Bonnie’s water bed sprung a leak and you were fixing it, so I had to fry up the hamburger for him for his last meal – it was the first time I’d ever tried cooking meat and I only did it because it was Buster. (Sometimes, I forget that you used to call him “Moose.” Now that I’ve seen real moose up close, I can tell you he wasn’t very moose-like, especially by the end.) You fed him the hamburger, and we took him to the vet’s, and I remember her putting the stethoscope against his chest and whispering, “He’s gone now” and thinking that I’d missed the exact second it happened. She asked if we wanted a minute, and I shook my head and ran out of the room. You stayed with him for a while, though.
It was kind of the same when Joy died. My friends Eli and Mary went with me. I remember missing the moment again – one second she was there, the next she wasn’t. I did take the minute with her afterward, though. And, for days later, I swore I saw flashes of her in the apartment….
When I think of your death – and I think of it often – the thing I think about the most is how I missed the last moment with you, too. I think about this Death Cab for Cutie (yes, that’s really the band’s name) song called “I Will Follow You into the Dark.” There was a period of time last year when I couldn’t listen to that song at all. It just made me feel cold and hollow inside. Which is funny, because you’d think that now would be the time it bothers me, because of this: “if there’s no one beside you / when your soul embarks / then I’ll follow you into the dark.” I was just feet away. I was awake. I feel like I should’ve been beside you. I feel like I should’ve been holding your hand. Why wasn’t I? (Because I was distracting myself by cleaning the bathroom and getting caught up on episodes of The Guild…which I haven’t watched since that night. I can’t. I won’t. Not ever again.)
And, maybe it doesn’t matter. You were really out of it by then. Dr. Sharma said the cancer had spread to your brain, which was what was causing the seizures. You weren’t making much sense after that last one. You kept saying, “Ow,” so I kept feeding you pills. I guess they probably made you pretty out of it, too. Who knows. I just wanted you to stop hurting.
But, the truth is, I wanted us to stop hurting, too. And, sometimes, I’m not sure who I wanted to stop hurting most. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but sometimes I think it does.
Next Saturday is seven months since your soul embarked alone. Some days, it feels like forever. Some days, I can’t believe how much time has passed and I wonder how it’s even possible. I miss you every day. You know, even though I got rid of the house phone before Christmas, every time I walk in the door, the first thing I do is turn my head toward where the phone and answering machine used to be, looking for the flashing light. It’s ridiculous, because even if the phone was still there, there would be no flashing light. You called pretty much every day. Sometimes, it annoyed the crap out of me. It really drove me up a wall when you’d say you didn’t want to hear about work – well, I got up, I went to work, I came home, you called; what would you like me to talk about? And yet, I miss the stupid flashing light that meant it was you expecting me to call you back and tell you about my day.
I don’t need a stupid manufactured-by-greeting-card-companies-holiday to remind me to think about you, or to miss you. But, next Sunday is Mother’s Day. Stupid calendar keeps fucking with me like that – last month was six months since you’d died, followed by Easter, followed by the two-year anniversary of Grandpa’s death. June should be okay at least….
There are things all over my apartment that remind me of you – things, like the snow globes, that I took from the house and once belonged to you, or photographs, or presents you gave me. It’s weird how I can look at them every day and be fine, and then suddenly I’m just making my bed and it feels like it’s that horrible night all over again and I just want to go clean the bathroom or something.
And, that’s not really true. I was feeling crappy before I made the bed. It started hours ago and, per usual, I’m not even sure why.
I just miss you, Ma.
I’m sorry that I’m only 31 and I have to live the rest of my life without a mother, especially because I know there will be times when I’ll really want one. But I’m also sorry that you were only 56 and that there were a lot of really unhappy years in there. I’m sorry that you won’t get to see what Danielle, Bonnie, and I become.
But here’s the perverse part of it: Who I am now, and who I will be in the future, is shaped so much by not having you. I don’t know that I would be so focused on trying to figure out what makes me (and other people) happy and finding ways of exploiting that happiness for all its worth if it wasn’t for trying to find a way of healing the part of me that is so broken without you. It’s weird, right?
But, here I am asking about weirdness when I’m writing a letter to my dead mother.
I haven’t dreamed much at all since you died. I wake up in the mornings with this horrible pain in my ear (from clenching and grinding my teeth so badly) and the sheets are always practically mummifying me from all the turning around. I guess it’s safe to say I’m not dreaming much, because I’m not sleeping very deeply. I did have a dream about you recently, though. It was weird and it was short, but you were definitely in it.
I hope I see you in my dreams tonight, Ma.
Love,
Tara
If I’d known I was going to do this and I’d told you about it ahead of time, you probably would’ve thought it was nuts. But, it’s no crazier writing a letter to your dead mother than it is writing a letter to the main character in your novel – who exists solely in your own head – and I’ve done that a couple of times. Of course, I’m not saying that’s sane, either, just that I’ve done it.
I was putting new sheets on my bed just now, and found myself staring at the shelf full of snow globes across the room. After you died, I took almost all of the snow globes I’d given you, and a couple that other people had given you, too. That shelf is ridiculously full now. I realized that I don’t think any of the snow globes I had before actually came from you. I wonder if snow globes really were something you liked, or something we pushed off on you, because we gave you one once (the carousel one – all three of us pitched in and bought it with our own money – I think I was in third grade and it sat on the windowsill in the kitchen FOREVER until it grew a fungus on the top of the carousel and a bunch of the water evaporated out of it…that one is still at the house) and you liked it and then it just became this thing that people got you for every gift-giving occasion.
Sometimes, I wonder if snow globes were for you like ham sandwiches for me in second grade. Do you remember that? I once told you I liked them, and then they were in my lunch EVERY DAY until I would pull the ham out and just eat the bread and mayonnaise (ew)…and, yes, I think that IS part of why I gave up eating meat just two years later. I’m kidding. I was destined to be a vegetarian long before that. Remember when I stopped eating fish sticks, because I was afraid they were the cousins of my goldfish, Door-y? Remember Door-y – so named, because our front door was the first thing I thought of in the car when you and Dad asked what I was going to name him. I remember dragging my pillow out into the hall the night that you said Door-y wasn’t looking so good and we’d probably have to flush him in the morning. I felt like it’s where I needed to be. I remember Dad finding me when he got up ridiculously early for work and he put me back to bed. I don’t remember what ended up happening to Door-y. I think I probably missed his last moments.
Do you remember when Dr. Willis put Buster to sleep? Bonnie’s water bed sprung a leak and you were fixing it, so I had to fry up the hamburger for him for his last meal – it was the first time I’d ever tried cooking meat and I only did it because it was Buster. (Sometimes, I forget that you used to call him “Moose.” Now that I’ve seen real moose up close, I can tell you he wasn’t very moose-like, especially by the end.) You fed him the hamburger, and we took him to the vet’s, and I remember her putting the stethoscope against his chest and whispering, “He’s gone now” and thinking that I’d missed the exact second it happened. She asked if we wanted a minute, and I shook my head and ran out of the room. You stayed with him for a while, though.
It was kind of the same when Joy died. My friends Eli and Mary went with me. I remember missing the moment again – one second she was there, the next she wasn’t. I did take the minute with her afterward, though. And, for days later, I swore I saw flashes of her in the apartment….
When I think of your death – and I think of it often – the thing I think about the most is how I missed the last moment with you, too. I think about this Death Cab for Cutie (yes, that’s really the band’s name) song called “I Will Follow You into the Dark.” There was a period of time last year when I couldn’t listen to that song at all. It just made me feel cold and hollow inside. Which is funny, because you’d think that now would be the time it bothers me, because of this: “if there’s no one beside you / when your soul embarks / then I’ll follow you into the dark.” I was just feet away. I was awake. I feel like I should’ve been beside you. I feel like I should’ve been holding your hand. Why wasn’t I? (Because I was distracting myself by cleaning the bathroom and getting caught up on episodes of The Guild…which I haven’t watched since that night. I can’t. I won’t. Not ever again.)
And, maybe it doesn’t matter. You were really out of it by then. Dr. Sharma said the cancer had spread to your brain, which was what was causing the seizures. You weren’t making much sense after that last one. You kept saying, “Ow,” so I kept feeding you pills. I guess they probably made you pretty out of it, too. Who knows. I just wanted you to stop hurting.
But, the truth is, I wanted us to stop hurting, too. And, sometimes, I’m not sure who I wanted to stop hurting most. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but sometimes I think it does.
Next Saturday is seven months since your soul embarked alone. Some days, it feels like forever. Some days, I can’t believe how much time has passed and I wonder how it’s even possible. I miss you every day. You know, even though I got rid of the house phone before Christmas, every time I walk in the door, the first thing I do is turn my head toward where the phone and answering machine used to be, looking for the flashing light. It’s ridiculous, because even if the phone was still there, there would be no flashing light. You called pretty much every day. Sometimes, it annoyed the crap out of me. It really drove me up a wall when you’d say you didn’t want to hear about work – well, I got up, I went to work, I came home, you called; what would you like me to talk about? And yet, I miss the stupid flashing light that meant it was you expecting me to call you back and tell you about my day.
I don’t need a stupid manufactured-by-greeting-card-companies-holiday to remind me to think about you, or to miss you. But, next Sunday is Mother’s Day. Stupid calendar keeps fucking with me like that – last month was six months since you’d died, followed by Easter, followed by the two-year anniversary of Grandpa’s death. June should be okay at least….
There are things all over my apartment that remind me of you – things, like the snow globes, that I took from the house and once belonged to you, or photographs, or presents you gave me. It’s weird how I can look at them every day and be fine, and then suddenly I’m just making my bed and it feels like it’s that horrible night all over again and I just want to go clean the bathroom or something.
And, that’s not really true. I was feeling crappy before I made the bed. It started hours ago and, per usual, I’m not even sure why.
I just miss you, Ma.
I’m sorry that I’m only 31 and I have to live the rest of my life without a mother, especially because I know there will be times when I’ll really want one. But I’m also sorry that you were only 56 and that there were a lot of really unhappy years in there. I’m sorry that you won’t get to see what Danielle, Bonnie, and I become.
But here’s the perverse part of it: Who I am now, and who I will be in the future, is shaped so much by not having you. I don’t know that I would be so focused on trying to figure out what makes me (and other people) happy and finding ways of exploiting that happiness for all its worth if it wasn’t for trying to find a way of healing the part of me that is so broken without you. It’s weird, right?
But, here I am asking about weirdness when I’m writing a letter to my dead mother.
I haven’t dreamed much at all since you died. I wake up in the mornings with this horrible pain in my ear (from clenching and grinding my teeth so badly) and the sheets are always practically mummifying me from all the turning around. I guess it’s safe to say I’m not dreaming much, because I’m not sleeping very deeply. I did have a dream about you recently, though. It was weird and it was short, but you were definitely in it.
I hope I see you in my dreams tonight, Ma.
Love,
Tara
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
"Self-expression heals the wounded heart"
- How to Make An American Quilt (the movie)
I've always LOVED that line, and I was disappointed to discover it's not in Whitney Otto's novel, but it's in the movie and the line is spoken by the inimitable Anne Bancroft. That woman could ACT.
I read Otto's novel (and watched the movie again) when I was writing my undergraduate thesis, which was (among other things) about women writers who quilt. "Self-expression heals the wounded heart" was sort of the point of the whole project -- it was about how I found my voice again after I lost the ability to write when a series of really, really horrible things happened my junior year of college.
And, I realize that it's how I'm trying to heal my wounded heart (and find my voice) now, too.
In therapy yesterday, my shrink told me that she thinks I need to write about my grieving process -- my random misadventures and Lovely projects and trapezing and my DFTBA tattoo and this experiment I've undertaken with sending a bunch of people letters on hot pink paper that I hope will make them join in some of the wacky things I've been doing.... She says that it's beautiful and life-affirming and inspiring. She says it's all of those things in part because I am not a super model or super athlete -- I'm just an ordinary girl who has a somewhat unique perspective, I guess. And that's what she says is so awesome (yes, she actually used that word) -- the things I take away from things that inspire me, and my desire to share those things with people around me.
And, well, that was kind of the point of this blog -- to share the things that inspire me and bring me joy and heal my wounded heart, so that maybe someone else can use them in the same way.
Maybe my therapist is right (she usually is) and I need to write it in a more formal way. I don't know. I just want to find a way of being as happy as I possibly can be as often as possible, and to do what I can to do that for others, too. It seems kind of simple and obvious...but maybe it's not.
At the end of this epic blog post, Amanda Palmer writes, "NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE IF YOU ASK FOR HELP." And, I'm starting to see that she's right. I think too often we are afraid to ask for help, to look weak, to face the possibility of being told that we're wrong or bad or annoying or stupid or unworthy (or, worse, being ignored entirely), and so we don't ask for the help we need even when it's something small, even when the people who care about us would happily do everything we request -- and more -- without a second thought.
I'm realizing that connectedness (which Amanda Palmer also talked about in a blog a while back) is the most important thing. When I feel lousy, the thing that instantly makes things better (sure, it's not a cure-all, but it HELPS) is feeling connected to someone else -- even if it's just an email or a text or a silly little comment on Facebook. Really. I get such a little rush of glee every time my phone rings and it's not some spam text or telemarketer, every time there is mail in my mailbox and it's not bills or advertisements, every time there is email in my inbox that isn't just a Facebook notification or something from a listserv. I feel that happiness because it means SOMEONE was thinking about me. Someone cares. Isn't that all that anyone wants?
What I'm starting to get is that even though I'm kind of weird (okay, not so much kind of -- I'm pretty damn odd, and I like it that way), I'm actually not all that unique. At least not in the ways that matter. The things that make me feel content and at peace are not wildly outside the norm. And, the things I'm willing to do to help others are not wildly outside the norm, either. What I'm realizing is this:
And I don't know why I let that keep slipping from my head. Maybe it's what I said before about how the human heart can only hold so much at once.
But, if self-expression heals the wounded heart, then maybe I can make some room to hold this in there for good. Because it's important. It's the most important thing.
I've always LOVED that line, and I was disappointed to discover it's not in Whitney Otto's novel, but it's in the movie and the line is spoken by the inimitable Anne Bancroft. That woman could ACT.
I read Otto's novel (and watched the movie again) when I was writing my undergraduate thesis, which was (among other things) about women writers who quilt. "Self-expression heals the wounded heart" was sort of the point of the whole project -- it was about how I found my voice again after I lost the ability to write when a series of really, really horrible things happened my junior year of college.
And, I realize that it's how I'm trying to heal my wounded heart (and find my voice) now, too.
In therapy yesterday, my shrink told me that she thinks I need to write about my grieving process -- my random misadventures and Lovely projects and trapezing and my DFTBA tattoo and this experiment I've undertaken with sending a bunch of people letters on hot pink paper that I hope will make them join in some of the wacky things I've been doing.... She says that it's beautiful and life-affirming and inspiring. She says it's all of those things in part because I am not a super model or super athlete -- I'm just an ordinary girl who has a somewhat unique perspective, I guess. And that's what she says is so awesome (yes, she actually used that word) -- the things I take away from things that inspire me, and my desire to share those things with people around me.
And, well, that was kind of the point of this blog -- to share the things that inspire me and bring me joy and heal my wounded heart, so that maybe someone else can use them in the same way.
Maybe my therapist is right (she usually is) and I need to write it in a more formal way. I don't know. I just want to find a way of being as happy as I possibly can be as often as possible, and to do what I can to do that for others, too. It seems kind of simple and obvious...but maybe it's not.
At the end of this epic blog post, Amanda Palmer writes, "NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE IF YOU ASK FOR HELP." And, I'm starting to see that she's right. I think too often we are afraid to ask for help, to look weak, to face the possibility of being told that we're wrong or bad or annoying or stupid or unworthy (or, worse, being ignored entirely), and so we don't ask for the help we need even when it's something small, even when the people who care about us would happily do everything we request -- and more -- without a second thought.
I'm realizing that connectedness (which Amanda Palmer also talked about in a blog a while back) is the most important thing. When I feel lousy, the thing that instantly makes things better (sure, it's not a cure-all, but it HELPS) is feeling connected to someone else -- even if it's just an email or a text or a silly little comment on Facebook. Really. I get such a little rush of glee every time my phone rings and it's not some spam text or telemarketer, every time there is mail in my mailbox and it's not bills or advertisements, every time there is email in my inbox that isn't just a Facebook notification or something from a listserv. I feel that happiness because it means SOMEONE was thinking about me. Someone cares. Isn't that all that anyone wants?
What I'm starting to get is that even though I'm kind of weird (okay, not so much kind of -- I'm pretty damn odd, and I like it that way), I'm actually not all that unique. At least not in the ways that matter. The things that make me feel content and at peace are not wildly outside the norm. And, the things I'm willing to do to help others are not wildly outside the norm, either. What I'm realizing is this:
- Most people really do want to do nice things for other people (sometimes they just need to be reminded)
- Most people will happily help you, if you ask (and probably won't think it's even half the big deal you think it is)
- Most people want to feel connected, too
And I don't know why I let that keep slipping from my head. Maybe it's what I said before about how the human heart can only hold so much at once.
But, if self-expression heals the wounded heart, then maybe I can make some room to hold this in there for good. Because it's important. It's the most important thing.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
"We want to remember, and we want to be remembered."
- Maureen Johnson, 13 Little Blue Envelopes
I pronounce the beginning of the word "envelope" like the letter "n." I don't pronounce it "on-velope." I think that sounds pretentious. And yet, with this book, (and maybe it's only because I saw Maureen vlog about it and she pronounces it "on-velope") I do say it the pretentious way. Weird.
Anyway, I'm sitting here avoiding all kinds of things I should be doing, because I've had this weird avoidance thing going on lately. I just glanced over at my sad, nearly empty bookcase (which is that way, because I packed up a HUGE box of books to lend a friend earlier this evening) and I noticed this funny little cow.
It's a plastic cow that looks like it's been buried at some point, because it WAS buried at some point. In our backyard. My mom randomly found it in the backyard one day years ago, coated in mud (and who really wants to know what else) and she scrubbed the little cow clean -- I think she even ran it through the dishwasher -- and then she presented it to me. I like cows -- she knew this -- and she assumed it must have been my toy cow that got lost in the backyard at some point. It wasn't. Or, if it was, I lost it when I was so little that I don't remember it in the slightest.
But, I've kept the cow ever since my mom gave it to me. I keep it on that bookcase with my favorite, favorite books. I keep it there, because when I look at that cow, I remember all the trouble my mom went through to clean it up and get it to me, because she thought I'd like it.
There were times when my mom and I out and out didn't get along, times when she drove me (and many others) completely crazy. She could be melodramatic and a little manipulative. She was definitely controlling, especially with her kids. But she was also incredibly thoughtful and generous. I like to think I got those qualities from her. I think they are some of my best qualities.
And, it's funny how those memories of her driving me crazy have faded so much. I know that she drove me nuts, but I don't feel that anymore -- the irritation and the resentment have just disintegrated. But when I look at that cow, I remember feeling loved. I feel it. I'm glad those are the things I keep with me, and will continue to carry.
I pronounce the beginning of the word "envelope" like the letter "n." I don't pronounce it "on-velope." I think that sounds pretentious. And yet, with this book, (and maybe it's only because I saw Maureen vlog about it and she pronounces it "on-velope") I do say it the pretentious way. Weird.
Anyway, I'm sitting here avoiding all kinds of things I should be doing, because I've had this weird avoidance thing going on lately. I just glanced over at my sad, nearly empty bookcase (which is that way, because I packed up a HUGE box of books to lend a friend earlier this evening) and I noticed this funny little cow.
It's a plastic cow that looks like it's been buried at some point, because it WAS buried at some point. In our backyard. My mom randomly found it in the backyard one day years ago, coated in mud (and who really wants to know what else) and she scrubbed the little cow clean -- I think she even ran it through the dishwasher -- and then she presented it to me. I like cows -- she knew this -- and she assumed it must have been my toy cow that got lost in the backyard at some point. It wasn't. Or, if it was, I lost it when I was so little that I don't remember it in the slightest.
But, I've kept the cow ever since my mom gave it to me. I keep it on that bookcase with my favorite, favorite books. I keep it there, because when I look at that cow, I remember all the trouble my mom went through to clean it up and get it to me, because she thought I'd like it.
There were times when my mom and I out and out didn't get along, times when she drove me (and many others) completely crazy. She could be melodramatic and a little manipulative. She was definitely controlling, especially with her kids. But she was also incredibly thoughtful and generous. I like to think I got those qualities from her. I think they are some of my best qualities.
And, it's funny how those memories of her driving me crazy have faded so much. I know that she drove me nuts, but I don't feel that anymore -- the irritation and the resentment have just disintegrated. But when I look at that cow, I remember feeling loved. I feel it. I'm glad those are the things I keep with me, and will continue to carry.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
"Make someone think that wonderful things are happening to them for no reason they can see."
- Maureen Johnson, Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes
I got sick again last week. An insane, drain-all-the-energy-from-you-so-you-sleep-til-4pm-and-barely-notice kind of sick. It was a long week. Then, I went home for a long weekend. Being at home is weird. It reminds me, more than ever, of this part of Garden State (my favorite movie) when Large and Sam are in the pool and he says, "Maybe that's all a family really is - a group of people who miss the same imaginary place." Yep.
So, yeah, I've been in a bit of a mood for a bit of a while and a bunch of my friends have been subjected to a bunch of emails from me. Long emails where I talk about feeling sad or crazy things I need to do that require their help or support. It occurred to me recently that I've been very self-absorbed. I'm not berating myself for that, just observing. The way I figure it, the human heart can only hold so much at once. But, I don't like being so stuck in my own head, thinking about just myself.
A friend of mine sent me an email last week (I think it was last week -- when we have a holiday, it totally throws off my sense of time) that had this sentence just sort of casually tossed in at the end, "I think about you a lot." It's such a vague statement -- my a lot and your a lot may be two totally different things. And, most of my friends have had no choice but to think of me a lot, given the frequency of my name popping up in their email inboxes. But it doesn't matter. That casual, vague sentence meant a lot. Still does. It's nice to know people think of you.
It's also nice to get mail. Not just email (although I get a little gleeful every time something shows up in my inbox that isn't junk), but REAL mail. I know this, because my derby wife is amazing about sending random little notes and gifties by mail. I also know this, because I mailed some little toy monkeys to some friends recently and they all expressed quite a lot of joy at receiving them.
These are small things -- hardly any effort, hardly any expense -- that can bring quite a lot of joy to someone.
And so, I'm trying to remember that and to do it more.
I was thinking about that today as I was leaving the bookstore, having just purchased Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes. (By the way, I sat down with it, and read straight to page 80 without stopping at all, then made myself put it down so I could accomplish some of the things I needed to do tonight.) I was retrieving the text I'd received while I was paying for the book. A friend sent me this message: "Happy Earth Day! In celebration of our home, do something kind. :) It's fun!" I texted her back: "Beautiful idea, Love!" and then passed her message on to about 10 other people. Next, I stopped at the store and picked up several "thinking of you" cards, and more quarter-machine monkeys.
Tonight when I got home from work, I wrote out a bunch of thank you notes that I needed to send people. I also wrote out several "thinking of you" notes. Some of them have monkeys in them. Several other monkey packages will randomly make their way into the mail soon, too.
Since my mom died, I've told several people several times that I think it's important to let people know what you think of them, THAT you think of them. Sometimes I'm better at remembering than others. I'm working on it. The truth is, if not for the people I think of all the time, I would be sitting in a very white room drooling on myself and talking to walls right now. Thinking of them is like being able to carry them in my pocket, so I feel a little less alone during the especially lonesome or hard parts. That means a lot, too.
It's important to let people know you care, randomly, for no apparent reason. (It's important to do it for good reason -- birthdays, holidays, when they say they need support -- too.) It's important to bring a little magic into someone's life if you can, when you can.
Because why not bring someone a little joy? Especially if it doesn't cost you anything? In fact, it usually feels pretty good.
I got sick again last week. An insane, drain-all-the-energy-from-you-so-you-sleep-til-4pm-and-barely-notice kind of sick. It was a long week. Then, I went home for a long weekend. Being at home is weird. It reminds me, more than ever, of this part of Garden State (my favorite movie) when Large and Sam are in the pool and he says, "Maybe that's all a family really is - a group of people who miss the same imaginary place." Yep.
So, yeah, I've been in a bit of a mood for a bit of a while and a bunch of my friends have been subjected to a bunch of emails from me. Long emails where I talk about feeling sad or crazy things I need to do that require their help or support. It occurred to me recently that I've been very self-absorbed. I'm not berating myself for that, just observing. The way I figure it, the human heart can only hold so much at once. But, I don't like being so stuck in my own head, thinking about just myself.
A friend of mine sent me an email last week (I think it was last week -- when we have a holiday, it totally throws off my sense of time) that had this sentence just sort of casually tossed in at the end, "I think about you a lot." It's such a vague statement -- my a lot and your a lot may be two totally different things. And, most of my friends have had no choice but to think of me a lot, given the frequency of my name popping up in their email inboxes. But it doesn't matter. That casual, vague sentence meant a lot. Still does. It's nice to know people think of you.
It's also nice to get mail. Not just email (although I get a little gleeful every time something shows up in my inbox that isn't junk), but REAL mail. I know this, because my derby wife is amazing about sending random little notes and gifties by mail. I also know this, because I mailed some little toy monkeys to some friends recently and they all expressed quite a lot of joy at receiving them.
These are small things -- hardly any effort, hardly any expense -- that can bring quite a lot of joy to someone.
And so, I'm trying to remember that and to do it more.
I was thinking about that today as I was leaving the bookstore, having just purchased Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes. (By the way, I sat down with it, and read straight to page 80 without stopping at all, then made myself put it down so I could accomplish some of the things I needed to do tonight.) I was retrieving the text I'd received while I was paying for the book. A friend sent me this message: "Happy Earth Day! In celebration of our home, do something kind. :) It's fun!" I texted her back: "Beautiful idea, Love!" and then passed her message on to about 10 other people. Next, I stopped at the store and picked up several "thinking of you" cards, and more quarter-machine monkeys.
Tonight when I got home from work, I wrote out a bunch of thank you notes that I needed to send people. I also wrote out several "thinking of you" notes. Some of them have monkeys in them. Several other monkey packages will randomly make their way into the mail soon, too.
Since my mom died, I've told several people several times that I think it's important to let people know what you think of them, THAT you think of them. Sometimes I'm better at remembering than others. I'm working on it. The truth is, if not for the people I think of all the time, I would be sitting in a very white room drooling on myself and talking to walls right now. Thinking of them is like being able to carry them in my pocket, so I feel a little less alone during the especially lonesome or hard parts. That means a lot, too.
It's important to let people know you care, randomly, for no apparent reason. (It's important to do it for good reason -- birthdays, holidays, when they say they need support -- too.) It's important to bring a little magic into someone's life if you can, when you can.
Because why not bring someone a little joy? Especially if it doesn't cost you anything? In fact, it usually feels pretty good.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Only Connect
- E.M. Forster
Yesterday, my friend Kate and I set out on an odyssey to get signed copies of Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and David Levithan. I would end up spending more than 10 hours in the car (two hours more than Kate, because I live farther away than she does - clearly, Kate is way smarter than me).
The Road Trip
We had provisions: A fishy bag (so named, because it has fish printed on the outside) full of snacks and chocolate, a polar bear bag (so named, because it has pictures of polar bears on it) full of soda and cranberry pomegranate juice.
We had directions, which clearly stated that it would only take 3.5 hours from Portland to get to the reading. (It's more like 4 and change, by the way, which makes a difference.)
We had monkeys. Or, Kate had monkeys. Quarter machine monkeys, which I bestowed upon her as she boarded the Shiny Blue Car.
It wasn't a bad drive. The sun was shining. Traffic wasn't horrible. Round about Berlin, Mass., my "uh oh, you're running out of gas!" light came on. I pulled off at the very next exit, which was for a mall. I will admit that I did not see a sign prior to the exit announcing that there would be gas available, but I figured that (and who can fault me for this logic?) mall = nearby gas stations. Right?
Wrong.
We drove through the Mall that Never Ends, and into a residential area. I did the first of many three-point turns, and went back to the mall. Not wanting to screw around with the "uh oh" light on, I decided we'd just get back on the highway and take the next exit.
Except the sign for the highway doesn't bring you to the highway. It brings you out into an expanse of farmland with a ridiculous little traffic circle (with very cryptic, inconsistent signs -- I know, because I went around it two full times) -- "Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!" We get to the end of a long road, and the signs are no more helpful.
At this point, Kate was commenting about how it was like in Labyrinth when the little guys turn the stones that Sara marked with her lipstick and she yells, "Someone's been changing my marks!" Very much so. I think this is where I started whining that we were trapped in Hell (and about to run out of gas).
Finally, however, we did manage to find a nice little Gulf station. And then, whilst trying to get back to the Mall that Never Ends -- due to bad signage -- we missed a turn and ended up down a road with two more gas stations. Of course.
Back at the Mall that Never Ends, we stopped at Target to pee, because Target has incredibly clean bathrooms. Always. (Or, at least, every one that I've been in.)
And then tried to find the highway again. According to the signs, we had to go the way we'd just gotten lost to get back to the highway going the right direction. I wasn't about to do that again. I decided to get on the highway going the wrong direction and turn around at the next exit (outside of Hell, and therefore -- I hoped -- easier to navigate). BUT, once I made that turn, I saw that I could indeed get on the highway going the right way...if I'd been in the correct lane. Stupid signs. Another turn around and a quick stop for a photo-op in Hell (which ALMOST made it worth the being stuck in Hell part), and we were back on the highway. Going the right way. Yay.
We stopped at Friendly's for dinner. Mmm: Grilled cheese and French fries. I couldn't finish my ice cream, because I was too full. This still makes me very sad.
Back in the car, we realized we had very little time to make it to the reading. This made me exceptionally tense. I don't like being late. Thank goodness for Kate's back up directions, or we would've gotten EXTRA lost right at the end. Ugh.
But we made it. Barely even late.
Of course, I was so tense, I left my camera in the car. Duh.
The Reading
I cannot wait to read Will Grayson, Will Grayson. Except, well, I kind of have to, because I have to leave soon to get my hair cut and I don't want to pick it up and then have to put it down. I will be reading when I get home from the hair cut, and doubt I will stop until I am finished. I am so excited, I could pee.
And why?
Because just the little bits that John Green and David Levithan (with some help from Maureen Johnson) read last night made me laugh and made me put my hand over my heart and made me want to read read read until every page has been turned.
Did I happen to mention how hysterically funny it appears to be?
The Q&A
During the Q&A, both writers gave some very funny, very smart answers to A LOT of questions. David Levithan said some incredible things about writing (which I remember being incredible, but I don't remember word for word -- give me a break, I spent 10 hours in the car yesterday and got less than five hours of sleep last night). All I know is, hearing him speak made me want to come directly home and sit in front of my computer until my book is done. (Okay, I didn't quite do that -- but I'm feeling inspired again, and that is a beautiful, beautiful thing.) He ended his response to that question with the E.M. Forster quote above.
The Signing
Kate and I stood in line for two-ish hours to get our books signed. I think we were the only adults not accompanied by adolescents. (Some of whom were so obnoxious it made me want to not have children unless I can give them away during adolescence. Ya think?)
Both John and David seemed mighty impressed that we drove all the way from Maine. (And that we were heading back that night.) I held up my wrist and told John that my DFTBA tattoo was way better than the one in his Wednesday video. He appeared a bit giddy, and had David take a picture of it, since he hadn't brought his video camera. (David Levithan has a picture of my DFTBA tattoo. Wow.)
On our way out, I stopped to ask Maureen Johnson to sign my copy of Let It Snow -- I'd run back to my car to get it and my camera during the two-hour wait. I thanked her for inspiring me to do a trapeze lesson on my birthday. She seemed appauled by this -- because her video was far from encouraging others to do it. I told her that I saw her video, knew I had to do it, and it was the most incredible experience of my life. She said -- and wrote in my book -- "You are super brave." Her mouth said that. Her face said, "You are super effing insane." (I wonder if I'd mentioned that I used to play roller derby, if that would have made a difference. She's, apparently, a pretty big GGRD fan....)
The Aftermath
I don't have any pictures at all of the writers from last night. Kate took a couple (while my camera was stuck in my car), but they didn't come out great because of the lighting. I'd planned to take pictures of them signing our books, but was so wrapped up in the moment, that I didn't.
And, I don't care. They look the same in real life as they do in pictures and video. The cool thing is that I now have SIGNED BOOKS! (And David Levithan has a picture of my tattoo!)
When I arrived home around 3 a.m., I was too tired to do much except crawl into bed (of course, I didn't fall asleep until 4ish, and then I was up before 9). And still, it was completely and utterly worth it.
Yesterday, my friend Kate and I set out on an odyssey to get signed copies of Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and David Levithan. I would end up spending more than 10 hours in the car (two hours more than Kate, because I live farther away than she does - clearly, Kate is way smarter than me).
The Road Trip
We had provisions: A fishy bag (so named, because it has fish printed on the outside) full of snacks and chocolate, a polar bear bag (so named, because it has pictures of polar bears on it) full of soda and cranberry pomegranate juice.
We had directions, which clearly stated that it would only take 3.5 hours from Portland to get to the reading. (It's more like 4 and change, by the way, which makes a difference.)
We had monkeys. Or, Kate had monkeys. Quarter machine monkeys, which I bestowed upon her as she boarded the Shiny Blue Car.
It wasn't a bad drive. The sun was shining. Traffic wasn't horrible. Round about Berlin, Mass., my "uh oh, you're running out of gas!" light came on. I pulled off at the very next exit, which was for a mall. I will admit that I did not see a sign prior to the exit announcing that there would be gas available, but I figured that (and who can fault me for this logic?) mall = nearby gas stations. Right?
Wrong.
We drove through the Mall that Never Ends, and into a residential area. I did the first of many three-point turns, and went back to the mall. Not wanting to screw around with the "uh oh" light on, I decided we'd just get back on the highway and take the next exit.
Except the sign for the highway doesn't bring you to the highway. It brings you out into an expanse of farmland with a ridiculous little traffic circle (with very cryptic, inconsistent signs -- I know, because I went around it two full times) -- "Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!" We get to the end of a long road, and the signs are no more helpful.
At this point, Kate was commenting about how it was like in Labyrinth when the little guys turn the stones that Sara marked with her lipstick and she yells, "Someone's been changing my marks!" Very much so. I think this is where I started whining that we were trapped in Hell (and about to run out of gas).
Finally, however, we did manage to find a nice little Gulf station. And then, whilst trying to get back to the Mall that Never Ends -- due to bad signage -- we missed a turn and ended up down a road with two more gas stations. Of course.
Back at the Mall that Never Ends, we stopped at Target to pee, because Target has incredibly clean bathrooms. Always. (Or, at least, every one that I've been in.)
And then tried to find the highway again. According to the signs, we had to go the way we'd just gotten lost to get back to the highway going the right direction. I wasn't about to do that again. I decided to get on the highway going the wrong direction and turn around at the next exit (outside of Hell, and therefore -- I hoped -- easier to navigate). BUT, once I made that turn, I saw that I could indeed get on the highway going the right way...if I'd been in the correct lane. Stupid signs. Another turn around and a quick stop for a photo-op in Hell (which ALMOST made it worth the being stuck in Hell part), and we were back on the highway. Going the right way. Yay.
We stopped at Friendly's for dinner. Mmm: Grilled cheese and French fries. I couldn't finish my ice cream, because I was too full. This still makes me very sad.
Back in the car, we realized we had very little time to make it to the reading. This made me exceptionally tense. I don't like being late. Thank goodness for Kate's back up directions, or we would've gotten EXTRA lost right at the end. Ugh.
But we made it. Barely even late.
Of course, I was so tense, I left my camera in the car. Duh.
The Reading
I cannot wait to read Will Grayson, Will Grayson. Except, well, I kind of have to, because I have to leave soon to get my hair cut and I don't want to pick it up and then have to put it down. I will be reading when I get home from the hair cut, and doubt I will stop until I am finished. I am so excited, I could pee.
And why?
Because just the little bits that John Green and David Levithan (with some help from Maureen Johnson) read last night made me laugh and made me put my hand over my heart and made me want to read read read until every page has been turned.
Did I happen to mention how hysterically funny it appears to be?
The Q&A
During the Q&A, both writers gave some very funny, very smart answers to A LOT of questions. David Levithan said some incredible things about writing (which I remember being incredible, but I don't remember word for word -- give me a break, I spent 10 hours in the car yesterday and got less than five hours of sleep last night). All I know is, hearing him speak made me want to come directly home and sit in front of my computer until my book is done. (Okay, I didn't quite do that -- but I'm feeling inspired again, and that is a beautiful, beautiful thing.) He ended his response to that question with the E.M. Forster quote above.
The Signing
Kate and I stood in line for two-ish hours to get our books signed. I think we were the only adults not accompanied by adolescents. (Some of whom were so obnoxious it made me want to not have children unless I can give them away during adolescence. Ya think?)
Both John and David seemed mighty impressed that we drove all the way from Maine. (And that we were heading back that night.) I held up my wrist and told John that my DFTBA tattoo was way better than the one in his Wednesday video. He appeared a bit giddy, and had David take a picture of it, since he hadn't brought his video camera. (David Levithan has a picture of my DFTBA tattoo. Wow.)
On our way out, I stopped to ask Maureen Johnson to sign my copy of Let It Snow -- I'd run back to my car to get it and my camera during the two-hour wait. I thanked her for inspiring me to do a trapeze lesson on my birthday. She seemed appauled by this -- because her video was far from encouraging others to do it. I told her that I saw her video, knew I had to do it, and it was the most incredible experience of my life. She said -- and wrote in my book -- "You are super brave." Her mouth said that. Her face said, "You are super effing insane." (I wonder if I'd mentioned that I used to play roller derby, if that would have made a difference. She's, apparently, a pretty big GGRD fan....)
The Aftermath
I don't have any pictures at all of the writers from last night. Kate took a couple (while my camera was stuck in my car), but they didn't come out great because of the lighting. I'd planned to take pictures of them signing our books, but was so wrapped up in the moment, that I didn't.
And, I don't care. They look the same in real life as they do in pictures and video. The cool thing is that I now have SIGNED BOOKS! (And David Levithan has a picture of my tattoo!)
When I arrived home around 3 a.m., I was too tired to do much except crawl into bed (of course, I didn't fall asleep until 4ish, and then I was up before 9). And still, it was completely and utterly worth it.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
It can't always be sunshine and lollipops
It's now 7:27 a.m. I fell asleep sometime between 1 and 2. If you can call it that. For the first time since my mom died, I had a very intense dream about her. (Oddly, it also featured my friends Amber and Ben -- I'm assuming this is because Amber commented on my Facebook status a couple of days ago and got me thinking about Dumbo [which made me think of my mom] and yesterday was Ben's birthday. Still, it was weird.)
Today is six months since my mom died. I wasn't going to mention that. I wasn't going to talk about her death or the fact that the six month mark (especially around Easter, especially right before the second anniversary of her father's death) was what was causing me such tension for the last week.
I wasn't going to mention it, but now I find myself unable to think of anything else.
If I've learned anything from the last 11 months of therapy about this very subject, it's that you just have to live it. Your emotions can and will be excruciating and overwhelming at times, but there's no way around it.
And, I guess there's this: No one has ever died of a broken heart. Sure, we all THINK we will, but no one has ever died from the pain of processing their emotions. (Um, I hope that's a scientific fact. Otherwise, I'm not the only one who's screwed....)
I woke up sweaty, disoriented, incredibly sad and lost, and oh so tired. It's weird to think that a box on a calendar can have such power, but there you are. I miss my mom every day, but today it feels different -- deeper, fresher, a more echoing, lingering absence.
All I can do is hope the storm will pass, that I will remember what it feels like to experience those moments of joy on that long list on the first post. I know that both those things will happen. And, I know there will be days like this, too.
Today is six months since my mom died. I wasn't going to mention that. I wasn't going to talk about her death or the fact that the six month mark (especially around Easter, especially right before the second anniversary of her father's death) was what was causing me such tension for the last week.
I wasn't going to mention it, but now I find myself unable to think of anything else.
If I've learned anything from the last 11 months of therapy about this very subject, it's that you just have to live it. Your emotions can and will be excruciating and overwhelming at times, but there's no way around it.
And, I guess there's this: No one has ever died of a broken heart. Sure, we all THINK we will, but no one has ever died from the pain of processing their emotions. (Um, I hope that's a scientific fact. Otherwise, I'm not the only one who's screwed....)
I woke up sweaty, disoriented, incredibly sad and lost, and oh so tired. It's weird to think that a box on a calendar can have such power, but there you are. I miss my mom every day, but today it feels different -- deeper, fresher, a more echoing, lingering absence.
All I can do is hope the storm will pass, that I will remember what it feels like to experience those moments of joy on that long list on the first post. I know that both those things will happen. And, I know there will be days like this, too.
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