Thursday, June 30, 2011

And...Cut: Open Book II

This is a new sort of blog entry for the new moon this evening. For the first time, I have rewritten a post, perhaps because I am either a bit neurotic or obsessed  - or whatever craziness works - or because these thoughts are still clanging around in my head. Mostly, I couldn't comprehend my meaning, so I don't know how any innocent reader could have. So, take two:


I had a great reminder last night to seek within myself for what I want to find "out there." Most of us know the feeling of searching for buried treasure (aka secrets to the universe). We lift under so many rocks, breaking our backs, blistering our heels. We curse and sweat in the process. To make matters worse, the more we uncover, the more rocks we discover (unintentional rhyme).

Thus, "out there" becomes a bleak and expansive landscape. How do we find truths in a rocky canyon land such as this?

Thankfully, if we are fortunate that is, we have one of those "a-ha" moments. Mine came this morning while looking out the kitchen window at my overgrown side garden. Why am I imagining owning a "better" garden when I can't keep up with this small one?


Then, it occurs to me, I might never be a gardener. And that's OK. But, more to the point, what I am in search of isn't anywhere but under my own roof (in my own head, heart, and soul). My own house is what needs excavation. My own bookshelf houses so many books I've never read.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Ocean Inside the Shell

Here I am, at Starbucks. It's my private mother's night out. Actually, it was supposed to be a day out, but things happen. More importantly, I drove straight to the drugstore because I didn't know where else to go.

It's a wonder I even made it here at all. I had decided not to get coffee. Then, to get coffee...back and forth. It was too late. I was too hungry. Then, what? Dinner...by myself? I haven't done that since I was about 27.

But, I am here. And, I forgot my book. This was a real disappointment until I noticed Eric's laptop in the backseat. Score! I would much rather write than read right now anyway. Writing helps still my mind and is easier to focus on than a book.

Some of my thoughts as I sit here:

People are strange. Somebody still wears a visor.
Why do people smoke? (I smoked.)
How can I be 38? I feel so much older than I did just a year ago.
Some boys are raised to be corporate monkeys as early as elementary school.
I don't miss being single. Not for a minute. Unless you count the time I was single with Eric. :)
Some dads don't speak to their sons. It's creepy. These two have the same mannerisms and the same awkward silence.
What if we all had recordings of our thoughts? Wouldn't we all be committed? Not in the marital sense, I mean.
If I don't write something "real," then why am I writing? Oh yeah, this is real. Ok, phew.

Well, that was fun. I am back, at least for a moment. I am actually in awe at how perfect my life is most of the time. I know some folks may have a hard time with that given that I write about some unpolitical topics. Breathing a bit of my own air in my own personal space always brings that knowing rushing back. As soon as the strings - apron and other - are cut, I am a flopping fish on the dock. Hoping someone throws me right back in.

But, now. Here, in this mental space I am now inhabiting, my gills turn to feet, and I remember how to walk. (Sad...the boy and his father are now leaving in their Lexus, their mouths, bent fenders.) My energy expands, overfilling every coffee cup, leaking onto the sidewalk outside, evaporating into air. Becoming clouds and sun, and so on.

When suddenly, a white-haired, blue-eyed older gentlemen breezes past me, with a fatherly grin. I overhear him tell the barista he just left the funeral of a good friend. And, my energy retreats like an ocean pulling itself back into a conch shell.

My cups overfloweth, and I am happy. I think I could cry.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Beauty Mark

There's so much I want to share that I am practically bursting. I think that would be the thesis for my last entry.

I've been struggling a bit this month. Lots of folks have been visiting; Asher was sick for the first time at the end of May; we've had repairs and extra bills out the wazoo. What is a wazoo? Is that how you spell wazoo?

In truth, I can be rather hard on myself when going through a stint of fatigue. Perhaps because it conjures so much of the early postpartum period, what I consider my Dark Ages. Not to be dramatic, but those first six weeks or so were just that. Rather bleak, despite the astounding joy and magic.

Joy, magic, darkness...they all go together, don't they? My child is simply a miracle. I've never felt closer to any God or any sense of true purpose. But, I have been edgy sometimes when he's hanging onto the hem of my shorts, like a small animal, wanting food or a pat on the head. You see, it's not that this helpless, fragile action isn't heart-crushingly sweet, it's just that - at times - I have to pry those tiny Newdom hands off like suction cups from a window.

At times, I just want a half hour to type at the computer while he is in the room or to read a book without his little body hanging onto the couch's edge.

He's actually a very social little tyke. He waves down strangers, particularly other small people, in grocery stores and restaurants, engaging them in some secret discussion to which I am not privy. Sometimes, we leave the house just for him, because I know he would love to people watch or play with a friend's child.

For fear of writing an essay -  and one with no particular thesis - I will wrap up. Consider the above paragraph a disclaimer, one which doesn't even need to be there other than for your own reassurance, not mine.


All in all, the duality of motherhood, of emotions, has been as apparent as a deep wrinkle or a large blemish on my face. I see the split screen of my internal and external world in the mirror. Even laughter has left her mark. Even joy is sticky and can stain.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

I am Now Writing the Subject Line

The desire to narrate my life is rather strong. For instance, when company is over, I often say things like "I am just going to get some water," or "I need to use the bathroom." Certain family members, in particular, make fun of this peculiar habit. In fact, I never thought it odd until my father-in-law started with his friendly replies of "Feel free. Make yourself at home" (when I was in my own home).

Since I've been blogging rather regularly and knowing people actually read this stuff (Geese, am I in high school?), I have begun to write entries as I am washing dishes or playing peek-a-boo with Asher (I am good at multi-tasking). This other odd peculiarity often strikes me as humorous. I think to myself, 'The point of a blog is to write about my life in "retrospect"'. Yet, I am becoming an internal narrator of my own actions. (The beginning of a serious problem?)

OK, no more parentheses for one day.

Why am I telling you this? I think simply to get it out there. And maybe to help remind myself that staying in the moment is much more rewarding than obsessing over some grand idea of a blog entry. <By the way, I think that might be the first time I've spelled obsess correctly on the first try.>

Stop obsessing over it. The worries. The constant voice that hangs on at the edge of each moment, trying to pull you into the abyss. Once sucked in, it can be tough to climb up that steep wall of doubt, dread, anticipation, excitement for what might happen or what you might do, etc.

My husband has this great saying, but I am sure I won't quote him correctly: "Stop getting excited about the fact you are feeling excited." What a great helping hand.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Cicadas after the Storm

The storm began summer. It brought on the locusts (or cicadas - never sure which one) and the muggy blanket of summer in the southeast. I love walking out to hear the bugs greet me, and feel the air's embrace. It's lovely stuff.

Summers, for me, are rather sleepy and carefree. Despite that I love the heat, it does wear on me. I wilt like a cut flower left on the counter, but love every minute up until I've folded in on myself. Because of my forgotten daisy quality, I tend to spend much of these luxurious days inside.

There is a certain humidity of guilt that stays upon my skin about this fact. I keep hearing mothers tell me of the many activities in which they've enrolled their babies and toddlers. And I keep thinking, mmm...am I "supposed" to be doing "all that?"

There's swimming, music, library storytimes, and the like, none of which Asher is involved, at least not on any regular schedule. Is that the mom's world? The toddler's? All I keep thinking is Pandora online radio works for me. We have a kiddy pool. Plus, Dad and I do storytimes at various opportune moments each day.

As I write this, my skin feels a little drier. A rocking chair and a sun hat are what we need this summer.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Foiled Again

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. I didn't even make a cake. Or vacuum the guest bathroom. The floors weren't mopped, and the yard had weeds stretching to reach the tree limbs.

The party favors I planned to make are still being prepared by the super mom who lives in my head. The bubble-blowing machine - also her idea - is still sitting on the shelf at Target.

But, Asher didn't know the difference. What he did seem to know was that people love him. That sometimes the whole room fills up, just for you. That the giant racing car you only played with at the gym can suddenly, for no apparent reason, be yours.

There's so much to say about my son turning one, but there are teeth to brush and books to read. In all likelihood, I will begin reading, and within five minutes, I will be asleep. Another plan, foiled. Another occasion to curse the things you didn't do, perhaps. Or to thank yourself for letting go.

Monday, June 6, 2011

The Patriot Act

Sign in. Right here. On this dotted line. Pretend it's dotted, OK? About what am I rambling? Not sure. Only that I've had some recent discoveries about how many folks near and far check in to my blog.

When you sit down to write in a blog, you aren't always thinking of who is reading. I mean, you know about those who make comments or discuss your blog posts with you regularly. Yet, I've been learning of more and more folks who are actually reading my... ramblings... is what comes to mind again. :)

And, the whole idea of a blog once more is questioned. One person asked me about why I am willing to discuss personal subjects when I am such a private person....? Good question.

The answer I came up with and still do is: why not? I mean, it gets much more private than this (encompassing all blog entries I've done). Any other explanations would be more self-indulgent than writing about yourself already is.

In short, some people knit; some people garden; some people make jewelry. Others.. blog. 

Saturday, June 4, 2011

No Longer

Acceptance comes on in slow moving waves sometimes. Since it's Asher's birthday tomorrow, a cake comes to mind. Icing being slowly smoothed over the cake bumps - the small clumps that seem to emerge once you begin frosting.

For the past week, I've been staring at my desktop photo, a picture of me at 33, on a beach, broadly smiling with bug-eyed glasses on. This has been part of my manifestation board process - seeing images of what you want to achieve.

And, this girl looks skinny. She looks young. She looks just like...a girl.

I am no longer her. And suddenly, I don't want to be. I wouldn't take away a second of the knowledge, love, or achievement of the past five years. Even if, I am not so skinny and not so girlish - only five short years later.

This is one of those evenings when acceptance washes over you like a cool breeze after impossible heat.