Goodnight Holden

If I could write the book of my life, it would begin. Not sure how, but I know it would begin. I'm blowing off school work to write to you tonight, on this semi-stormy, cold January night.

You know when I said that much of my life was imaginary when I was younger...? Well, truth be told, my head still gets caught in clouds. Half in this world, half in another is how an old friend described me once. She had a postcard of a woman who looked almost ghostlike and said this reminded her of me. Even though an eery pause followed her comment, I agreed.

My feet are now more planted on this earth, mind you, particularly since meeting Eric almost eight years ago. Meeting him was when I truly stopped avoiding intimacy and dodging potentially serious, tragic rejection. I decided to commit myself to the fear and trembling that subtly erupted when he was in the room. Finally, I had found a man who was worth the insomnia, the bottles of Tums, and the perspiration. And by golly, there was just no falling in love without coming inside out in the process.

At any rate, now that another digression has passed...I still live much of life with pillowy cotton coming out my ears. (Even presently, when my eight month old son demands me to be in the here and now.) You may have noticed this already, since I have several different imaginary passions. As I've mentioned before, I envision myself as a grand cook, a published writer, and an accomplished something creative - aside from being a teacher, that is.

The beauty of all of this hypothetical talent or dream-making is that I am writing. And I mean, I am seeing more about what I can write and how - even though not all of it gets to the page or the cyber world. I actually feel OK about being a writer, without scoffing under my breath like Holden Caufield, muttering that I am some phony.

Changing Moons

Some music brings me to my knees, my yesterdays weeping in a kaleidoscope of images. As usual, this feeling never ceases to amaze me. I am in my present-ish moment (currently, with my son), and a song from Sun Kil Moon which I am hearing for the first time pulls my past into the living room. Though, I am not sure what part of my past. There's this vague sense of yesterday and the halo effect of college days and years in my early to mid-twenties.

Is it possible to miss tumultuous times? Strange, it seems, to feel nostalgia for a time in youth that was full of angst and intense longing for what was out of reach or for...I don't know what. My life was imaginary then. In so many ways, I was lost in dreams, reliving precious moments with friends or reading scripts for productions for which I would never audition.

My life now, in comparison, is a day without traffic, a morning waking with a child's delight on Christmas, and anything else that fits with those emotions. Yet, the nagging past, a friend I haven't heard from in years, arrives in my mailbox out of the blue.

Constantly changing moons, our thoughts and moods are. How do we enter into that space of silent grieving for a long ago "umph" with anything less than a thud?

It's time to return to my present "bliss," throwing plastic A,B,C's into a plastic box with Ash.

Candlestick Maker, Really?

So, I was walking by this playhouse in downtown Roswell, across from Soda, where I get my haircut. As I peered in the windows, observing the props and the stage director leading a rehearsal of some kind, I felt this twinge of excitement. Acting! 'That's something I could do,' I thought. 'What a great way to express yourself and to be anything you want to be....'

The week before I was going to be a pianist. The day before that, an aspiring seamstress. Another day, an art teacher, a baker, and tragically yes, a candlestick maker.

What I am getting at is the world is busting open, buttons popping out, cluttering my landscape. It's a beautiful thing, all those little dots, but I also feel a bit schizophrenic. Like a fireworks display gone mad.

I am not crazy, mind you, but I am trying to harness this creative energy. I suppose that's why I am writing to you. You are part of this, you know. Part of my creative process, a witness to the necessary taming of the horse.

What would you be, if you could be anything? I think back to high school. I was always too timid to write for the yearbook; instead, I did layout. In college, even though I took poetry classes, I never submitted a single poem to the literary magazine.

Maybe it's not too late for any of us.

Part Poem, Part Time

I am unsure what to tell you other than it's time to
pull out the cashmere sweater from the cedar-lined drawer
take off the leather wrist watch, digging into your skin
wave the sunken flag of surrender
wipe the floor of accidents
write the salutation

Desert Stations

Have you ever thought of the moon being half full or half empty? What about the tube of toothpaste? The bag of spinach? The leftover Indian food?

What about a friendship? After a certain number of years without seeing certain friends, the mutual feeling of gratitude and acts of giving can start to run low. I have friendships that seem to run on fumes for hundreds of miles, and then are remarkably filled up at this gloriously appearing gas station in the middle of the desert.

If we're fortunate, those infrequent pit stops can renew the warranty a few more years, allowing those friendships to vacillate between full and empty for long periods. It's amazing how much distance we can cover like this.

Before this entry takes a seriously dismal turn, I want to say I am grateful for those old friends, even if half full is about as much as our tank can hold. I'd take a half full cup of coffee over a spilt cup, a half eaten cherry turnover over an empty plate, or a kiss on the cheek from Eric over no kiss.

Splash

Like a mermaid who has recently been given legs, my little seven-month old squirms upon the shore, squealing with delight. The scream from "Splash" comes to mind, as his joyous cries carry throughout the floors of our tiny house.

Interestingly, or maybe not, he did come from water and was forced out onto land. Perhaps "forced" is my projection, remembering the significant effort of labor.

At any rate, this entry would probably make a better poem. I am finding the limitations of prose at this moment. But, so what, who cares?

Every new transformation is a sea change, that term I love to use. My own body and spirit have been through a complete metamorphosis (thankfully, this did not include turning into a cockroach). Unlike Gregor, the cockroach, my change is not one that has brought isolation, quite the opposite. I feel I've been born into the community. I too have new legs that are learning how to walk on this new terrain. There's so much to see, so much new territory to cover. Who exactly have I become?

Perhaps one of the greatest personal gifts of motherhood is to feel a sense of communal identity. I belong more to myself and to the world.

Winter, Spring, Snow

There's a punch and sting to this new year. There's also a joyous lightness, as with every beginning. As if it were possible to have another first kiss. As if we could change everything. Create a new home. A new hairstyle. A new identity. Be rooted to the earth while still dancing on pointed toes.

And yet, the nostalgic movie footage has begun to play. My husband had two weeks off, and we spent the snowy and cold days dancing on flower petals. Our house was full of spring.

With the first half a year as new parents behind us, a fruitful new season was in order. So, how do we make it stick? How do two working adults and parents raise a child and still have room and energy to stay a "young" couple? We make up this answer as we go, I guess.

We hold onto memories of golden days during winter months. We remember. We continue to explore new territories and dig for treasures.