Thinking and Dreaming, Reflections on a Rainy Day

     How does a person ever get over trauma, such as rape, battering, losing a loved one to war, or seeing your daughter’s stillborn baby?  I don’t think you ever “get over” such an experience. I believe that it is not what happens to you in life; the facts and the particulars, but it is how you cope with what happens that forms your character. I have also learned that “why?” is often question with no solid, easy answer. We can only speculate and wonder and play the frustrating “what if?” game.

            As I get older I tend to reflect on my life and examine my inner self. One thing that comes to mind often these days is how much I love my children, and how responsible I feel for their well being. Even though they are out of the nest I still worry about how they are, if they are happy, and if they are taking care of their physical and spiritual health. There are times when my heart is so wide open that I am overwhelmed. I don’t think my children know the person that I truly am.  They don’t need to know every detail of my life because that isn’t necessary.  What I do want them to know is that I did my best, knowing full well that I am not perfect. Any mistakes I made affected their lives, and as we all know children are the ones that suffer the most but my mistakes were not caused by them.  My children have made my life so rich and full, and I am very thankful for that.  I know I have many failings as a mother but I know one thing for absolutely sure, and that is my love for my children is more than mere words can convey.

            No matter what has happened in my life, my children are bone of my bones flesh of my flesh, and heart of my heart. Mother child love is unfathomable and undeniable. This is why, even after all these times I still shed tears when I realize how deeply wounded I am because of the separation from my two oldest children. It was pure meanness of my ex husband to take them from me; meanness and his fear of losing control over me. This is why, although I have moved on in life, I can not, will not trust the man ever again. Period. His betrayal left spiritual and emotional scars that are still not totally healed as much as I will them so. 

            That being said I take comfort in the words of Kahlil Gibran from the Prophet and what he says about children.

On Children
Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

9/ll memoir prompt

The following is a response to a writing prompt.  I had already written a letter to my parents about being in New York on 9/ll/2001. This letter got published in my home town newspaper. I re wrote it a bit to post here.


September 20, 2001


Dear Dad and Mom,

     Now that I am finally home I have some time to write you a letter. The world is a different place now. Words will not be adequate to describe the experience, but I will try. This is a story that I will not forget.
     As you know this was my first trip to New York and the adventure of flying across country was both frightening for this small town girl, and exciting, because not only was I going to see New York City, I was also going to meet Robert’s grandmother who lives in Poughkeepsie, which is about 75 miles north of the city. Back east is so full of history and in the Poughkeepsie area is the home of Vassar, and other historic places, such as the Vanderbilt mansion and the home Franklin D Roosevelt. Both of you would have loved these tours. There is so much to see.  I saw the Hudson River, one of Grandmother Helen’s favorite places. Our stay for those few days was quite pleasant.
     We were scheduled to fly home on the morning of September 11. The mode of commuting is by train and we had made plans to catch the 8:00 train into the city to take in the sights for the day before our flight. At the last minute we decided to take the later train, which, as it turned out was one of those decisions that made a huge difference.

All was going well. I was taking in the sights as we sped along when there was an announcement on the loudspeaker, something about an attack on one World Trade Center tower.  I remember thinking, “oh, some crazy guy, waving a gun, causing trouble, what now?” A few minutes later there was another announcement that there had been an attack by plane on the second tower, apparently by terrorists. Wait, the towers are down? Planes? What on earth had happened?

     To say that this was a shock is an understatement. Soon after the second announcement,  another voice came on the loudspeaker to tell us that none of the trains would be going southbound into the city, as it was too dangerous, but that there would be trains from the city and we could get on one of those to go back up north. So the trains were stopped, midway into New York .Everyone was milling around the train station. No one knew what do to. People were making phone calls and talking to one another. It was so odd to feel so displaced and I realized this was a small glimpse of what people have experienced in history during war.  About an hour later, we boarded a north bound train, free of charge, and went back to Grandmother Helen’s house in Poughkeepsie. If we had taken the earlier train, the story may have turned out differently; perhaps on that day there would have been no more trains out of the city. Maybe we would have been stuck there.
     The first thing I did when we got to Poughkeepsie was to call home and let you all know we were all right. You weren’t at home when I called. I had forgotten, that that point that you two were stuck up in Canada.  It was then that we saw the news on television. Unbelievable. All I could think about was getting home to my family
     We researched different options to get home. Train tickets were $1,000 per person for one way tickets and did not leave until Sunday. We decided to book a flight out on Thursday. Or so we thought.  Thursday arrived. We got ourselves to the station to catch a train to Grand Central Station and get ourselves to the airport only to be told that Grand Central had been closed because of a bomb threat. Back to Grandmother Helen’s we went and she helped us rent a car so that we could drive to JFK. So far so good, we checked our luggage, and were ready to board the plane when we were told there was a delay because of a security threat and that they would announce the status of the flight at a later point.  So we waited. We met a man from England who was now unable to get home. Now by this time the nerves are getting frayed. Does this security threat mean someone is going to bomb the airport, or is there someone with a gun that is going to shoot at people? About an hour later we learned that some men, posing as pilots had tried to board a plane. The airport was closed, and we retrieved our luggage. Ok, so no flying. That was fine with me!
     So now what?  We took a cab back to Grand Central. Our driver was wearing a turban, which of course had taken on a new meaning. That’s the nature of fear. In a situation like that people are suspicious. Everything is surreal. By now it is nighttime and we can see the smoke of the towers. There are police everywhere, and barricades. People, lots of them are milling around. Sirens are going off. We, of course are lugging our bags and getting tired. The feeling to get out of there was strong, so we decided to see if we could get tickets for a Greyhound bus. Anything at this point would do, to start our way back home. When we asked information how to get to the bus station we were told it had been shut down, due to a bomb threat. You can imagine what was going through my mind at this point. I realize now that all things considered we were fortunate to be as far away from Ground Zero as we were because we still had options. Some people didn’t.
     Back onto the commuter train, now a familiar way to travel,  heading north once again to Poughkeepsie to Grandmother Helen’s house, our refuge now, from all this craziness.  It was obvious we weren’t going to get out of the city from Grand Central. We had to change direction. The next morning Grandmother and a friend drove us north to a place called Kingston, were we had dinner and caught a bus to Albany. The 3,000 mile ride home, from Albany, New York, to Seattle took us 77 hours. This is NOT a way to see the country. Robert’s dad picked us up at the station so that we could spend the night before heading back to Arlington.  He told us we looked like we had been through the wringer. Indeed we had.
     I’m sure I’ll be reflecting on this for years to come, as we all will be. Take care, and I’ll be in touch.

Love,

Sharon

Fall is in the Air

Ah yes, the sun is shining once again and I treasure each of these golden days.  August has been a bright month full of family gatherings and festivals. Did I mention my birthday is in August? August 18, to be exact. I have completed my 62^nd year. Go, me! Life is good.  I am a little sad to see the leaves starting to turn already, though, on the tall trees out back in the wildlife park. Our back yard is adjacent to a wildlife preserve area, how great is that? It’s the next best thing to living in the country.)  The view brings me peace.  I am a country gal at heart, seeing as how I was raised smack dab in the middle of wheat country it’s no wonder.  My love of a simple and tranquil life runs in my blood.

 I wax nostalgic this time of year. I suppose it is because of the transition from one season to another.  For me the coming of autumn is bittersweet. Although I enjoy the harvest as life comes to fruition, I struggle with shorter days and colder weather.  It seems silly to struggle, though. Isn’t the changing of the seasons all part of the Divine Plan of Mother Nature? I must learn to accept and adapt. That being said, I’ve got a stash of St. John’s wort in my cupboard and my private journal as therapy for the coming days just in case the Blue Meanies descend upon me.  Thankfully there are the holidays to look forward to. But I am getting ahead of myself.

                Off to the city today to celebrate my in law’s wedding anniversary and a combined birthday dinner. My in laws love to eat. They are taking us to a Mexican restaurant which is supposed to be one of the best in Seattle. Not formal dining, just excellent, authentic fare. I can handle that and I am looking forward to a margarita. We’ll spend the night tonight and go to a Mariners game tomorrow afternoon before returning home.

Changes

The autumn sky is pale and cold
and the faded sunlight offers little comfort
with its reminder of the winter to come.
Dying leaves in vivid hues of gold and red
detach from life and float to the earth,
as I, too, must let go
and accept change.

Mom Jeans

Imagine my surprise when my girls declared, “You have got to quit wearing Mom Jeans.” (“Your butt looks big.”) There I was, going about my day, blissfully unaware that I was committing a fashion sin.  I had no clue. What are Mom Jeans?  According to Wikkepedia: Mom jeans is a satirical term for a perceived fit of women's jeans considered very unflattering, consisting of a high waist (a few inches above the belly button), which accentuates a flat curvature of the buttocks, as well as generous cuts in the stomach and leg. Usually the jeans are in a light-blue coloring, solid with no form of Stone washing, and tapered at the ankle. Other attributes of the Mom jeans style often seen are pleated fronts, partially elastic waistbands, and blouses tucked in to the jeans. This style of jeans were popular with women until the early 1990s, when lower rise jeans were becoming fashionable.  I ask myself, “For goodness sake what is so important about a pair of jeans?”I gave it some thought.

 #1: I wear jeans every single day. Jeans are practical, versatile, and they don’t wrinkle.

#2: I like to look “with it” (this meaning, no elastic waist pants for this grandma)

#3:  Oprah devoted an entire show to jeans. Lest you think I am just a blind follower of Oprah let me set it straight.  I have a life of my own.  I can think for myself. But let’s back up a bit.

Up until my daughters had pointed out my fashion blunder I had worn jeans regardless of style. If they were long enough and not too tight around the waist I was good to go.  It seems I was badly out of style; too busy raising several children to think much about fashion, especially jeans. I thought I was safe.  I have to admit that since menopause my jeans don’t fit like they used to, not that I have gained weight (OK, so a few pounds) but my shape has changed.  Aside from the gentle pull of gravity on all counts I now have no waist to speak of and my middle…well let’s not talk about that. There are those that call this extra flesh “love handles”. 

I had adjusted to my revised post menopausal shape, but I was willing to try something different.  Alas, shopping was more complicated than I thought! Do I get straight leg, tapered leg, boot cut or flared? And what about the rise? There are at waist, below waist, low rise and ultra-super-low rise. Then comes destroyed, distressed, frayed, whiskered, light and/or medium dark wash or rinse. Just when I think this is too much there are also more choices which are the “style”: carpenter, cargo, painters, loose fit, relax fit, original or regular fit, skinny fit, slim fit, slouch, and boy cut. Whew! The only thing I knew was my waist and inseam. I have never liked store dressing rooms, which didn’t help my mood when it came time to try on these zillions of kinds of jeans. I gave up and went home still wearing the dreaded Mom Jeans.

Then while surfing the internet one day I saw this brand that claimed to be the answer to other fashion challenged women of a certain age.  I read the reviews which raved about how good they fit and how flattering they were. My sister has a pair and said they were great. I was sold. I bit the bullet and ordered a brand new pair online, on the spot.  I was that confident.

Update. The famed and overpriced jeans are here and I have tried them on. Hmm… They seem to fit but I still I don’t look like a young slender gal. I look like a middle aged mom wearing an expensive pair of jeans. My tummy is still there, my muffin top still peeks out over the top and gosh, my butt is still wide and looks as broad as ever. Buyer’s remorse sets in. I paid too much for these. Back they go.

What is the lesson here?  Brand new, brand name jeans do not a good figure make. Since that fateful day I’ve compromised with medium rise, boot cut, dark rinse jeans whatever brand they are and when they are on sale. And I’ll remember this when the fickle fashion changes years down the road and my daughters will be wearing Mom Jeans.

In My Sixties, Finally Admitting It

The transformation is coming slowly. I care more about comfort than fashion. For example no more high heels when my husband and I go out. I also don’t wear much make up anymore, just a bit of lip gloss and a bit of mascara. I am more content to be at home, puttering around the house, watching movies, caring for the plants, reading, and writing.  My family is important and I realize that my family is what holds life together; our gatherings and times together are priceless and create memories for us all. The years, as they pass, give perspective and I know what things are important, and what things are not worth fretting about.

Self knowledge is the most important aspect that I nurture in this lifetime. Without self respect and self knowledge I have nothing to offer. As a young woman and mother I was in an abusive marriage, battered, both emotionally and physically. I had to, over the years, rebuild my life. I used to question why things were happening to me. The revelation was that I was allowing myself to remain a victim. It was within my power to change.

Age is only a point of reference. Since I have become a grandmother it has taken me awhile to admit my age, unless someone asked me directly I avoided the subject.  I am not sure why. Perhaps we are taught to fear growing older and losing our physical beauty. Now I know it doesn’t matter.  I would hope that those of us who are older have earned some respect simply because we have had life experience. Sadly we are a youth driven culture in this country. So it goes.

I complete my 62^nd year this August. I am a late bloomer, it seems, like it or not it is what it is.  I didn’t find the right man until I was well into my fifties and we have been married for 6 years and counting. I can hardly believe I am in my 60’s. Really, is 60 the new 40?  I am sure I am not the only woman whose reflection in the mirror has astounded her; the face that looks back doesn’t match the inside at all.  I am told I look young for my age. I attribute that to my mother, whose genes I have inherited. She is in her mid 80’s and has just recently begun to gray and she has beautiful skin.  Thanks to Dad I am an early grayer, but thanks to the hair salon and a good hairdresser, no one would know.  I don’t hesitate for a moment to spend money on keeping the gray away. I am not ready yet. My husband is several years younger than me (11 years) so it is mainly for this reason (and my still present vanity) that I strive to appear more youthful. When he begins get gray hair, perhaps I will relax a bit. I am definitely not into Botox or other such nonsense. I believe that a person should age as gracefully as possible and this is one of my goals in life.

Personal Letter Writing, a Lost Art?

     As Jane Austin said, “a person who can write a letter with ease, cannot write ill.”
Letter writing as an art form deserves respect but “snail mail” communication, as my kids refer to it is not, it seems to me, a popular way to communicate in our digitized, high speed culture. Personal communication has changed dramatically since the development of the internet through emailing, instant messaging, and YouTube. Cell phones, along with conversing, now enable texting and photography as a quick fix to get information and to stay connected. Receiving a personal letter though the mail doesn’t happen that often; at least not in my life. Personally I still like to get something in the mail and often I will write notes to my two grandsons although they only live about an hour and a half away. What child doesn’t love getting mail in the mailbox from Grandma? When I was young I had pen pals; kids from other states and even other countries. I have pen pals to this day; two of my best women friends exchange cards and letters the old fashioned way. One of these friends hand writes letters, actual pen to paper in cursive.

     My mother and I have exchanged countless letters over the years. We now email but every once in awhile I like to compose a letter and send it so that Mom will have some variety to their morning coffee sessions. Dad can no longer see to read so she reads the sports section to him. A newsy family letter to read aloud is always welcome.     
   When my 2^nd born daughter was a little girl, she wrote to her great grandfather on a regular basis.  He appreciated these letters and told her that she was the only great grandchild that ever wrote him. He wrote her back and for awhile sent along gift certificates for JC Penny at Christmas time. I have a collection of letters written by some of my ancestors on my dad’s side of the family.  What a treasure this is to get a glimpse of what life was back then. I have often thought this would be a good resource for someone’s novel. When I was young and ambitious I thought this someone would be me.

     During Victorian times handwritten letters were used for intimate correspondence, and a skill that a Victorian Lady was obligated to cultivate. Paul the Apostle wrote the Epistles which were a series of letters to the Church, and there are other characters in history whose love letters have continued to inspire us today, such as Beethoven’s letter to his “Immortal Beloved”. The exchange of love letters between Robert and Elizabeth Browning are as poetic as the poems they penned.

I am not sure if letter writing is taught in school these days.  When I was a youngster in grade school we were writing letters as part of our English class. There were two distinct categories, the business letter and the friendly letter. Back in those days we stuck to the rules of form which were the return address, date, the inside address, the greeting, the introductory paragraph, the body, the closing, and the signature. God forbid we misspelled or used a comma in the wrong place.

I have often thought of my journals as letters to myself, letters of the most personal kind which prove time after time to be the most freeing and most creative because they delve into the unconscious mind and are not edited by my internal editor on the spot. One does wonder who, if anyone will read these personal entries? Will my journals be found by my grandchildren as they play in the attic someday? That I cannot predict. I don’t think my diaries are as exciting as those in “The Bridges of Madison County”   but read through another’s eyes you just never know.

Freestyle Poetry

   Imagine an artist in his studio in front of his easel, pallet in hand.  He makes a few strokes with his brush, and then steps back to appraise what he has done. He approaches his easel again to brush another stroke of color onto the canvas. He stops, sets aside his paintbrush and pallet and walks over to the window to gaze out. He muses for a few moments before going back to his easel to continue his work.  The painter uses color and brush to create his art. The poet is an artist as well, who uses his pen like a paintbrush to color in his words on the page the images he sees in his mind’s eye and to express his heart and soul in the form of a poem.  

Poetry is one of the oldest forms of literature and by its very nature is difficult to define. It is hard to shackle poetry with a firm definition but the words of Samuel Taylor Coleridge say it well:  “Poetry: the best words in the best order”.  Throughout the ages, whether it is sonnets written by Shakespeare, the Song of Solomon from the Bible, the snippets of the Greek poetess Sappho, or the works of the poet laureate Kay Ryan, poetry has enlightened us, entertained us, and has evoked the quintessence of our human nature.

Free verse, or freestyle poetry is what its name implies; a “free style” approach to writing .What sets this mode of writing poetry apart from other forms is that it is free from rigid rules and patterns.  Within freestyle the poet can let go and be flexible as he writes his poems because he isn’t concerned with a particular rhyming scheme or line breaks; rather he can focus on the pleasure of choosing the words to convey his ideas and emotions. How fitting this free style is to open the floodgates of creativity!

             A freestyle poem is born of any strong emotion whether it is anger, frustration, joy, or love. This is the core of the matter, the way to bridge the heart and mind of not only the poet but also the reader. The poem can be as radiant and buoyant or as dramatic and intense as the poet himself at any given moment. Therein lays the uniqueness of freestyle. The act of spontaneously and recklessly pouring the words onto the page without thought of correctness and without editing is the essence of this form of creativity and, I believe, an aspect of art necessary for nurturing the unique and divine nature that lives within each of us whether we are the reader or the poet.