Echo of the Sublime

10.12.06

It might be the last truly warm day of the year – although perhaps we’ll be wonderfully graced with another, or better yet, a few… but you never know in these here parts.  So my husband and the dog met my daughter and myself at the end of Wisconsin Point for one last wet sandy fling in the wind and the waves.  Today, no one got hurt.  Our previous trips to the beach have included a head injury, a toe injury, and a hospitalization for heat exhaustion or something else never exactly identified. 

 

It’s funny how it feels like the whole summer was a string of long lazy days basking in the heat with good friends and adorable children.  I think we actually only made it to this beach five times.  Yet in memory it feels like the heart of this summer.

 

Everything was new to my Little Miss this year.  The beach, the depot, the zoo, the boat tour on Lake Superior.  New and scary in that exciting kind of way.   I’m hoping I’ll get one more chance, next year, for it all to be new again.  Is it too much to hope that the things that were brand new to an almost 3 year old can be new again when she’s almost 4?  I don’t know.  She lists off the seasons… “Summer’s over, now it’s fall and I’m going to be a pirate for Halloween!  Winter comes next and snow and… Santa Claus comes and brings presents!”   I wasn’t sure she’d remember the Santa thing – shows what I know.  I guess we’ll wait and see what next summer brings for memories.

 

It’s driving home with a tired, quiet kid in the back seat, and a tired, wet dog in the pick-up truck a half mile behind that the sadness typical of summer’s end drifts over me like a cozy fall blanket. 

 

Time to hibernate, and soon.

 

The autumn leaves have formed an arch over the ruined but passable pavement on which I drive.  Warm sun leaks through the dappled canopy of dead and dying foliage to light the forest with a fragile glowing beauty.  For a moment my heart leaps to my throat and I know I will not visit this place again.  Not this year, at any rate.  Part of me wants to weep as I bid good-bye to the sublime summer.

 

It’s amazing how much can change in a year.

 

This time last year I was nearing the end of an incredibly long period of grief over the loss of a friend.  I could see the end of darkness and was running full-tilt towards light and laughter, yearning to feel joy again, to love and be loved.  I was ready to open my self and my heart to new people and new experiences, heady with the thrill of discovery, half-terrified I’d end up emotionally smashed to bits.  All the parts and pieces of widening my social circle beyond family and those few, but precious, friends I’ve known for a lifetime.  Stepping away from the safety inherent in isolation.

 

Here I am!

 

Today I have 4 friends I hold close in my heart who were strangers, or nearly so, just one year ago.  We start conversations that have no end.  We talk about the intricacies of marriage, partnership, dating, and parenting.  We share time and writing and laughter and love.  Some days I feel like my life is amazing – that I am the luckiest woman in the world.  And I have to say… it’s good to feel that way again.  I’ve been missing myself for an awful long time.

 

It’s human nature to reach your heart out, and human complexity is endlessly fascinating when you meet someone who draws out your truth, who seems to share theirs… when there appears to be no hidden agenda, no building to something more than this, no pressure and no consequence.  Moments of paranoia – “is it real?” are followed by moments of shrugged shoulders because if it’s real, it’s worth the risk that it isn’t.

Driving Beta

10.05.06

It’s 8:30 pm and it’s fully dark outside.  Part of me is really unhappy about this because I am a winter-hater and I can feel like it’s time to hibernate.  It would be nice to plan a trip to Mexico for next January or February.  So why am I planning one for New York City?  Oh, yeah, because I am a lunatic.  Sometimes I forget that.

 

There’s a mommy part of me is really happy that it’s dark at 8:30 pm.  Because I get to lie like a dog about the time and tell my kid, “Whoa!  Look!  The moon is shining in the black sky.  That means it’s waaaaay past your bedtime!”  For the past month my girl has been staying up until nearly 10:00 at night – which puts a HUGE damper on “mommy unwind time.”  No more.  8:30 last night, 8:15 tonight.  I’m doing the happy dance.  Somebody told me today, “You’re lucky that works.  Mine can tell time.”  Ha-ha, I say, I expect that when my kid can tell time she’ll also be able to read, so she can go to her room anyway.

 

The thing is, I can’t really blame her.  I hate to go to bed.  In an ideal life I’d work until 10 at night, then suck down a lot of coffee, write until 2 in the morning, and sleep in until 8 or 9.  Novels get written in the middle of the night around here.  Unfortunately I work more day shifts than afternoons, which means I have to force myself to go to bed early several times a week, and even when I manage to do it I’m exhausted all the next day.  Staying up late energizes me.  I recharge my batteries writing down all the crazy, silly, humorous, or melodramatic thoughts in my head.  Middle of the night-time is my creative time.

 

These last few days of working day shift have been insanely frustrating.  Oh, I’ve put myself to bed on time, and even managed to haul my butt out of bed on time… but my husband (a.k.a the Heat Miser) hasn’t approved use of the furnace yet.  So what happens when I crawl out of a warm toasty bed into a cold heat-less house is… I spend way too much time in the shower.  And standing under the soothing pound of scorching water daydreaming makes me late.

 

And because my imagination has been sparked, wound up, and set free, the daydream continues the moment I pull out of the driveway.

 

Driving while deeply immersed in beta brain waves is interesting.  Often I arrive at my destination with absolutely no recall of the trip.  Generally not a problem.  It’s early, there’s not a lot of traffic, I know where I’m going.  Whatever.

 

The trouble this weekend is that the exit to south 35 from the Blatnik Bridge is CLOSED.  So I have to grab the Garfield exit to get to grandma daycare.  And when I’m driving in beta I forget to do that, so I end up in Downtown Duluth which is totally NOT where I need to be.  When it happened the first time last week I said a really, really bad word.  Really loudly.  My daughter repeated the really bad word the next day.  I, in my infinite Mommy-wisdom, ignored it. 

 

It wasn’t missing the exit that made me say the really, really bad word, however, it was that I turned UP 5th Ave W from Michigan Street (by the library) and that street is actually a one way DOWN.  I got to the top and my brain said, “Umm, there’s a stop light here, but it’s not facing you.”  Hence the really, really bad word as I realized I had to back down the hill. 

 

This weekend I was already leaving the house later than I should, and I KNEW my exit was closed.  I knew it, yet because of long hot showers, daydreams, and “driving in beta,”  I managed TWO DAYS IN A ROW to forget to take the Garfield exit.  I might have said some bad words, but they were all muttered quietly under my breath, and I didn’t say the really, really bad one.  The worst part is this: when you’re having great beta brain activity and you’re jarred out of it suddenly you lose all those amazingly profound ideas.  So essentially, I’m pretty sure I completely missed out on writing two best-selling novels because of road construction.  Not to mention I was late for work twice.  And let’s not even get into how the parking ramp at work was closed.  I had a very real thought that if it’s this difficult to get to work maybe it’s not even worth it.

 

Sometimes you get to dream… but maybe it’s not such a good idea while driving, huh?

Brave Ones

09.28.06

I have always admired the mavericks who have their own style, their own ideas, and their own way of getting through life.  I’ve never been part of the “in” crowd and never wanted to be – I was always more like a sideline observer.

 

So.  When my step-teenagers showed up with blue hair and black hair and wristbands and skulls and crosses and heavy metal blasting in their ears… well, I thought they were kind of awesome.  There is a bravery in displaying individuality that I have always admired.

 

It’s been a while since we’ve seen these kids.  Okay, it’s been a long, long while.  Years.  The specific reason for that pretty much boils down to rotten communication skills between parents.  I’d say all the adults involved need to accept their share of blame and fear and misunderstanding, and how about we leave it at that?  Perfect.

 

I’d recognize my step-daughter anywhere.  She looks like herself and acts like herself.  Bright and organized and knows her own mind.  Even the blue hair didn’t trip me up.  I suppose I did blink a time or two and think, “Whoa, that’s really blue!”  This is  a girl with a plan.  Smart girl.  She knew what she needed at the mall, where to find it, and how to make the most of her money.  But even still, you know she’s got to be fun, I mean, with blue hair and all.  And brave.  I think it takes a certain amount of courage to run around your life with blue hair.  Oh!  Did I mention she’s tall and slim and self-assured… and quite beautiful, really.  Even with blue hair.

 

My step-son – whoa!  I’d have never recognized him in a million years.  And not because of his clothes or his hair or even his height… just that some boys change so much as they grow – it’s rather astounding, really.  More than once I caught myself staring at him thinking, “Wow, where’d my little blondie go?”  He’s tall and lanky, black hair in his eyes, black wrist cuffs and half-fingered gloves, crazy pants big enough for five of him, with pockets and buckles, and a wallet on a chain.  All accessorized with skulls and silver crosses.

 

The first thing he asked me, with excited expectation was, “Do you like Korn?”  Oh, how I wanted to say, “Yeah, they rock!” but I was so busy looking for the little boy I used to know in that face that what I really thought was, “What, on the cob?”  I think I clued in before he realized I was a complete thirty-five-year-old-mother-kind-of-person.  The truth is Korn sort of gives me the nervous jitters.  Flashback to my own mother saying, “Ack!  Turn that music down – I’m having an anxiety attack!” 

 

We’re all new at this.  In fact, visits are so few and far-between that it seems like we’re always new at this, always working on getting to know each other again, and that makes my throat all tight and achy.  And it’s not that they’re difficult to like – it was such a happy rush to have them here that I had trouble falling asleep.  My heart just wants to explode with love for them, and it’s when they’re here that everything we’ve missed feels so terrible and real.

 

Now I bet you’re wondering what Little Miss thought of her older brother and sister, hmm?  Well, she thought they were the best.  The nights they were here she stayed up until almost midnight, afraid that if she went to sleep they’d disappear.  On Sunday, when the teenagers were getting ready for Dad to take them home, she had a melt-down.  A regular old tantrum with tears and sobs and begging for them to not leave.  Would that it were that simple, right?  I think my husband, in his careful way of keeping his emotions buried, was having a silent tantrum right along with her.

 

Being apart sucks. 

 

But anyway.  Here are my golden words of wisdom for these beautiful young people:  Stay in school.  Don’t do meth.  Oh yeah… and come back soon, k?

 

Show up for life

09.14.06

So I’m writing this column on the anniversary of 9-11.  I guess I could snark about the surge of patriotism back then that somehow seems to have weakened the independent spirit of Americans and turned us into lemmings blindly following a weasel to ruination.   But I won’t.  Because who wants to hear my ignorant snarking, anyway?

 

I didn’t have a friend or family member in the World Trade Center on 9-11.  And I haven’t lost anyone in the endlessly complicated War on Iraq.  I say “endlessly complicated” purely to give the benefit of the doubt to our fearless leaders and those in the military who take their orders with the spirit of protecting We the People. 

 

What I see and feel as a simple American trying to live my life is this:  since 911 I can barely afford to drive my car so I can work to support myself, or to heat my house so I can survive in this iceberg we call Duluth.  And this makes me angry because I have a gleaningsuspicion that our Fearless Leader is making money hand over fist because I and millions upon millions of others in my position are forking it over for various types of fuel. 

 

I am terrible at understanding politics.  And I am the first to admit my ignorance.  But I am not one to follow blindly in the interest of being Protected.  When an American born citizen with no criminal record whatsoever gets pulled out of every line for every flight he takes for a specialized search because he happens to have a Middle Eastern name I feel angry.  When I read that people are being investigated and harassed by the Department of Homeland Security because they put bumper stickers on their car protesting the government and the damn Iraq war, I feel angry.

 

America is supposed to be a land of independent people, free-thinkers, a place where individuality is prized and cherished.

 

This is the spirit that I embrace.  I’m not going to hate a group of people because the government tells me I should.  I’m not going to change my religion or style of worship because the (conservative) government encourages me to do so.  I am Christian or Pagan or Agnostic or Atheist or Buddhist or Jewish or nothing purely based on what feels right to me, not because I am a citizen of the Conservative Christian United States of America.

 

I embrace people’s right to be gay or lesbian or goth or punk or straight or conservative or liberal or beautiful or ugly or fat or thin.  Trust me on this one, folks, what they do has very little impact on how I live my daily life.  I get up, I go to work, I write stories and columns and novels.  I spend time with my child and cherish her strong-willed personality, I teach her good manners.  I teach her by example, I hope, to value doing good work and to be kind.  And I respect her right to have thoughts in her head that are different from mine.  And I respect that her perceptions of things are different from mine even while I spend so much time keeping her safe.

 

A stranger says, “Hi,” to my girl and she says, “Hi!” back.  And then she wants to follow that person down the street.  I say, “We can’t.  We don’t know that person.”  And she says, “But I do, Mom.” 

 

Difference in perception.  Her limited experience as a 3 year old has taught her that anyone with a friendly smile and a “Hi,” is a friend.  And thank goodness for that!  It means she hasn’t been abused, or damaged, or betrayed, or hurt.  Would that I could keep it that way for the whole of her lifetime.

 

Of course I can’t.  As humans we crave emotional connection with other humans, and when we allow ourselves to have it we then open ourselves to the possibility of loss.  Loss not only through death, but through death of relationships, misunderstanding, miscommunications, mistakes.  When we love we have the capacity to hurt.

 

I hope people took time on 911 to appreciate what’s good in their lives rather than to bemoan how much we pay for fuel.  The only way to fix that one, folks, is to get out there and vote whenever you have the opportunity to do so, for whichever offices are holding elections.  This is our country and our lives and we need to show up.

Real Life

09.07.06

Let’s talk about stubbornness and staying power, shall we?  I know I’ve talked about how difficult it is to get Little Miss to go to sleep, and how difficult it is to get her to eat, and how difficult it was to get her potty trained…

 

But, you know, tenacity is a good thing in this here thing called life.  It helps us maintain hope and move past the roadblocks in the path of our goals.  It helps us discover or create detours when the problems of life get in the way of living.

 

So while my child’s having a mind of her own often pushes me to the edge of frustration, it’s not a bad quality in a person.  And when I’m all set to blow my top she shuts me right down when she asks, “Why are you mad, Mom?”  Because then I realize  I’m irritated that she’s doing things HER way rather than MY way, but the end result will probably be the same, so ultimately what’s the difference?  That kind of puts it all into perspective.

 

If you’re going to live a real and full life and pursue dreams I think you need tenacity.  Fulfilling dreams isn’t easy, because the hum drum routine of Real Life is always getting in the way.

 

What is this thing called Real Life (RL), anyway?

 

When I was a kid I thought real life was being a grown up and being allowed to order in pizza every night if that's what I wanted to do.  Eating ice cream for breakfast.  Driving a car.  You know, all that grown-up stuff.  THAT would be Real Life, and I couldn't wait to get there.

 

And then I did finally get there.  And discovered that my infinite love of pizza had to be reconciled with a checkbook that could mostly only afford Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Whoa.  Real Life won that round. 

 

In high school and in my early 20's I was very angsty about people who had, took, or created the opportunity to leave this town.  I was always sad to be left behind, melancholy, lonely, and jealous.  I got the idea in my head that Real Life would begin if only I could move to someplace other than here.

 

And then I left.  And I discovered that Real Life is nothing much more than the routine of daily living, and that a person can get bored and lonely and restless away from here, too.  In fact, it was only a matter of weeks before my sense of adventure wore off and I realized that what's real is that life is a series of problems and solutions, whether they be large or small.

 

Hmm.  By age 30 I became aware that we all wear social faces and "masks" to some degree, and I started thinking RL was all the crazy stories going on inside my head all the time.  Which is patently ridiculous, because how can the fantasies in my head be any more real than the fantasies people type to one another in online chat rooms?  Right.  They're not.  The inside-my-head-me only becomes part of Real Life when I let a little bit of it out.  To Real People.  In my Real Life.

Which is a) terrifying b) risky and c) sublime.

 

Which brings me back to tenacity and dreams.  I want to publish a novel.  I have a great new online subscription to the Writer’s Market and every day I email novel queries to agents and publishers and every day I get email rejections.  Hmph.  It’s not fun, but at least it’s fast.  A few things are important for a writer:  finding value in constructive criticism, being able to look at your work objectively, growing a thick skin, and staying power.  Keep swimming, just keep swimming – oh, I mean, keep sending, just keep sending, sending, sending.

 

Anybody want to represent or publish a strange quirky vampire novel?  Let me know.

If you're old enough to drive...

08.31.06

My daughter drives a Jeep.  It’s a purple and pink Barbie-Wrangler.  2-speed: forward and reverse.  It even has a radio that plays all Barbie, all the time. She is one stylin’ 3 year old, let me tell you.

 

The thing is, I always wanted a Jeep.  When I was a teen-ager my Dad said, “They’re too tippy.”  When I met my husband and told him the next car I got should be a Jeep he said,  “They’re top heavy.  They tend to fall right over.  The way you drive?  No.”  And it’s never even been open for discussion.

 

So I think I’m suffering from a bit of “Jeep Envy.”

 

She just looks so incredibly cool and carefree as she gets in, fastens her seat-belt, fastens her baby’s seat belt, and drives away 4 feet before she runs into the lawn chair.  Or the dog. Or the swing set.  She actually spends a considerable amount of time trying to drive up the slide.

 

“Dang,” says my husband watching, “she drives just like her mother.”

 

Ahem.  Thanks.

 

Let’s not talk about my driving.

 

You don’t see him taking away her Jeep. 

 

This kid is spoiled in so many, many ways.  Sometimes I think we’re the ultimate “mush” parents and we’re going to end up raising a sociopath.  So many things are a battle with her and it takes an incredible amount of energy to win all the time.  Energy that I don’t have.  So things slide.  She watches an extra move, she goes to bed an hour too late, she eats a whole lot of macaroni and cheese.  And… she’s past three and not potty trained.  And that one’s about to end.

 

Tomorrow begins the great (and late) battle of the diaper.  She knows everything there is to know about the potty.  She’s used it for a whole day, and she watches and coaches and explains to other kids how to do it.  She wake up dry if I don’t let her drink an extra glass of water at bedtime.  It’s all done except for the shouting.

 

And the kicking, screaming, knock-down drag-out, furniture-tossing fury.  But I’m armed and ready.  I figure the carpet needs a good cleaning anyway, so let’s just do it.  She might be stubborn and obstinate, but I can be more so.  She might be louder than me, but I’m pretty good at ignoring tantrums.  Besides, we’re almost out of diapers and I have lots of big girl panties.  The ones she picked out herself.

 

Bring it on, Sweetheart, ‘cause Mommy’s ready to win.

 

Here’s my strategy:  No diapers.  One way or another we are going to get through the day without diapers.  And if that means she has to carry a plastic bag around to sit on then so be it.  And if that means she screams all day, tough.  Mom’s gonna win on this one and there’s no alternative. 

 

Now I’m going to prepare by pulling the spot-lifter out of the closet, the ear plugs out of the medicine cabinet, and settle down for a full night’s sleep.  I figure it this way, if she gets a Jeep, then I get a kid who uses the potty.

 

I’ll let you know how it goes.

not a column, just some pics

Ok, so the first pic is Isabelle and Dominic's first car date - as it should be - he drives, she fiddles with the radio and just grins.

The rest are pics of my old crappy porch, my nice new porch, and the deck that replaced my imaginary deck. 

Dang, I think I have some pretty good friends, hmm?

Happy birthday to me! (smile)