Fireworks

I was just about to go to bed - but - there are some hefty fireworks going on somewhere around here, and since it's the kind of night that's just too deliciously cool to sleep with the windows closed, I reckon I'll postpone bedtime a little bit longer. I haven't been sleeping well since I got home from Florida.  Usually I'm a pretty good sleeper (hot flashes not withstanding), and rarely have any problems going to sleep at night.  But Tuesday night I was awake until 3 am, restless and fitfull, dozing off occasionally only to startle awake again.  I got up, then went back down, then got up again.  Finally dozed off for good after some toast with honey and chocolate Ovaltine, my sure fire remedy for insomnia.

By bedtime last night I was a walking zombie, so my eyes were closed as soon as my head hit the pillow.  BUT - at 3 am I was wide awake, and couldn't go back to sleep.  It was chilly in the room - ceiling fan was on and the window was cracked - and I was awake and shivering until I broke down and fetched the furry afghan from the reading room.

Not sure what's causing the sleep disturbance ~ certainly life is a whole lot quieter than it was a year ago, when I was dealing with a freight train of loss.  Once again, I marvel at the resilience of the human spirit.   To quote a favorite Elton John tune, I"m still standing ~ maybe not better than I've ever been, but at least still here. 

Something to celebrate this holiday weekend. 

As would be a good night's sleep.

How about you? Anything worthy of fireworks going on in your world this week?

Historical Connection

Individual turning points ~ moments in time that change us, set us off in new directions.  Looking at those points in our lives for the start of story, as a place to begin writing.  Now, step backward from these turning points and look at the big picture.  What was going on in the world at that particular moment in time?  Is there a historical connection that has some bearing on your reaction to that point of change?  

Think about how (if at all) your life was influenced or impacted by those apparently surface events.  You may discover that moments in your life that felt divorced from the march of history were actually quite connected with the larger picture on some level.

~  Tim Tomlinson, The Portable MFA in Creative Writing

Afternoon Showers

It's 3:00 in the afternoon, late June, in Southwest Florida.  It's raining.

Like clockwork every day since we've been here, the sky darkens ominously, palm tree branches rustle nervously, and rain pours from above.  I've learned to take an umbrella whenever I go out in the afternoon.  If I'm not back home before 3:00, I'll need it.

This afternoon  I am home, stretched out on the leather sofa in our back bedroom which serves as a den.  Osensibly, I'm reading Every Last One, Anna Quindlen's recent novel about the "ordinary life" of Mary Beth Latham (whose life, I suspect  is about to become anything but ordinary.)   I'm distracted from this story, though, by torrents of water sluicing off the tiled roof, racing down the brick paved sidewalk to run off into the street.  I've been watching it for a few minutes now, staring blankly at the rain while the ceiling fan stirs the cold conditioned air around my bare feet, prompting me to snuggle them underneath a blue and brown striped throw pillow.

Earlier this afternoon, I've wandered from room to room in this house, idly picking up picture frames, turning on lamps, opening mostly empty drawers in decorative chests and tables.  We created this house from scratch almost 10 years ago, watching it built from the ground up untl we were finally presented with a tabula rasa of empty rooms to fill.   Everything here was brand spanking new, a novel treat for the pair of us who have lived in the same two (old) places for our entire lives.  But on this rainy afternoon, I poked through rooms which have remained pristine, opened drawers and cabinets that still release the perfume of new wood, and wondered what to do with it all now.

Here's my fatal flaw - I never expect change.  Stupid, I know.  I'm over half a century old, certainly I've seen enough change in my life to realize the inevitably of it.  Still, I continue to block it out, stuff the possibility of it into the furthest corner of my mind and go blithely on as if every day will continue just like every other.  So change always takes me by surprise, forcing me to react to it being imposed upon me, rather than embrace it as something I've chosen for myself.  Consequently, I feel powerless, and stupid, and angry with myself.   I'd like to be the change-maker for once, the reason everyone else in my little world has to stop, take stock, and figure out how to respond, the one that pulls in the reins on everyone else's life. 

Realistically, I know that isn't likely to happen.  I'm as predictable in my complacency as these afternoon thuderstorms.  So as the skies above me begin to darken again with the spectre of change, I'll take cover under my umbrella and wait for sun to return.

On Fathers

It's been eerily quiet around our neighborhood today - no din from grumbling lawnmowers or whining gas powered trimmers, no screeching from the tree chipper two doors down.  Not even the repetitive thump whump from the teenaged basketball boys behind us. It's Father's Day, and I think all the men in the neighborhood are taking advantage of having a day to loaf. 

Our neighborhood is rather old fashioned in that most of the families are "intact" - mother and father living in the same home with children.  That's probably more than a little unusual here in the Detroit area. In his column today for the Detroit Free Press,  Mitch Albom quotes a statistic that one in three children lives in a home without a father in it, a number that doubles in African American families.  It shouldn't come as any surprise that in those homes children are more likely to do poorly in school, in health, and in life in general.

I think men underestimate the power they have on their family, not just in terms of their personal relationship with their children, but also in terms of their relationship with their children's mother.   Having a father at home is important, but so is having a stable home environment with a man and woman who love and respect one another.   Kids need to see that in order to know how to love and respect their parents, their siblings, and themselves.   Men sometimes have the notion that it's enough to show up at soccer games and birthday parties, to put in an appearance every weekend and holiday, especially if Mom is the main caretaker or custodial parent.  "My kids know I love them," they'll say, passing Junior a $50 bill or new video game before driving away. 

But do they?  

One of my co-workers is a single mom with a five year old son.  Her divorce was bitter and acrimonious, and the ex-husband seems to use their child as leverage to "punish" her.   When her son comes home from the obligatory "visitations" with his dad, he's either angry toward her or clinging to her every move.  "It takes about two days for him to get back to normal," she sighs.  "Sometimes he'll hit me or tell me I'm stupid.  Other times he'll cry and want to crawl into bed with me."  

Having kids is a lifetime proposition, and men who don't know that need to learn it.  The term "baby daddy" turns my stomach.  It means nothing more than the word "stud" in the world of animal breeding, and totally denigrates the importance and accountability of a father's role. 

"It is time to stop this," Albom continues in today's column. " And while I would like to appeal to the men, it's pretty clear that isn't working. So it may be time to appeal to the women. Do not accept this burden. Do not accept this as "the way it is." Refuse to get involved. Refuse you-know-what.  But refuse. Because we as a society need to refuse this pattern. We are destroying our future."

 I'd like to think that the silence in my neighborhood today means there are lots of dads enjoying "quality" time with their kids - watching a ball game on tv, out playing golf or at the beach, riding bikes or picnicking in the park. 

Those are the fathers who who deserve a day to call their own.

Stormy Night

Newscasters kept interrupting Friday Night Lights last night, filling the 47 inch tv screen with an angry splash of orange and red,warning us there were massive storms on the way. About 9:30 we hurried the dogs into the yard to take care of their nightly duties before the rain hit.   In the yard behind us, heard but not seen, the teenage boy who lived there was still bouncing his basketball in the darkness.  The orchard sparkled with the lights of a million frantic fireflies. We hadn't been inside for ten minutes when I heard the rushing of wind.  Our mountainous pine trees swayed menacingly, and the roof was pelted with small limbs and sticks flying through the air.  I gathered all the candles in one place,  put a  flashlight at the ready.  Electricity flickered, but never died.

Soon the rain came, blowing in sheets across the driveway and down the street, huge droplets being chased by the wind.  Only 1/2 inch fell, I heard later - a small amount compared to the two inches we got in one hour a weekend ago.

I love storms, and can hardly resist standing in front of the big picture window watching the show outside.  Even as a child, I pouted when my mother and grandmother would herd us all into the basement at the first dark cloud.  There's a magical feeling about being safe inside while the familiar world around you becomes wild and furious.

This morning, all is calm and clear.  The sun beams down, the yard is something of a sauna, the flowers stand stalwart and strong.  It's not unlike life, is it?  Storms rage in our hearts and souls, and yet somehow we continue to pick ourselves up and carry on.  Resilience, I suppose you'd call it.  We come by it naturally, a means of survival in this windswept world.

How about you?  Do you like stormy weather? Or does the first thunderbolt send you right under the covers?