There's just no end to it, Denise thought, as she grabbed the last bag of groceries from the trunk of her car. Tossing the bag inside the back door, she hurried back to the car to retrieve her cup of iced coffee, a small reward for completing another day of errands. Gripping the sweaty cup in one hand, and snatching as many of the thin plastic handled grocery bags as she could with the other, she tromped through the kitchen. A quick glance at the clock elicited an involuntary groan. "Shit," Denise muttered. "Ten minutes until it's time to pick up the twins." Tears sprang to her eyes, as she began clawing through the bags, searching for milk, yogurt, meat, ice cream - all the perishable items she'd need to stow in the refrigerator before she hit the road once again. Today was Tuesday, so that meant soccer practice for Darren and gymnastics for Doug, with just enough time in between to hit the drive through at Walgreen's and pick up her husband David's prescription. God, she thought, it never ends. When had her life gotten so completely out of control? Certainly caring for five year old twins, a large home, a part time job, and a husband demanded huge amounts of time. Yet there never seemed to be a moment she could call her own, a time to sit quietly with a book and cup of tea, or walk in the park, or listen to music. Never mind time to pursue her photography. Wistfully, Denise recalled the pleasure of taking a "photo safari," grabbing her camera and heading off in the car, stopping to photograph interesting old houses, or blooming gardens. Would there ever be time to do those things again? she wondered, jamming the packages of cheese and lunch meat into the deli drawer of her refrigerator. Right now, there was barely time for a quick run to the bathroom before she had to be on the road to school. Dashing toward the bathroom door, Denise's heart sank as she heard the front doorbell ring, followed by a determined rapping. Mrs. Cartwright, her elderly next door neighbor, was standing on the porch, an envelope in her hand. Denise sighed. The woman had obviously been watching for Denise to drive in, the timing was just too perfect. Denise knew from past experience that she would stand there, knocking incessantly until Denise answered her summons. Raking her fingers through tousled blond curls, Denise threw open the door. "Hi, Mrs. Cartwright," she said, smiling through gritted teeth. "I'm just on my way to pick up the twins..." "Oh, I won't keep you, dear," the older woman said gently. "The mailman left this letter in my box, and it belongs to you." Denise noticed the quaver in her hand as she held out the envelope, and, taking it, she looked into the watery blue eyes. "Are you feeling alright, Mrs. Cartwright?" she asked, concerned replacing the annoyance she had felt moments before. "Yes, I guess so," she answered. "I was just thinking about when I was a young mother like you, so busy with my boys, running here and there, cooking, cleaning, chasing them down. You know, I raised all five of them right here in this neighborhood." "Five boys!" Denise exclaimed, her mind reeling at the thought of three more like Darren and Doug. "Five!" Mrs. Cartwright affirmed. "I certainly never had a minute to myself in those years." She smiled sadly. "And look at me now, rattling around that big house all alone, with so much time on my hands. Who would have believed it would all come to an end?" Shaking her head, she looked up at Denise and smiled. "Well, I'll be getting out of your way, dear. I know how busy you are." Denise found herself fighting tears for the second time that afternoon. "Mrs. Cartwright," she said, "if you're not too busy, would you mind riding along to the twins school with me? I've got some more errands to do, and I'd love to hear more about how you managed five boys!" With a huge smile, her neighbor readily agreed. "I'd love to come with you!" she said. "I can't think of a better way to end my day!"
Poetry Thursday~When Morning Comes
When Morning Comes
When morning comes
pale early light
nudges open my eyes
recalling me from distant travels
in the land of dreams
I stumble from bed
heavy hearted and sore
no delight in this day set before me.
~
When morning comes
black coffee drizzles
into a shiny, clear pot,
preparing to ignite my sleep laden spirit
I lean across the sink
and throw open the window
hoping to clear the fog from my head.
~
When morning comes
cool breezes caress
tender, dry, skin
anointing me with freshness
I offer my face
to the wide open window
rejoicing in the baptism of possibility~
when morning comes
~
Thank you, Poetry Thurdsay, for providing a safe place to share and experience the joys of poetry.
Encyclopedia of Me Monday: C Is For...Change
When I was a young(er) woman, I didn't give a lot of thought to creating change in my life. It's unfortuante too, because, whether from fear, immaturity, or just laziness, I let life happen to me far too often in those years, content to sit back in my pleasant existence waiting for new experiences to come to me. As I surf through my blogroll, reading the thoughts and dreams of so many other women, I'm struck by the scores of "30-something" women who are actively pursing their dreams, making huge, conscious choices to effect major change in their lives. My son and daughter in law are like that, and I marvel at the way they think about and discuss their life plans, putting things into motion to make their dreams come true.
But when I think about making life changes, I feel all adrift, completely out of my element, confused, not knowing where to start. I've read about "vision boards," collages of pictures, words, or artifacts that express meaningful ideas about life and what you would like it to be. Perhaps in putting together my own vision board, ideas about change would become clearer.
Because (contrary to the way I was brought up to think) change can be a good thing. It can mean new opportunities, revelations in ourselves and our relationships. And yes, I suppose those are scary. But the scarier thing to me right now is how stagnant my life seems. I feel the urge to create change this time around, and not rest comfortably in my easy chair waiting for the universe to move.
Earlier today, I came across this quote from a book called Ask and It is Given:
"You ask through your attention, through your wanting, through your desire--that is the asking (whether you desire it to happen, or if you desire it not to happen, you are asking...). You do not have to use your words. You just have to feel it in your being: I desire this. I adore this. I appreciate this, and so on. That desire is the beginning of all action."
What a powerful thought, that the universe can be energized to move by the power of desire. Practicing this concept in life would certainly be courting change, wouldn't it?
"Things that seem too good to be true, usually are," my mother always told me. And parts of this credo certainly seem idealized. By focusing thoughts and mental energy toward my most desirable dreams, could I have the power to steer life in the direction I (and it) need to move, creating changes that are meaningful and lasting?
I don't mind telling you, my heart flutters with excitment at the thought. All those caterpillar dreams hanging from the cobwebs in my mind suddenly have an opportunity to become butterflies.
It's a lot to think about on a Monday, but a worthy entry into the encyclopedia of me.
Rung Out
As I write, a chorus of cicadas hums outside, someones small dog (not mine!) yips excitedly, and my neighbors old riding mower grumbles as it rounds the yard. Yet to me, this seems like blissful silence. I just returned from spending the weekend ringing handbells with 13 women!
Yep, I got called into emergency service during the annual retreat weekend for Classical Bells, the community handbell group I played with from 1998-2002. Late last Thursday, my friend Barbara called and asked if I would substitute for a member who had suddenly become quite ill. (If you're not familiar with handbells, you might not realize that the absence of one person in the group can be deadly. Handbells are like a giant piano keyboard being played by about a dozen people, so taking one person away is akin to playing a piano with a bunch of its keys missing.)
My friend Millie hosted the retreat at her home on Lake Huron. It's a huge "cottage," vintage 1940's style, sitting high above the lake. We've had many retreats here, her living room becoming our rehearsal space, where we see the sun glistening off Huron's blue water and catch a glimpse of the freighters and sail boats passing by on the horizon. After a long day's rehearsal, we troop down to the deck built over the boathouse, armed with wine and junk food galore. The conversation gets louder and crazier as the night goes on and bottles are emptied, our laughter ringing across the lake in its own wild musical arrangement.
There are many things I love about being with this group of wild women (and now one young man, aged 27, who adds his own dimension of youthful craziness to this group). We share stories of our lives, our trials and tribulations with growing children and aging parents, and of course, the memories of our musical history together. The concert in Columbus when we processed onstage, took our places, and found a gaping hole in the formation where Julie had taken a last minute bathroom break and managed to miss last call. The 15th anniversary concert when Darlene, our director, literally tore an IV out of her arm, left the hospital emergency room where she was being treated for pneumonia, and played the entire concert dehydrated, with a fever of 103 degrees. Stories of tragedy, stories of triumph, stories funny, sad, poignant, exciting...the culmination of almost 25 years together, making music and sharing experiences.
I doubt that most people realize how much being a part of a musical ensemble is like being an athlete on a team. A group of people with a shared passion overcome their differences to work
together toward achieving a common goal~ winning the game, playing a great concert. In the process, they become this close knit group of individuals, closer in some ways than family. Since I left the group, this is the thing I miss most~and of course, the performances, the chance to "show off" all this musical ability and entertain people.
So, in spite of the noise and clamor of 13 adults (not to mention 81 handbells and 72 choir chimes!) sharing a relatively small space for the past three days, I quite enjoyed my unexpected weekend. I've been tempted several times over the past few years to rejoin the group. I miss being part of that level of musicianship, miss having the opportunity to improve my skills and make really good music. But, as much as I enjoyed myself, as much as I was reassured that I can still "keep up" with this group, I realize I really don't have the time or energy being a full fledged member requires. It was a good reality check, and I need that every now and again.
As I've written this post, darkness has fallen, the cicadas have ended their performance and a few tired crickets have taken the stage. Ice crackles in the glass of iced green tea on the coaster beside me. I'm about to leave my desk, and join my husband to watch a movie on his new wide screened TV. Perhaps not as exciting as an evening on stage, but certainly carrying a magic of its own. Especially to someone who's as rung out as me.
Write on Wednesday-Coming Out of the Writer's Closet
None of my friends know I do it. My husband knows, but basically ignores it, considering it another amusing little project that takes up time and doesn't make any money. My son probably understands it better than most, and does it himself on occasion. What is this deep dark secret I'm harboring? Writing, of course. "You know the last thing in the world people want to hear from you," writes Carolyn See in Making a Literary Life, "the very last thing they're interested in? The fact that you have always wanted to write, that you cherish dreams of being a writer, that you wrote something and got rejected once, that you believe you have it in you - if only the people around you would give you a chance - to write a very credible, if not great, American novel." Every so often, I think about telling one of my really good friends that I write. Perhaps my friend Pat, who is all about "living your dreams," no matter what age you are. After all, she's nudged me out of my musical shell, taught me to step outside my safe box and take risk now and then. Surely she, of all people, wouldn't think I was silly, or worse yet, pathetic, for writing stories and poems, for hoarding private fantasies about publishing novels. Or my friend Millie, my "other mother" as I call her, who always props up my flagging confidence with genuine caring and pride, who simply grabs me by the hand and drags me into places I'm fearful of, assuring me with steadfast certainty that I can handle myself there. Wouldn't she pat me on the back with a hearty "good for you!" and say "I'm not the least bit surprised!" So why do I always cringe at the thought of admitting my secret aloud to these women, these "real world" friends? Why is it so easy for me to share my writing dreams with all of you, and not with the people who share my life on a daily basis? Part of it, I suppose, is fear of criticism, fear that they'll look at me, smile politely, and make some sort of "that's nice, dear," remark before continuing the conversation about next weeks rehearsal or last night's episode of "The Closer." That reaction would not only bruise my fragile writing hopes, but could actually damage our friendship. Perhaps keeping the writing secret is a way of protecting it. Hemingway said that talking about your work weakens it, diminishes the magic it develops as it gestates in your head. Carolyn See writes that "the wonderful thing about your inner life is that it's your inner life." All the while you're stuck in traffic, or sitting through boring meetings at work, or spending time with deadly dull relatives, you can think about this secret world of characters and ideas living in your mind. Still, I often feel a distinct urge to spill my secret. I'll have it planned out, waiting to announce when people ask "So, what have you been up to lately?" "Well," I'll offer, "I've been writing - stories, poems, even a novel." But when the moment comes, inevitably I back away. "Oh, the usual," I'll concede. "Work, some music stuff, taking care of the parents - you know, nothing new." Once again, I pull the writer's closet door tightly closed, hoarding my secret to myself for a while longer. So, how about you? Have you come out of the writer's closet to your friends and family?