Sunday Scribblings-Fearless

Fear. Less. Disconnecting the word is the only way I can make sense of this week's prompt.  Because I must admit to you that I'm consumed with fear these days.  And writing/reading all the platitudes about conquering your fears and taking risks and diving in with both feet will fall on deaf ears here at the Byline.

Rough words from me, I know.  Writing is usually the way I work myself out of fears, my method of rising above the things that frighten me.  But I've sunken into a fear-full pit lately, and not even words (my weapon of choice for all life's dilemmas) can offer me the leg up I need to pull out.

"At the risk of sounding like an old fogey," my mother (who just turned 81 but prides herself on "thinking young") said the other day as we were driving to the market, "I do believe the world has gotten itself into the worst mess I've ever seen."

Well, I do believe she's right.  Countless businesses closing every day, homes and companies being lost to foreclosure right and left, while prices for necessary consumer goods continue to rise exponentially.  Health care costs soaring, making even basic medical treatment unaffordable.  People living longer and longer, but with deteriorating quality of life, spending their life savings to be warehoused in institutions.  And war, dragging on forever, costing young men and women their lives, and costing this country trillions of dollars.

It's a mess.

And it makes me fear full.

So, on this second Sunday in April when winter seems to have returned once again, snow flurries falling from leaden grey skies, I would dearly love to fear less.  I want to stop being afraid about the falling equity in my home(s), the rising prices at the gas pump, grocery, and drug store.  I want to stop being afraid about growing older, about dementia and cancer and bone disease.  I want to stop being afraid this war will not only continue, but will escalate into additional conflict.

I want find a way to fear less. 

How about you?

for Sunday Scribblings

It's Only Me

Growing up an only child in a very Catholic, post WWII neighborhood, I was quite the anomaly.  Viewed with a mixture of awe (by my peers) and pity (by their parents), I rather enjoyed my somewhat exalted status.  In fact, I enjoyed being an only child so much that I married one, and then became the mother of one. 

Which is probably why many young women of my acquaintance consider me an expert on the subject.  These days, it's quite popular to have just one child-over the past 20 years, the percentage of families who choose to have only one child has doubled.  Yet, these women occasionally harbor lingering doubts about their decision, and seek out my opinion. 

"Tell me what it was like being an only child," they'll plead.  "Was it really okay?  After all, you and Jim and Brian all turned out fine, didn't you?"

Next time I get this question, I'm going to offer them a copy of Only Child, a selection of essays edited by Deborah Siegel and Daphne Uviller.  These two women, both only children themselves, solicited writers to "reflect on transformative episodes that defined them as only children."  These twenty essays explore not just childhood experiences growing up as an "only," but also the way this has shaped the writers relationship with friends, their own parenting experience, and finally, coming to grips with their parents aging and death. 

So we have Peter Terzian, writing about himself as a 10 year old who developed an almost personal relationship with his postcard collection; Sarah Towers, who at age eight was so desperate for a sibling she was "ready to  settle for a chimp"; Betty Rollins who, until she was 15, didn't realize her "birthday wasn't a national holiday."   

And there's John Hodgman, who decided to have two children of his own, since, "like a farmer who needs two children to till the soil and cannot risk having but one, so I need more than one child to lower my risk of absolute awful heartache."  And Penn Jillette, a professional magician who learns to practice a different sleight of hand in caring for his aging parents.  "If you're an only child, and you love your parents, and your parents need you, well, what do you do?  You help them while pretending not to help.  You lie.  And you think you fool them."

By turns poignant and humorous, the collection provides valuable insight into the psyches of only children. Nearly every essay contained a nugget of truth so close to my own experience that I found myself nodding in affirmation, or shaking my head in wonderment.  Yes, exactly! I might think, comforted to know there were others who had felt the same way.  Those hot button issues that only children face in spades - creating boundaries between themselves and their parents, learning to express anger, conquering loneliness - are tackled in this group of essays.

Whether you are an only child, the parent of one, the spouse or offspring of one  (or, in my case, all of the above!)  these essays will touch your heart, make you smile, and offer valuable insights into navigating the waters of this life experience. 

Only Child, Writers on the Singular Joys and Sorrows of Growing Up Solo

edited by  Deborah Siegel and Daphne Uviller

published in 2006, Three Rivers Press

256 pages

this review brought to you by  Mother Talk

Cafe Writing-Hopelessly Devoted to You

I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. –Julius Caesar Act III, scene i

Take seven minutes (use all seven, but don’t go over), and write on the subject of loyalty or constancy. This is a timed exercise and it’s expected that it won’t be perfect. Any format - fiction, essay, verse - is acceptable.

They lie at my feet most nights, whether I'm watching tv, or writing, or reading.  Whether I'm angry, frustrated, sad, or joyful.  Whether its a fat day, skinny day, or bad hair day.  Whether dinner was gourmet or from a can.  They don't care.  They love me anyway.

They are my faithful companions.  Two small dogs with less than 25 pounds of flesh between them, yet they would move mountains to please me.

Everything you've ever heard or read about the loyalty of animals is true.  Once you create the bond, they will cleve to you with completely unstinted devotion. 

So, how can we harness that loyalty among our human companions?  What can we do to make our partners, our siblings, our friends, offer us that same abject devotion?  Is it even possible?

Not until humans can lower their expectations.  After all, what do Magic and Molly ask of me?  Nothing more than two meals a day, a walk around the block, a few minutes of tossing the ball around, and an occasional belly rub or scratch behind the ears.

And they only want those same things every day.  The expectations never change.  They never get tired of walking around the same block.  It's always a great new adventure.  They're never bored with their food or their biscuits.  It's always a delecable treat.  They're never unfulfilled by their morning massage or nightly rubdowns - they're always orgasmically satisfying.

Loyalty to them is born from constancy.  The same routine love and affection, constantly, every single day.

That's all it takes.  A no-brainer.

If only the rest of the world were so easy.

for Cafe Writing, April Prompts

Sprung!

I'm almost afraid to say it -could it be- spring??? Well, at least a hint of it.

The thermometer hit 60 today -the sun was shining- the sky was a clear, azure blue.

I dragged my lawn chairs out of the shed, and I'm sitting on the back porch (trying to ignore all the fallen tree branches lying around the yard) and just breathing in spring.

Ahhh.

Whether its the mellow weather, the book I'm reading (The Senator's Wife, by Sue Miller), or getting away for a bit this weekend (we traveled to the west side of the state for a couple of concerts), my mind is running on overdrive - so many thoughts percolating in my brain, I can barely slow it down long enough to type. 

 A story popped into my head this morning-does that ever happen to you, that you're reading a really good book, and suddenly one phrase sets an idea in motion, and idea for a story that then insinuates itself into your mind, poking and prodding at you when you least expect it?   Off and on today, I've been jotting down notes and phrases and sentences that occur to me, so there are now scraps of paper torn from the note pad in the hotel, the program from the concert last night, and even the bulletin from this morning's church service - all representing some fragment of this story that's been rolling around in my brain.

Will I ever get round to actually writing it? 

Who knows.

But I'm enjoying this creative blossoming, mirroring as it does the gestating going on underground these days, as I watch the grass turn progressively greener before my eyes, the small shoots of tulips, and  crocus and hostas poking up from the dry ground.

It never ceases to amaze me, the regenerative power of life.  How after the worst of cold, barren, difficult winters, the earth can sense a turning of the tide, can respond to the first warm rays of sunshine and ignite its cycle of growth and renewal. 

People do it too, don't they?  Something in the human spirit responds to that as well, even though, in so many ways, we no longer need rely soley on nature for basic sustenance.  It's a tale as old as time, as the song goes, the joy and inspiration that comes from the idea of rebirth, renewal- spring.   It gives us the impetus to move forward, to be hopeful, to care about life all over again.

So I'm off to enjoy the last bits of sunshine (it's almost 8:00 and the sun is still shining - that in itself is a miracle!)

The only blemish on this day - you know I'm simply dying to go for a walk (damned broken foot!)

Oh well.

Soon I'll be sprung.

Sunday Scribblings-Photograph

It's really a slide - remember those?  That's what my dad took, back in the 50's when I was very little,  and he had a huge, boxy brown camera with a flash attachment as big as a lampshade.  Not only did the bulbs flash in your face when you least expected it, they made a sharp Pop! sound, their bright little lives over in an instant.  Oh, was I terrifed of that thing!  Each one of my bithday parties was completely spoiled by the knowledge that he was prowling around with his camera and its horrible flash attachment, trying to take my picture. But I digress. 

It's the photograph (or slide) I'm here to recall for you, and since I have no idea where the actual item has ended up, recall it I must.  Actually, I believe it's quite well etched in my memory, for it's the image of myself as a child that most describes the essence of me.

I'm probably two at most, and I'm standing at our back gate - the proverbial white picket fence type.  My back is to the camera, my little legs are bare underneath the short dress I'm wearing.  The neat bow at my waist has started to come undone, and hangs slightly askew.  I've probably been swinging on my swingset -my most favorite outdoor activity at that age.

So there I am, standing at the gate, reaching on tiptoe as far as I can reach, one hand on the latch about to lift it and make my escape to -freedom!  And the camera catches me just as I look over my shoulder, a pleased and rather wicked little grin on my face, to see if anyone is watching.

Oh, you can be sure I was stopped before I got out.  I was watched mighty carefully in those days - after all, an only child whose mother (and grandparents) were in the house 24-7 was in no danger of having too much freedom, believe me.

But that image still haunts me.  It recalls the feeling of being trapped, of not being allowed out of the safe confines of my home, of being cloistered behind the gate. 

At the same time, it summons that buring desire to throw the gate wide and burst out at full throttle, like a race horse off the gun.

If I could find that photograph, I'd have it enlarged into a huge poster I could hang on the wall, a poster that would remind me I'm all grown up now, and I can open the gate if I want to.

There's no one to stop me anymore.

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