Whatever it is, tonight is not a night for sleeping.
I am nudged awake, first, by the suggestion of migraine, sour and sharp. And, always, it seems, there is the wind as backdrop, teasing the old bones of this house. Loosing fragmented thoughts like so many dry leaves.
Old Man Winter, indeed.
It is official. I have grown tired of you. At least tonight, and especially this year, when you cannot seem to make up your mind. Perhaps I could take your wild swings if you were not so dry, so smug with me. But between these crazy bookends--warm, April-like days punctuated by the icy moans of far-off glaciers--you offer little. Little snow, little comfort, little compassion.
Still, friends battle illness. Still, parents dodder. Still, I stare into the fridge and nothing new calls to me.
Tonight, at least, you have grown stale. Even after that irresistible sliver of a moon you gave us last morning. Even after those great-horned owls nearly clipped me on my walk.
No, you hold nothing for me, winter. Not tonight, at least. When sleep, like the wind, howls at me, just out of reach.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright
I woke this morning thinking of tiger beetles. Specifically, their larvae, and the time I spent this fall tending to things as yet unseen. My heart is full, like a mother's, as I try to imagine their tiny frames tucked tight in test tubes kept chilly at the local zoo.I miss that weekly routine carried out with my friend Mark, one of us tapping wingless fruit flies into plastic cups while the other utters a silent prayer that the ancient laptop has kept safe the digital diary of our tiny friends' lives. Yes, I do believe they became our friends, over time, even though most of our work was done in blind belief that something living was indeed buried deep inside those dirt-filled cylinders.
Against the dark backdrop of a winter's early morning, I close my eyes, willing myself to see tiny lives transformed, larvae pushing out tiny legs, the mote of a heart beating slowly, steadily. A species on the verge of rebirth. And I hope against hope that Jessie the Zookeeper remembers her promise and, come some warm day not too far in the future, Mark and I will be asked to join the scientists as they release these tiny beetles into the saline landscape of their new lives.
As I sit, warm, in my bed, I imagine this room as a cave, and me, its hibernating inhabitant, and I wonder what it is I will become when the spring thaws return to this land.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Lost in Transitions
I will make no deals with the devil, despite this crossroads I find myself upon. Too cross-hatched are these days--as parent and daughter--for me to commit to a particular junction at which to sell my soul. And so, I tighten my proverbial belt instead (having been belt-less since months before my birthing years), and ready myself for the ride.
Steadying myself for the words that I will form next week, as I mold them into sentences that feel more like Sentences.
"Where is your will located?" "Do you wish to be cremated?" "Who is your lawyer?" "Who else has the keys to your safe deposit box?"
And my mother--whose synapses have slowed and whose lovely hands have grown knobby--will become child for the duration of our conversation, as her children gather up the legal and financial and emotional history of the woman who has raised them. These are the necessary burdens of life lived in the 21st century, when our digital detritus wafts ever ocean-ward, and we lose sight of the trails along the way.
With good luck and tender care, our mother, who is simply old, will continue to be simply old for many years to come. But that does not mean we can afford to know nothing of these cold details of her life. And so, we must ask her to share them with us, even as we recognize their coldness, their steely edges that care not a whit about their possessor.
Afterwards, our heads aswirl and our stomachs filled with cheese pizza, we will leave her apartment, embarrassed to have asked all those questions, one right after another. And each of us will go home to our own lives, slipping them on again like jeans, too tight, wondering why they do not feel like they once did, comfortable and easy.
And, soon enough, I will don a new costume--that of "mom,"--thumbing through baby books filled with chubby, young versions of Allison and Eric, wondering how I will put on the right face as each packs up their lives and heads to new realms.
Much of life is faking it, pretending to be a competent parent or child, a good teacher or neighbor, and holding our breath in hopes that the jig is not up. Not yet, at least.
It is both odd and wonderful that, despite all of the costume changes, most of us wake up each day happy to have another act before us.
Steadying myself for the words that I will form next week, as I mold them into sentences that feel more like Sentences.
"Where is your will located?" "Do you wish to be cremated?" "Who is your lawyer?" "Who else has the keys to your safe deposit box?"
And my mother--whose synapses have slowed and whose lovely hands have grown knobby--will become child for the duration of our conversation, as her children gather up the legal and financial and emotional history of the woman who has raised them. These are the necessary burdens of life lived in the 21st century, when our digital detritus wafts ever ocean-ward, and we lose sight of the trails along the way.
With good luck and tender care, our mother, who is simply old, will continue to be simply old for many years to come. But that does not mean we can afford to know nothing of these cold details of her life. And so, we must ask her to share them with us, even as we recognize their coldness, their steely edges that care not a whit about their possessor.
Afterwards, our heads aswirl and our stomachs filled with cheese pizza, we will leave her apartment, embarrassed to have asked all those questions, one right after another. And each of us will go home to our own lives, slipping them on again like jeans, too tight, wondering why they do not feel like they once did, comfortable and easy.
And, soon enough, I will don a new costume--that of "mom,"--thumbing through baby books filled with chubby, young versions of Allison and Eric, wondering how I will put on the right face as each packs up their lives and heads to new realms.
Much of life is faking it, pretending to be a competent parent or child, a good teacher or neighbor, and holding our breath in hopes that the jig is not up. Not yet, at least.
It is both odd and wonderful that, despite all of the costume changes, most of us wake up each day happy to have another act before us.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
A Walk (or two) in the Park
There are many reasons to love Finn, the "Wheaten wanna be" dog. This morning, though, the reason that bubbles up among all others is the joy of our two-a-day walks. On this, our second "false Spring" morning in a row, when even the birds are certain April is just around the corner, I can think of nothing that church can offer me that a walk outside cannot.
I have always enjoyed walking, but in the two years since getting Finn--a dog who is young and curious and filled with stunning bursts of speed--I have been reminded repeatedly of the joy that comes from time spent walking outdoors. And, if I must have a purpose when walking--because Americans cannot fathom doing things without reason or intent--then let my purpose be this: To see and feel and smell and love all the life that is outside and among me.
On our walks, Finn and I have greeted the slow thaws of Spring, listening to the crackle of water as it weaves its way through last night's hard freeze.
Our walks have led us to newly-fallen trees, their bloodlines brought down by too much ice and snow. And we stand before them, solemn, observing the thousand stories leeching from their splintered skins.
Walking has introduced me to new friends--Richard, who walks a Rosary around Woods Park each morning; Ann and her still-wild pup, both of whom actually were jogging in the subzero dawn last Monday; Jan, a cup of coffee in her hand and her Schnauzer in a snappy red sweater.
As much as I enjoy these people who are new to me, it is my time spent with nature, even nature that is found smack dab in the middle of a burgeoning city, that most often calls to me. Just this morning, I struggled to step off of our patio, too enthralled by birdsong and movement--that crazy Carolina wren singing in the wisteria, the intentional searching of a downy woodpecker, the antics of squirrel siblings, the vee of Canadian geese flying over me. And--I know this sounds crazy--I could swear I heard the "tsee tsee tsee" of cedar waxwings and wondered if it really was them that flocked atop my neighbor's birch. It is a miracle the dog and I left our property at all!
In this month of resolutions, when seasons do battle and size-8 pants vie for our attention, it would be good to remind ourselves that there is more to life and health than what can be found in a gym membership. It is good to step outside and walk a bit, whatever the weather. To take the time to put on extra layers and to find a pair of boots that can withstand snow and slush and streams of water desperately seeking ocean, and to simply walk upon the earth a bit.
And get a dog, if you must. Any dog will do, for they all are born with the knowledge that there is great worth in two walks a day, weather be damned.
I have always enjoyed walking, but in the two years since getting Finn--a dog who is young and curious and filled with stunning bursts of speed--I have been reminded repeatedly of the joy that comes from time spent walking outdoors. And, if I must have a purpose when walking--because Americans cannot fathom doing things without reason or intent--then let my purpose be this: To see and feel and smell and love all the life that is outside and among me.
On our walks, Finn and I have greeted the slow thaws of Spring, listening to the crackle of water as it weaves its way through last night's hard freeze.
Our walks have led us to newly-fallen trees, their bloodlines brought down by too much ice and snow. And we stand before them, solemn, observing the thousand stories leeching from their splintered skins.
Walking has introduced me to new friends--Richard, who walks a Rosary around Woods Park each morning; Ann and her still-wild pup, both of whom actually were jogging in the subzero dawn last Monday; Jan, a cup of coffee in her hand and her Schnauzer in a snappy red sweater.
As much as I enjoy these people who are new to me, it is my time spent with nature, even nature that is found smack dab in the middle of a burgeoning city, that most often calls to me. Just this morning, I struggled to step off of our patio, too enthralled by birdsong and movement--that crazy Carolina wren singing in the wisteria, the intentional searching of a downy woodpecker, the antics of squirrel siblings, the vee of Canadian geese flying over me. And--I know this sounds crazy--I could swear I heard the "tsee tsee tsee" of cedar waxwings and wondered if it really was them that flocked atop my neighbor's birch. It is a miracle the dog and I left our property at all!
In this month of resolutions, when seasons do battle and size-8 pants vie for our attention, it would be good to remind ourselves that there is more to life and health than what can be found in a gym membership. It is good to step outside and walk a bit, whatever the weather. To take the time to put on extra layers and to find a pair of boots that can withstand snow and slush and streams of water desperately seeking ocean, and to simply walk upon the earth a bit.
And get a dog, if you must. Any dog will do, for they all are born with the knowledge that there is great worth in two walks a day, weather be damned.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Tea Party for Two, Please
I heard on NPR this morning that tea will be big this year, and not just in tall glasses or politics. While I don't see myself sprinkling Earl Grey on my food any time soon, I am surprised by my new-found mini crush on the Tea Party, a group that, until recently, did little more than set off my gag reflex.
Like tea itself, the Tea Party has proven itself to be transformative. Once simply a cute, vote-getting sideshow of the Republican Party, more and more, Tea Party members now hunger for center stage (see government shutdown, Fall 2013). And that's where the fun really begins!
Actually, the roots of that fun began back in 2003, when the Texas legislature got out its pencils and erasers and began drawing new district lines for its voting precincts. That redistricting wizardry not only strengthened the GOP's stronghold in the state, but it also led to another Texas seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. It probably also led to the early deaths of Ann Richards and Molly Ivins, two Texas heroes of mine who, I imagine, just couldn't take it anymore.
Texas' successful foray into gerrymandering led several other states to begin drawing new maps, too. Turns out that gerrymandering isn't just a funny word, though. It's also a funny way of telling your candidate that you are pretty sure he can't win unless you sweep out all the pesky poor people and minorities from his district.
Well, well, well.
Fast forward to 2009, when the Republican Party gave birth to the Tea Party. Sure, the television footage of Tea Party members was occasionally uncomfortable--oddballs and kooks and patriots, oh my! But these folks brought an important and revitalized electorate to the scene, giving those stodgy Republicans some new energy and vitality.
Any Democrat no longer in kindergarten could've warned the Republicans about the dangers of inviting all types to join the party. As a lifelong Democrat myself--one who has voted for Independents and Republicans, as well--I long ago understood that getting my party on point is like herding cats. There are just too many kinds of Democrats to come up with any kind of party consensus.
Alas, I've become a very good loser over the years. And, on rare occasions, an utterly astounded winner. Or at least I felt like a winner at the time. But, mostly, I've been a loser.
Until now, that is. Remember all those cool, new lines they drew in Texas back in 2003? Not to mention the new, Republican-friendly lines that Florida, Georgia, Maryland, Michigan and Pennsylvania also drew up? Well, this ain't your mama's Republican Party anymore and those new lines suddenly don't look so friendly, do they?
(tee hee)
You know that flesh-eating bacteria that worked its way through that Florida man last year? If I'm not mistaken, something similar seems to be knocking on the Republican Party's front door. No longer able to contain the Tea Party, some mainstream Republicans are wondering who exactly will garner their party's votes in all those redistricted areas. What if the kook wins? Who do you suppose will take the victory, come general elections?
Can you say "donkey?"
A part of me kind of feels bad for the Republican Party. I used to stand in awe over its ability to be organized, on point and disciplined. It's been hard, at times, to watch its line blur, its people move off center, its agenda weaken as a rallying point. I think the Republican Party is going through labor pains as it transforms itself for the 21st century. Maybe that's why John Boehner cries so much. Because labor really, really hurts. But I've even found myself rooting him on as he finally stood up and told the children to "Behave!"
Truth be told, I'm not particularly drawn to politics. I feel no more affinity for a political party than I do for a type of tea. Well, that's probably not true, but I have never let myself turn a deaf ear on someone simply because they preferred elephants. And, frankly, I have no respect for politicians who have to sneak their way to victories. Gerrymandering by either party is as distasteful to me as are term limits. Anything that attempts to weaken or invalidate anyone's vote in the booth? Anti-American, if you ask me.
Still, it is a wild and entertaining thing to watch the Republican Party decide what kind of Transformer it will turn into. My vote is for the Transformers Beast Hunter, Deluxe Lazerback Class. He's red! He's tough! And he's had enough!
Like tea itself, the Tea Party has proven itself to be transformative. Once simply a cute, vote-getting sideshow of the Republican Party, more and more, Tea Party members now hunger for center stage (see government shutdown, Fall 2013). And that's where the fun really begins!
Actually, the roots of that fun began back in 2003, when the Texas legislature got out its pencils and erasers and began drawing new district lines for its voting precincts. That redistricting wizardry not only strengthened the GOP's stronghold in the state, but it also led to another Texas seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. It probably also led to the early deaths of Ann Richards and Molly Ivins, two Texas heroes of mine who, I imagine, just couldn't take it anymore.
Texas' successful foray into gerrymandering led several other states to begin drawing new maps, too. Turns out that gerrymandering isn't just a funny word, though. It's also a funny way of telling your candidate that you are pretty sure he can't win unless you sweep out all the pesky poor people and minorities from his district.
Well, well, well.
Fast forward to 2009, when the Republican Party gave birth to the Tea Party. Sure, the television footage of Tea Party members was occasionally uncomfortable--oddballs and kooks and patriots, oh my! But these folks brought an important and revitalized electorate to the scene, giving those stodgy Republicans some new energy and vitality.
Any Democrat no longer in kindergarten could've warned the Republicans about the dangers of inviting all types to join the party. As a lifelong Democrat myself--one who has voted for Independents and Republicans, as well--I long ago understood that getting my party on point is like herding cats. There are just too many kinds of Democrats to come up with any kind of party consensus.
Alas, I've become a very good loser over the years. And, on rare occasions, an utterly astounded winner. Or at least I felt like a winner at the time. But, mostly, I've been a loser.
Until now, that is. Remember all those cool, new lines they drew in Texas back in 2003? Not to mention the new, Republican-friendly lines that Florida, Georgia, Maryland, Michigan and Pennsylvania also drew up? Well, this ain't your mama's Republican Party anymore and those new lines suddenly don't look so friendly, do they?
(tee hee)
You know that flesh-eating bacteria that worked its way through that Florida man last year? If I'm not mistaken, something similar seems to be knocking on the Republican Party's front door. No longer able to contain the Tea Party, some mainstream Republicans are wondering who exactly will garner their party's votes in all those redistricted areas. What if the kook wins? Who do you suppose will take the victory, come general elections?
Can you say "donkey?"
A part of me kind of feels bad for the Republican Party. I used to stand in awe over its ability to be organized, on point and disciplined. It's been hard, at times, to watch its line blur, its people move off center, its agenda weaken as a rallying point. I think the Republican Party is going through labor pains as it transforms itself for the 21st century. Maybe that's why John Boehner cries so much. Because labor really, really hurts. But I've even found myself rooting him on as he finally stood up and told the children to "Behave!"
Truth be told, I'm not particularly drawn to politics. I feel no more affinity for a political party than I do for a type of tea. Well, that's probably not true, but I have never let myself turn a deaf ear on someone simply because they preferred elephants. And, frankly, I have no respect for politicians who have to sneak their way to victories. Gerrymandering by either party is as distasteful to me as are term limits. Anything that attempts to weaken or invalidate anyone's vote in the booth? Anti-American, if you ask me.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Dead Ringer
Another upside of our proximity to these cemeteries is that my children have developed excellent lung capacity. Yes, even at 18 and 21, they still hold their breath when we pull onto "O" Street and head east. My God! Why did I let these two quit swimming all those years ago?! They could have corporate sponsors by now, had they only stuck with the sport!
Maybe it's my "deadly" dot on the map, then, that, lately, has got me remembering all kinds of good people and pets that are no more. Or maybe it's because this is January--a time of failed resolutions (can you say "nearly 18 hours"?!), frightening forecasts ("polar vortex" anyone?!) and tough anniversaries (my brother's death, my dad's birth--which reminds me of his death--, and my dog's death).
Whatever the reason, I do seem to possess a more robust interest in death than might be considered natural for a middle-aged, middle-class, all-around middling white woman. It's not that I want to die--that would be ridiculous, especially considering the fact that I just bought these awesome Cuddlduds and am pretty darned close to the Rule of 85 (which spells "retirement," if you didn't know).
But I would be lying if I said that, even as an 18 year old, I never once considered what it would mean if I were no more. I certainly wasn't suicidal, but I did become rather reflective--at a preternatural age, perhaps--and recognized that I had lived (and continue to live) a pretty wonderful life and, if I had to wrap things up, I would do so with a generally positive attitude.
God help Mark, though, who often has to endure the detritus of my healthy relationship with the ever after. On a surprisingly regular basis, he is expected to remember the title of a song that I'd like to play at my funeral ("The Cider House" from the film "The Cider House Rules"--please, please, please help him to remember this title). Or a poem that would be make a terrific bookend to a life relatively well lived ("The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry, thankyouverymuch).
For whatever reason, then, these days, when I ponder the End of Things, it's not with a heavy heart, but, rather, with a grateful and full heart, one that has lived and loved and laughed and been inundated with heaps of polyunsaturated fats (Bless me, Father, for I have sinned). Maybe it's something that only a person who has a good job and can pay her bills each month can have the luxury of saying, but I do love this life--very, very much.
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