I realize I've gone longer than I want to without posting. Why? I have been working on a new post and I want to cut some of it, and I have needed to let it percolate a bit.
On the other hand, I always find it interesting reading about the process of writers or artists of any medium. I include the "practical" arts, making little distinction among artisans, artists, writers, what have you. I mean there are cooks/chefs who are artists in my book. ANY time engaging in the creative process is a large and important part of a person's life, I feel artist is good generic word. I so often see that the process is very much the same. We are inspired to create and we start to act on that inspiration. Sometimes we get all tangled up and must start again. Or we must "edit" our finished product, or it can change along the way. Potters, quilters, cooks who stray from recipes, writers, painters, photographers, metalworkers, sculptors--you name it. I call it art.
I learn from the process as described by others. I feel less alone. And I feel supported just by reading how other people wind up changing their focus smack in the middle of a project!
But, all this remembering is sure getting in the way of this memoir-writing stuff! It's a total pain in the hoo-hah, I can tell you.
As I started to look at my 300 pages (no exaggeration there) of memoir material and began to choose material where my mother and our relationship were more of a focus, well, then my dad leaped out and said, "GAWDAMMIT! I have something to say." He will not brook SHUT UP from anyone--it was true in life and quite clearly is true from the Great Beyond.
The Demon Was a Boy... Darn it all
And now? Much to my confusion and sometimes distress, the humanity of brother Jim is leaping into my brain. This is hard, yet necessary. It is not so much that I blocked those memories, but for years I had to focus on what I had blocked and simply put them aside. Now HE won't shut up, either.
The theme broadens then, and I wonder what I want to say and I wonder whether my story will have meaning beyond an interesting read. I find it presumptuous to begin a project and feel that MY handling of life would be any kind of inspiration to follow. Yet what I still find miraculous is the mind that tucks so many wondrous memories in with the horrors, when I blocked out the pain so long ago. It's as if I wrapped the pain up in a whole lot of packing paper, but tucked prisms in there along with each horrific memory. And as I try to figure out where to put the one who was most monstrous, damn it all... turns out that, yes, he was just a baby once upon a time. And a small boy. And a ten-year-old who practically carried his little sister home one day, so she would not burn her bare foot on hot tar. And a teenager capable of showing me true tenderness.
And then, where two of the men start yelling, the third's not far behind.
Jack starts yelling at me, too. "Yo! Jetty. What about when we went to the lake with Feej and sang on the dock. And how I wouldn't let you go in the back room at The Depot when someone was singing up front. And what about when I thought I'd be a minister and you would not hang out the clothes ... and..." Yeah. Right. WhatEVER. So Jack had his dark side even when we were kids.
I look at all the stories, and, believe it or not, I have not told them all in here! I look at them and over and over what I see is a collection of people whose personalities themselves were rain forests of wondrous light and terrifying darkness.
I was the heroine of light, right? Not so much. Inconveniently, I remember my darkness as well.
And Our Heroine Had Her Demons, too ... No Surprise, I'm Sure
When I was twelve, I was asked to baby sit for a teacher's little girl who was four. When I was there, I kept having images of pushing her down the stairs, of pushing her off a swing, of things that terrified me. I did not do anything to hurt her, but I told Mrs. Richardson that I felt I was too young to care for her little girl. She thanked me for my honesty. I cried through most of that night, believing I must be some sort of demon straight out of hell. I refused to EVER baby sit through my teens. By my twenties, however, no such visions came to me in the presence of small children.
The lesson was there, though. And I had many demons of my own, biting at my heels. I was hell-bent to self-destruct off and on until at last I sought professional help. And I'm thinking that I cannot leave it out or the book will not state the truth. Truth, as opposed to the facts. Honesty without hiding, without leaving out what is not pretty about me, not just them. (I hate that. It is just so much nicer to stay aloof, to imply that I was pure. But that's also boring, so what the hell.)
So what is the thing I want to say? And do I need to know before I put it all together? The "books" say I should. The "experts" say I should be able to state my theme in a sentence or two--clearly, concisely.
And So It Goes...
And I say, probably I have to simply ramble and THEN see what route I wound up taking. AFTER that, the editing with a HATCHET will be needed.
Unless, of course, I change my mind!
There is something about the men in the house. The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost--those tee-shirts from Jim's girlfriend at the time. The women did not tend to speak up without risking the sarcasm of the Holy Ones. My mother took the brunt of the derision, and that is part of her pain, as well. My sister absented herself from most of the competitive bile from "the boys." She was judged by them, regardless.
I leaped in with both feet, mouth a-blaze, and held my own when I could. I learned to slice people to ribbons at an early age. It saved my skin in junior high, when I was so often the target at school.
Daddy said I came "out the chute going 'Oh, YEAH?' and never looked back." Interesting metaphor... Nevertheless he is right. And I have been struggling for a week with the new stuff that keeps gushing from deep inside, like a geyser from the middle of the sea. And I am not sure but that this is the thing about it all. My story reads like a novel. A sweeping southern saga with layer upon layer upon layer.
My mom told me I could NOT be a southern writer, which made me very angry. I was drawn to them. They could tell the scariest, most painful stories without ever losing the beauty of it all.
So I'll just dive in and see where it goes, for all my trying to find focus. I will allow the Carson McCullers and Harper Lee inside run wild. Maybe there are two books in one. I have no clue. But you are all along for the ride, so ...
Now I will delete the old draft, because I've covered it all here! Undoubtedly, you'll read some of the story in here, but I know I have to keep some of it for the book now, not the blog. So I'll write about other things.
PS
I'm not looking for words of support or comfort. It isn't that. However, if you all have some story of your process--preferably the part that makes you NUTS, that would be great! And by the way, long comments are ALWAYS welcome. And it can be all about you. That's fine with me. I learn from comments-- A LOT sometimes.
Accidental Spring
"Accidental Spring" This began as the background for painting other papers, but became something else!
Showing posts with label overload. Show all posts
Showing posts with label overload. Show all posts
Monday, February 6, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Running too Fast and Forgetting to Breathe
I have been using this month to begin the process of developing some structure for myself. While I was a pretty disciplined and successful copy writer for more than a decade, I had a few regular clients and I knew their needs and schedules. My back had its own schedule and I knew it by heart, by feel, to my core. Everything fell apart three years ago.
Now, as I start my new life with new parameters, new brick walls to avoid, and free of anyone's deadlines but my own, well, I find myself a little unnerved. I have been reading some books on the new publishing world--on my Kindle, of course, which is only fitting. It would seem I must develop a platform; yes, I knew this already but I didn't know it, if you get my drift. This home blog of mine, this testing ground, this home base for some internet relationships that matter to me ... well, it won't cut it for a platform. Again, I know this in my mind, but it is unlikely I will abandon it. It serves a deeper purpose for me.
I just read an article in this month's Poet & Writers' Magazine about the Internet and how it can interfere with a writer's creativity. I could cite it more carefully, but what I read was more of a jumping off point that is combined with the three books I've read in the last two weeks about marketing a book in today's world. The message is clear in all of them; I must build a platform long before the book is even written. I must join networks of people who share my interests, who are likely readers of a memoir I would write. I must write SHORT.
Oh. My. God. Help me.
I have to re-enter the world of Twitter. I do not LIKE Twitter. This does not mean I don't appreciate its uses; it means simply that I hate Internet/text/chat speak. So much room for misunderstanding, for lazy communication. On the other hand, I know that I am often lazy in my meandering trips to nowhere on my blog. I am lucky that some of you enjoy the ride without particularly worrying about the side trips and the fact that there may not be a particular goal. But I have to start finding things to write about on a regular basis, things I can put into 500 words, or perhaps 750.
I have to tweet, post status updates, comment, write, connect. CONNECT. CONNECT.
And I have a wonderful compendium now of ways to do this, most of which I kind of understand, despite my protests to the contrary. I just don't know which of them will help my actual writing. Which will contribute to the act of getting the thing done? My blog right here does that. Reading the blogs I do help my writing. So I know I must keep this going and I have to incorporate reading YOUR words, thinking about them and commenting on them.
I have seen some of you do a fantastic job of building substantial followings and, when I think about it, I realize how you do it. Part of it is your frequency and the variety of your work. Or the fact that you connect with people who do what you do. Linda Lou is a marvel to me! And I watched Donna take off. I read blogs which have thousands of followers and I wonder how you all can write so often and so well, about so much. (Naturally, in this frame of mind, I see only my shortcomings. This ain't about logical thinking today!)
But my goal was never about how many followers I have had. My goal was to have followers who wanted to come back, even though I am sporadic here. My goal was to find my own voice and to use it; to learn how to write what is painful or horrific, without making people want to run away screaming into the night. It's cool to see the number grow, when I publish every week, when I explore new blogs and comment. But that's not the object for me.
The article I just read talked about how the social networking can also divert us from the very thing we started networking FOR! To create a welcoming platform for the book we want to write, or have begun to write. It talked about how we have to walk AWAY from all the networking and unplug ourselves in order to produce, to give our creativity time to percolate.
Well, then I hit my brick wall this week and got the shakes and put myself into a dither.
Visions of Hell
This is a talent I have; perhaps it is an artform for me. I'm not sure.
I have about four upright hours in every day. Occasionally I have as many as six, as long as they are spread out with many long breaks. By upright I mean sitting UP. I have to lie down a lot, and I DO mean lie down. I can one day perhaps get one of the Dragonspeak programs and do more. But for now it hit me that I have a great deal of work I must do online to lay the groundwork for being able to publish this book I am also working. And I have FIVE paintings in the works. Suddenly, it all became overwhelming to me.
How do I give time to it all, every day, and still have a life with the people I love, and do my laundry, and my grocery shopping, and, well, leave my apartment? Not to mention go to the gym nearby for about four hours a week so that I can KEEP WALKING?
I began to sob, not just cry. I threw an all out hissy fit. I got scared. I am sixty years old in June and I have only JUST adjusted to this new and frail body I do not like, to the point where I can consider starting the program to perhaps make it stronger and maybe add another half hour or hour to the productivity.
And then I began to laugh. How come AlAnon still helps me? ONE STEP AT A TIME. One DAY. One Hour. I let it all gang up in my mind. I must do all things on every day. I must build a network of thousands by next Tuesday? And I must start my hour and a quarter workouts THIS week THREE days a week immediately. And I must twitter, begin a new blog, write on this blog, read ALL the blogs I've missed, develop a webpage, compile a list of existing contacts, AND read the three memoirs waiting for me--in the coming week.
There is no time. I must also complete at least twelve paintings by 2013.
In four hours a day.
Or I am a failure.
It's good to be a grown up...
Step Back and Breathe
My brothers and sisters all called me in the same twenty-four hour period after one of my mom's most infamous binges after my dad died. I had almost the same conversation with each.
Sibling: Mother is drinking. Did you know she drank like this?
Me: No shit. [sorry. In this case, the word fit. I'd been screaming about it for twenty years.] I've told you she was an alcoholic for years.
Sibling: Well. Yes, but I never knew it was this bad.
Me: silence .... then, What's your point?
Sibling: What are you going to do about it?
Me: Get the hell to AlAnon.
I went to my first meeting that Wednesday and got me an ODAT book (One Day At A Time). I sat at that meeting and listened, then went home and read all 365 days that very night. Like so many before me, I figured if I did it all at once, I'd be cured real fast. They reminded me to slow down.
And so it has been as I've been doing my research, as I have been allowing myself to actually take my dreams seriously and lay the groundwork.
Mommy, I am telling them what we had. Honestly, I am. And I am shining as hard as I can for you.
But I sure do wish you were here the way you were when I'd run so fast I'd fall; to lightly tip my chin up toward your face and say, "Jetty, Jetty. Breathe. Life is not a race. Sweetie, catch your breath and try moving one foot at a time so you don't get all tangled up and keep falling down. You'll get there in your own time." And then kiss me on my nose.
I guess maybe I'll just breathe. And write. And get there in my own time now, one word at a time, so I don't get myself all tangled up and fall down.
OOOOHHHHHHHMMMMMM.... Oh. Wait. I'm not supposed to be saying that with clenched fists, huh.
Here's to those baby steps I was writing about!
Now, as I start my new life with new parameters, new brick walls to avoid, and free of anyone's deadlines but my own, well, I find myself a little unnerved. I have been reading some books on the new publishing world--on my Kindle, of course, which is only fitting. It would seem I must develop a platform; yes, I knew this already but I didn't know it, if you get my drift. This home blog of mine, this testing ground, this home base for some internet relationships that matter to me ... well, it won't cut it for a platform. Again, I know this in my mind, but it is unlikely I will abandon it. It serves a deeper purpose for me.
I just read an article in this month's Poet & Writers' Magazine about the Internet and how it can interfere with a writer's creativity. I could cite it more carefully, but what I read was more of a jumping off point that is combined with the three books I've read in the last two weeks about marketing a book in today's world. The message is clear in all of them; I must build a platform long before the book is even written. I must join networks of people who share my interests, who are likely readers of a memoir I would write. I must write SHORT.
Oh. My. God. Help me.
I have to re-enter the world of Twitter. I do not LIKE Twitter. This does not mean I don't appreciate its uses; it means simply that I hate Internet/text/chat speak. So much room for misunderstanding, for lazy communication. On the other hand, I know that I am often lazy in my meandering trips to nowhere on my blog. I am lucky that some of you enjoy the ride without particularly worrying about the side trips and the fact that there may not be a particular goal. But I have to start finding things to write about on a regular basis, things I can put into 500 words, or perhaps 750.
I have to tweet, post status updates, comment, write, connect. CONNECT. CONNECT.
And I have a wonderful compendium now of ways to do this, most of which I kind of understand, despite my protests to the contrary. I just don't know which of them will help my actual writing. Which will contribute to the act of getting the thing done? My blog right here does that. Reading the blogs I do help my writing. So I know I must keep this going and I have to incorporate reading YOUR words, thinking about them and commenting on them.
I have seen some of you do a fantastic job of building substantial followings and, when I think about it, I realize how you do it. Part of it is your frequency and the variety of your work. Or the fact that you connect with people who do what you do. Linda Lou is a marvel to me! And I watched Donna take off. I read blogs which have thousands of followers and I wonder how you all can write so often and so well, about so much. (Naturally, in this frame of mind, I see only my shortcomings. This ain't about logical thinking today!)
But my goal was never about how many followers I have had. My goal was to have followers who wanted to come back, even though I am sporadic here. My goal was to find my own voice and to use it; to learn how to write what is painful or horrific, without making people want to run away screaming into the night. It's cool to see the number grow, when I publish every week, when I explore new blogs and comment. But that's not the object for me.
The article I just read talked about how the social networking can also divert us from the very thing we started networking FOR! To create a welcoming platform for the book we want to write, or have begun to write. It talked about how we have to walk AWAY from all the networking and unplug ourselves in order to produce, to give our creativity time to percolate.
Well, then I hit my brick wall this week and got the shakes and put myself into a dither.
Visions of Hell
This is a talent I have; perhaps it is an artform for me. I'm not sure.
I have about four upright hours in every day. Occasionally I have as many as six, as long as they are spread out with many long breaks. By upright I mean sitting UP. I have to lie down a lot, and I DO mean lie down. I can one day perhaps get one of the Dragonspeak programs and do more. But for now it hit me that I have a great deal of work I must do online to lay the groundwork for being able to publish this book I am also working. And I have FIVE paintings in the works. Suddenly, it all became overwhelming to me.
How do I give time to it all, every day, and still have a life with the people I love, and do my laundry, and my grocery shopping, and, well, leave my apartment? Not to mention go to the gym nearby for about four hours a week so that I can KEEP WALKING?
I began to sob, not just cry. I threw an all out hissy fit. I got scared. I am sixty years old in June and I have only JUST adjusted to this new and frail body I do not like, to the point where I can consider starting the program to perhaps make it stronger and maybe add another half hour or hour to the productivity.
And then I began to laugh. How come AlAnon still helps me? ONE STEP AT A TIME. One DAY. One Hour. I let it all gang up in my mind. I must do all things on every day. I must build a network of thousands by next Tuesday? And I must start my hour and a quarter workouts THIS week THREE days a week immediately. And I must twitter, begin a new blog, write on this blog, read ALL the blogs I've missed, develop a webpage, compile a list of existing contacts, AND read the three memoirs waiting for me--in the coming week.
There is no time. I must also complete at least twelve paintings by 2013.
In four hours a day.
Or I am a failure.
It's good to be a grown up...
Step Back and Breathe
My brothers and sisters all called me in the same twenty-four hour period after one of my mom's most infamous binges after my dad died. I had almost the same conversation with each.
Sibling: Mother is drinking. Did you know she drank like this?
Me: No shit. [sorry. In this case, the word fit. I'd been screaming about it for twenty years.] I've told you she was an alcoholic for years.
Sibling: Well. Yes, but I never knew it was this bad.
Me: silence .... then, What's your point?
Sibling: What are you going to do about it?
Me: Get the hell to AlAnon.
I went to my first meeting that Wednesday and got me an ODAT book (One Day At A Time). I sat at that meeting and listened, then went home and read all 365 days that very night. Like so many before me, I figured if I did it all at once, I'd be cured real fast. They reminded me to slow down.
And so it has been as I've been doing my research, as I have been allowing myself to actually take my dreams seriously and lay the groundwork.
Mommy, I am telling them what we had. Honestly, I am. And I am shining as hard as I can for you.
But I sure do wish you were here the way you were when I'd run so fast I'd fall; to lightly tip my chin up toward your face and say, "Jetty, Jetty. Breathe. Life is not a race. Sweetie, catch your breath and try moving one foot at a time so you don't get all tangled up and keep falling down. You'll get there in your own time." And then kiss me on my nose.
I guess maybe I'll just breathe. And write. And get there in my own time now, one word at a time, so I don't get myself all tangled up and fall down.
OOOOHHHHHHHMMMMMM.... Oh. Wait. I'm not supposed to be saying that with clenched fists, huh.
Here's to those baby steps I was writing about!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
It does not stop
I ran outa laughing... Well. Not entirely, but for now. The septic tank filled in three weeks. I saw and heard my ownself. Water streaming into the thousand gallon tank through the seams. So I have to have a grinder pump and hook up to the sewer which is uphill from my house and will require, oh, about 110 feet of hosing. NOW.
So. If someone. I mean, WHEN someone buys this house, they will have a brand new roof AND one half the house hooked up to the sewer for them, though they will have the lien with the purchase. Still. We'll have done the hook up.
I want to hide. Good thing I got all that back disability pay so that I could pay for a roof AND a sewer hook up. Just how, precisely I'm going to LIVE if we do not sell the house in the next five months, now that is another problem.
So I guess the water gods are still displeased. I have rattled ice cubes in their honor. I sprayed myself with the kitchen sink sprayer and sang, "I love the rainy nights..." I ran around in the pouring rain and danced, playing my tambourine, and singing, "I'm SINGIN' in the rain."
I painted my "Heaven's Garden" painting in WATER COLOR.
So now I am washing dishes in my dishpan and emptying that into JAY's sink. (Different, fully functional tank for that side of the house.) I will do my laundry in his machine when he is at work, and then use my own dryer.
I will rock back and forth making random baby babble sounds.
And I'll simply hope I have the money to cover this and someone will want our wonderful 2800 square foot home with a beautiful bedroom plus office 580 sq. ft. in-law apartment. And tiled/hardwood new ground level family room with sun nook behind it, plus laundry and full bath. With my gardens that I dug all by myself over the last twenty years. Someone. So. All of you please do your dance to the water gods dances, or, yes, go ahead and pray to Yaweh. Or cross your fingers... maybe your toes as well, though that can be uncomfortable. Or just laugh along with me and hope I keep finding ways to laugh.
And I'll plug along. I don't think I will have to announce in the blog if the house sells. I think you will hear the whoops clear across the world. Maybe I should go the gym pool this weekend... Or the desert? Maybe I should work on my desert painting?
Oy.
So. If someone. I mean, WHEN someone buys this house, they will have a brand new roof AND one half the house hooked up to the sewer for them, though they will have the lien with the purchase. Still. We'll have done the hook up.
I want to hide. Good thing I got all that back disability pay so that I could pay for a roof AND a sewer hook up. Just how, precisely I'm going to LIVE if we do not sell the house in the next five months, now that is another problem.
So I guess the water gods are still displeased. I have rattled ice cubes in their honor. I sprayed myself with the kitchen sink sprayer and sang, "I love the rainy nights..." I ran around in the pouring rain and danced, playing my tambourine, and singing, "I'm SINGIN' in the rain."
I painted my "Heaven's Garden" painting in WATER COLOR.
So now I am washing dishes in my dishpan and emptying that into JAY's sink. (Different, fully functional tank for that side of the house.) I will do my laundry in his machine when he is at work, and then use my own dryer.
I will rock back and forth making random baby babble sounds.
And I'll simply hope I have the money to cover this and someone will want our wonderful 2800 square foot home with a beautiful bedroom plus office 580 sq. ft. in-law apartment. And tiled/hardwood new ground level family room with sun nook behind it, plus laundry and full bath. With my gardens that I dug all by myself over the last twenty years. Someone. So. All of you please do your dance to the water gods dances, or, yes, go ahead and pray to Yaweh. Or cross your fingers... maybe your toes as well, though that can be uncomfortable. Or just laugh along with me and hope I keep finding ways to laugh.
And I'll plug along. I don't think I will have to announce in the blog if the house sells. I think you will hear the whoops clear across the world. Maybe I should go the gym pool this weekend... Or the desert? Maybe I should work on my desert painting?
Oy.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The water curse
Now, see, I have a theory. I have been painting water. I wanted to write about VISITS to water. So somehow or other water has suddenly gotten the idea that all I want to do is deal with issues around water. It is mistaken. I need a medium or someone who specializes in communicating with water to set the record straight.
Water is a nice place to visit but I don't want to live there.
We had the leaks around the windows and people on the roof eliminating frozen varieties of it so the liquid would get the bleep out of Dodge. At that time, as I changed containers and towels, I sang, "You and me and rain on the roof..." (Or maybe THAT'S it. I Sang to water it mistakenly took that for worship. hmmm.)
We discovered from that that we, in fact, must put down a new roof on that side of the house in order to sell. Cha CHING, $4200. Good thing I got that disability settlement, huh. Okay. I'm chill. I'm cool. I'm a grown up after all, and accustomed to chaos what with my rediscovered sense of humor and all.
Then we have the "Old Black Water" ten days. The failed sump pump and wet vaccing. I Called the chain of cleaners cutely named after a child's locomotive, when the rug was fully dried, proud of myself and of Jay because there was NO mildew or yucky smell. We kept on top of it all. I explained the situation and they arrived THursday. The guys asked me about it, looked at one another and said, "Oh, ma'am, we can't touch this. There might be mold. You should have had the mold remediation people here within forty-eight hours."
"What good would that have done when the water table was still rising? Have them come every day to use the fancy wet vacs?"
"Well, until this environment is certified as mold-free, we will not do the carpets."
"Why didn't your person who asked me all these questions and set up the appointment tell me this? She asked whether we'd had standing water for forty-eight hours and the answer is NO. EVERY day we wet vacced three or four times a day and at night there was no standing water, and in the morning I vacuumed it up."
"But you and your son are not professionals. And the phone people are not trained the way we are. Sorry to have wasted more precious days for you, but you need someone out here right away."
Okay, so I call the mold folks and tell them all about it, after having kicked pillows around because of wasting this "precious" week and entertaining visions of dampness behind the sheetrock and fungii and horrible things that grow in old water. They said, "So. You had total mold remediation in 2007 and that part of your basement had none. You had water for a week to ten days and wet vacced at least twice--no, THREE times a day every single day?"
"Yes."
"Does it smell bad or something? It's all damp now?"
"No."
"Well, why would you think there is a problem for a professional cleaning?"
"Because the company won't touch it."
"But you wet-vacced three times a day."
We went round and round and finally this company said they would come and give an esitmate of whatever work might need to be done, but that it would probably be just a cleaning. I said, "Fine. You have the job, as long as you will sign a report that says it's fine and clean my carpet."
"Sure. We charge for an inspection, but not when you decide to use us even for a straight cleaning."
Which brings us to the septic system... Yes. You guessed it. Shot. Supposedly. Although, I have spoken to four men with four different opinions, two of whom seem to think they can come on a weekend and fix the problem and I won't have to hook up to a sewer that is above grade. They ALL agree I'll have to shell out the seven hundred bucks to have the septic guy use his spyware little camera scope thingy to find out what the problem IS. Sludge I believe is the word.
There is no song for that.
And so, dear readers, the further adventures of Jeannette tries to sell her house continue. One of my friends had said the other day, 'Well at least you have a roof over your head."
I just stared at her and she blushed. "Well. I mean you'll HAVE a roof over your head soon." We both laughed. "AND you have a brand new toilet!"
Today she called and said, "Somehow even the toilet comment doesn't set right today."
I am watching my disability settlement slip away so fast. And these are not glamorous changes that make most people buy a house. BUT they are the last BIG things that were on the list of stuff a homeowner might have to address within a couple of years. Yippee.
Sludge rhymes with Fudge. Now that's just NOT RIGHT. I leave you with that thought for now. ALTHOUGH, maybe if I start painting pictures of fudge and of money, things will change.
Right.
I'll get a gold mesh bag of chocolate pirate coins...
Water is a nice place to visit but I don't want to live there.
We had the leaks around the windows and people on the roof eliminating frozen varieties of it so the liquid would get the bleep out of Dodge. At that time, as I changed containers and towels, I sang, "You and me and rain on the roof..." (Or maybe THAT'S it. I Sang to water it mistakenly took that for worship. hmmm.)
We discovered from that that we, in fact, must put down a new roof on that side of the house in order to sell. Cha CHING, $4200. Good thing I got that disability settlement, huh. Okay. I'm chill. I'm cool. I'm a grown up after all, and accustomed to chaos what with my rediscovered sense of humor and all.
Then we have the "Old Black Water" ten days. The failed sump pump and wet vaccing. I Called the chain of cleaners cutely named after a child's locomotive, when the rug was fully dried, proud of myself and of Jay because there was NO mildew or yucky smell. We kept on top of it all. I explained the situation and they arrived THursday. The guys asked me about it, looked at one another and said, "Oh, ma'am, we can't touch this. There might be mold. You should have had the mold remediation people here within forty-eight hours."
"What good would that have done when the water table was still rising? Have them come every day to use the fancy wet vacs?"
"Well, until this environment is certified as mold-free, we will not do the carpets."
"Why didn't your person who asked me all these questions and set up the appointment tell me this? She asked whether we'd had standing water for forty-eight hours and the answer is NO. EVERY day we wet vacced three or four times a day and at night there was no standing water, and in the morning I vacuumed it up."
"But you and your son are not professionals. And the phone people are not trained the way we are. Sorry to have wasted more precious days for you, but you need someone out here right away."
Okay, so I call the mold folks and tell them all about it, after having kicked pillows around because of wasting this "precious" week and entertaining visions of dampness behind the sheetrock and fungii and horrible things that grow in old water. They said, "So. You had total mold remediation in 2007 and that part of your basement had none. You had water for a week to ten days and wet vacced at least twice--no, THREE times a day every single day?"
"Yes."
"Does it smell bad or something? It's all damp now?"
"No."
"Well, why would you think there is a problem for a professional cleaning?"
"Because the company won't touch it."
"But you wet-vacced three times a day."
We went round and round and finally this company said they would come and give an esitmate of whatever work might need to be done, but that it would probably be just a cleaning. I said, "Fine. You have the job, as long as you will sign a report that says it's fine and clean my carpet."
"Sure. We charge for an inspection, but not when you decide to use us even for a straight cleaning."
Which brings us to the septic system... Yes. You guessed it. Shot. Supposedly. Although, I have spoken to four men with four different opinions, two of whom seem to think they can come on a weekend and fix the problem and I won't have to hook up to a sewer that is above grade. They ALL agree I'll have to shell out the seven hundred bucks to have the septic guy use his spyware little camera scope thingy to find out what the problem IS. Sludge I believe is the word.
There is no song for that.
And so, dear readers, the further adventures of Jeannette tries to sell her house continue. One of my friends had said the other day, 'Well at least you have a roof over your head."
I just stared at her and she blushed. "Well. I mean you'll HAVE a roof over your head soon." We both laughed. "AND you have a brand new toilet!"
Today she called and said, "Somehow even the toilet comment doesn't set right today."
I am watching my disability settlement slip away so fast. And these are not glamorous changes that make most people buy a house. BUT they are the last BIG things that were on the list of stuff a homeowner might have to address within a couple of years. Yippee.
Sludge rhymes with Fudge. Now that's just NOT RIGHT. I leave you with that thought for now. ALTHOUGH, maybe if I start painting pictures of fudge and of money, things will change.
Right.
I'll get a gold mesh bag of chocolate pirate coins...
Friday, March 18, 2011
What now you may ask?
Water, water everwhere, nor any drop to drink.
Water, water everywhere, and MY how it doth stink!
Yes, dear readers, I have been wet vaccing in the basement, three times a day. Ah, the glamor of it all. But the song "Workin' in a Coal mine, goin' down down down" Keeps floating through my brain, which sort of takes the onus off.
And moving furniture to polish my wood floors and my kitchen floor. Climbing on stools, reaching above my head to get books off the shelves so that I could Murphy's oil then lemon oil all the wood. Hey. I mop n glo'ed with a TOOTH Brush to get around the wood of the banisters. Somewhere in the last two weeks, the nasty little demon in charge of turning perfectly sloppy women into anal housebodies who walk around with Swiffers singing, "Wake up your room!" (Sorry to you who are younger, it's a line from a simply horrid commercial from the sixties where a bedazzled housewife sang as she dusted, "Wake up your room, wake up your room, with natural wood-scent Pledge.)
Anyway, this disgusting demon told me that I must do the corners. That I must be on my knees getting that waxy build up from the floor, that nameless gray goop that accumulates. And I did.
AND rode my exercise bike.
I would sit at the computer to write and my mind quite simply went, "Duh? Arrr?" Think confused Scooby Doo. Then I had to tutor Adam about rhetorical devices in two essays, by Elie Weisel and Alexander Solzhenitzen. And then come home early from his house to wet vac the basement again.
My house is once again officially on the market. I look over the last year and realize that nothing has changed except me. My financial situation remains precarious, but the fight for social security is done. That brought me a peace I cannot measure. I go through weeks like the last two and continue to accomplish what should be impossible for my back to bear, but I do it... and my back cannot bear it so I pay dearly.
However, then I come out of the payback and there is humor. THAT is the change. I rediscovered my sense of the absurd and my sense of proportion and perspective. And somewhere or other, I've lost the ability to worry about it all. A loss for which I am grateful beyond words.
Truth be told, the last two weeks have been simply horrible. I could not walk yesterday more than about five steps at a time. When I say I could not walk, it is a literal comment. I had to hold onto things or I collapsed. The pain has been beyond my ability to cope at times. I could not stand up straight no matter HOW I tried.
I finally took this as a sign that perhaps it was time to lie down, although I did not read the sign until I'd been up stumbling around with a Swiffer and my can of Pledge for an hour. There is no twelve-step program for stupidity. Not really. I've been looking... obsessively of course.
All I wanted to do was write a little story about my travels to Red Bank. My part two of what could be a freaking novelette, probably. But those words do not come just now. Too much sludge and not enough metaphor just now.
Hey, but I DO remember the winter after my husband walked out. It was the only other time my basement flooded. Only then it was so bad that we had lovely little waterfalls falling out of the fireplace, glistening in the light. The water was deep enough so you could hear the splash. I had thought of turning the heat off altogether and perhaps having an indoor rink. I had a sign on my front door that said, "Welcome to Cliffwood Falls." (Cliffwood Drive is the street.)
I was determined to succeed, however. I had survived the hundred year old oak falling in the middle of the night three days after Mark left. I didn't ask for his help then. No. I was mighty. I would handle this on my own. A shop vac. I can just vacuum this stuff right up. I'll get me one of them.
Now, ya gotta understand that on those dumb tests where they determine what your aptitudes are, I was in the bottom twelfth percentile for mechanical ability. When I went off to college it took me FIFTEEN minutes of experimentation before I gave up and asked someone to show me how to use one o' them old-fashioned hand held silver can openers. To this day, it takes me two tries to use my nice slick Scandinavian black hand-held can opener to remember how it works.
So for me to go to Sears and buy myself a shop vac, come home and put it together all by myself? Please. Applaud. Bow before me. I did it. I READ the directions and laid out all the little pieces and put it together without a hitch. I broke for dinner, but had it done before the eleven o'clock news. And it WORKED. And I think I had to put together at least eighteen, maybe even TWENTY moving parts.
After the fourth day of using the thing three times a day, and hauling it out the garage to dump it, Mark happened to call and ask whether I could use some help that night. His mom had told him about the water. I was going to say "no" but for once in my life, realized that pride is just, plain, stupidity sometimes. He came over and went downstairs and did a long stint. I went down after an hour to ask if he wanted some supper, and he was busy swearing at the machine because he could not move it over its own wire.
I said, "Mark, it's super full and is sloshing out the top, you gotta be caref--"
He tipped over the sixty gallons and it flew all over the only parts of the carpet that had remained dry. Black, stinky water. It also got me in the face as well. I started to sing, "Old black water, keep on rollin'." And then I wailed, "Well keep on Shinin' your light, gonna make EVERYTHING, pretty mama, gonna make everything all right. And I ain't got no worries, cause I ain't in no hurry... at all!" (Doobie Brothers, some time in the early seventies)
Mark looked at me, silent, my giraffe of an ex husband, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his straight lips. "Well. My work here is done. I always have known JUST what to do to make things right. Care to throw the Hoover upright Beats as it Sweeps at my head again?"
The memory of my heaving that at his head, there in that very spot in the basement, when I got him to admit he was NOT considering staying but had been waiting to leave until the kids left... the memory of my having the strength to do it, the look of surprise on his face.
The laughter came, to the point where we sat on the steps and held one another until the tears came. At which point I got up and said, "NO MORE WATER!"
***
And these are the things that leap and cavort through my brain as I slog on through this business of "getting the house ready to show."
Well. Except, perhaps, a brain capable of coherent thought. I wrote tonight because I was sick of NOT writing. It's what I do, how I enter the world. And bad or good, specious or profound, I write what happens in my little teeny world. The sign that last year is behind me for real is the fact that I am willing to blither publicly, to share how I DO process this life.
Today I move through sludge. Tomorrow I fly. One day I throw a vacuum cleaner at my ex's head. Another I stick a fondu fork through my hand. One never knows.
***
That's what I loved about the Jersey shore. You could run into someone who looked like Burt Lancaster one day and sounded like a dockworker, and then be approached by someone who clearly was stuck in "Stayin' Alive," wearing speedos, gold chains that glistened here and there, lost in the fur blanket of his chest, with the short-sleeved shirt buttoned by one button, straining over the not-twenty-year-old belly ... the man who would walk the forty yards to where you had clearly removed yourself to draw and sit on the rocks, who huffed and puffed his way there to say, "Youse look like ya need company. I got a porsche wit cher name on it."
And I would think, "Why me? Am I wearing that sign again?"
I just wanted to write about my adventures, but nope. For now, my life is wet vaccs, mops, and chasing dust rhinos around my house.
Just wanted you all to know I am here and I Miss my blogging and others' blogging. Sometimes real life--SURREAL life will intrude.
Forgive this entry, if you can. Perhaps tomorrow I can write about the forking incident--although, perhaps I already have. I'll check.
If you celebrated St. Patrick's Day, I hope you had fun. If you did not, I hope the same. For now? I think Jeannette needs to sleep. Perhaps, in the night, the tooth fairy will, since she has no further business with me, find my brain and leave it under my pillow. One can hope.
Water, water everywhere, and MY how it doth stink!
Yes, dear readers, I have been wet vaccing in the basement, three times a day. Ah, the glamor of it all. But the song "Workin' in a Coal mine, goin' down down down" Keeps floating through my brain, which sort of takes the onus off.
And moving furniture to polish my wood floors and my kitchen floor. Climbing on stools, reaching above my head to get books off the shelves so that I could Murphy's oil then lemon oil all the wood. Hey. I mop n glo'ed with a TOOTH Brush to get around the wood of the banisters. Somewhere in the last two weeks, the nasty little demon in charge of turning perfectly sloppy women into anal housebodies who walk around with Swiffers singing, "Wake up your room!" (Sorry to you who are younger, it's a line from a simply horrid commercial from the sixties where a bedazzled housewife sang as she dusted, "Wake up your room, wake up your room, with natural wood-scent Pledge.)
Anyway, this disgusting demon told me that I must do the corners. That I must be on my knees getting that waxy build up from the floor, that nameless gray goop that accumulates. And I did.
AND rode my exercise bike.
I would sit at the computer to write and my mind quite simply went, "Duh? Arrr?" Think confused Scooby Doo. Then I had to tutor Adam about rhetorical devices in two essays, by Elie Weisel and Alexander Solzhenitzen. And then come home early from his house to wet vac the basement again.
My house is once again officially on the market. I look over the last year and realize that nothing has changed except me. My financial situation remains precarious, but the fight for social security is done. That brought me a peace I cannot measure. I go through weeks like the last two and continue to accomplish what should be impossible for my back to bear, but I do it... and my back cannot bear it so I pay dearly.
However, then I come out of the payback and there is humor. THAT is the change. I rediscovered my sense of the absurd and my sense of proportion and perspective. And somewhere or other, I've lost the ability to worry about it all. A loss for which I am grateful beyond words.
Truth be told, the last two weeks have been simply horrible. I could not walk yesterday more than about five steps at a time. When I say I could not walk, it is a literal comment. I had to hold onto things or I collapsed. The pain has been beyond my ability to cope at times. I could not stand up straight no matter HOW I tried.
I finally took this as a sign that perhaps it was time to lie down, although I did not read the sign until I'd been up stumbling around with a Swiffer and my can of Pledge for an hour. There is no twelve-step program for stupidity. Not really. I've been looking... obsessively of course.
All I wanted to do was write a little story about my travels to Red Bank. My part two of what could be a freaking novelette, probably. But those words do not come just now. Too much sludge and not enough metaphor just now.
Hey, but I DO remember the winter after my husband walked out. It was the only other time my basement flooded. Only then it was so bad that we had lovely little waterfalls falling out of the fireplace, glistening in the light. The water was deep enough so you could hear the splash. I had thought of turning the heat off altogether and perhaps having an indoor rink. I had a sign on my front door that said, "Welcome to Cliffwood Falls." (Cliffwood Drive is the street.)
I was determined to succeed, however. I had survived the hundred year old oak falling in the middle of the night three days after Mark left. I didn't ask for his help then. No. I was mighty. I would handle this on my own. A shop vac. I can just vacuum this stuff right up. I'll get me one of them.
Now, ya gotta understand that on those dumb tests where they determine what your aptitudes are, I was in the bottom twelfth percentile for mechanical ability. When I went off to college it took me FIFTEEN minutes of experimentation before I gave up and asked someone to show me how to use one o' them old-fashioned hand held silver can openers. To this day, it takes me two tries to use my nice slick Scandinavian black hand-held can opener to remember how it works.
So for me to go to Sears and buy myself a shop vac, come home and put it together all by myself? Please. Applaud. Bow before me. I did it. I READ the directions and laid out all the little pieces and put it together without a hitch. I broke for dinner, but had it done before the eleven o'clock news. And it WORKED. And I think I had to put together at least eighteen, maybe even TWENTY moving parts.
After the fourth day of using the thing three times a day, and hauling it out the garage to dump it, Mark happened to call and ask whether I could use some help that night. His mom had told him about the water. I was going to say "no" but for once in my life, realized that pride is just, plain, stupidity sometimes. He came over and went downstairs and did a long stint. I went down after an hour to ask if he wanted some supper, and he was busy swearing at the machine because he could not move it over its own wire.
I said, "Mark, it's super full and is sloshing out the top, you gotta be caref--"
He tipped over the sixty gallons and it flew all over the only parts of the carpet that had remained dry. Black, stinky water. It also got me in the face as well. I started to sing, "Old black water, keep on rollin'." And then I wailed, "Well keep on Shinin' your light, gonna make EVERYTHING, pretty mama, gonna make everything all right. And I ain't got no worries, cause I ain't in no hurry... at all!" (Doobie Brothers, some time in the early seventies)
Mark looked at me, silent, my giraffe of an ex husband, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his straight lips. "Well. My work here is done. I always have known JUST what to do to make things right. Care to throw the Hoover upright Beats as it Sweeps at my head again?"
The memory of my heaving that at his head, there in that very spot in the basement, when I got him to admit he was NOT considering staying but had been waiting to leave until the kids left... the memory of my having the strength to do it, the look of surprise on his face.
The laughter came, to the point where we sat on the steps and held one another until the tears came. At which point I got up and said, "NO MORE WATER!"
***
And these are the things that leap and cavort through my brain as I slog on through this business of "getting the house ready to show."
- It is not a tsunami in my basement. It's annoying yuck.
- I am alive, and my home is fine. And my back is better today, so I was able to pretend I was born to polish again today.
- I rode my bike for an hour and a half, singing rock and roll the whole time.
- I have money to pay my bills.
- In these times, in this country? I have everything I could possibly need.
Well. Except, perhaps, a brain capable of coherent thought. I wrote tonight because I was sick of NOT writing. It's what I do, how I enter the world. And bad or good, specious or profound, I write what happens in my little teeny world. The sign that last year is behind me for real is the fact that I am willing to blither publicly, to share how I DO process this life.
Today I move through sludge. Tomorrow I fly. One day I throw a vacuum cleaner at my ex's head. Another I stick a fondu fork through my hand. One never knows.
***
That's what I loved about the Jersey shore. You could run into someone who looked like Burt Lancaster one day and sounded like a dockworker, and then be approached by someone who clearly was stuck in "Stayin' Alive," wearing speedos, gold chains that glistened here and there, lost in the fur blanket of his chest, with the short-sleeved shirt buttoned by one button, straining over the not-twenty-year-old belly ... the man who would walk the forty yards to where you had clearly removed yourself to draw and sit on the rocks, who huffed and puffed his way there to say, "Youse look like ya need company. I got a porsche wit cher name on it."
And I would think, "Why me? Am I wearing that sign again?"
I just wanted to write about my adventures, but nope. For now, my life is wet vaccs, mops, and chasing dust rhinos around my house.
Just wanted you all to know I am here and I Miss my blogging and others' blogging. Sometimes real life--SURREAL life will intrude.
Forgive this entry, if you can. Perhaps tomorrow I can write about the forking incident--although, perhaps I already have. I'll check.
If you celebrated St. Patrick's Day, I hope you had fun. If you did not, I hope the same. For now? I think Jeannette needs to sleep. Perhaps, in the night, the tooth fairy will, since she has no further business with me, find my brain and leave it under my pillow. One can hope.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Where We Head When We Heal
Prism Women ©2002
Tucked in dark corners to collect dust
What are prisms but broken glass?
Yet strung gleaming, spinning in the light?
Sun-dancers
Diamond-catchers
Rainbow-throwers.
Every shining cut casts the spectrum,
Each twirl offers a rainbow dance.
Then our gray days spin wonder.
Each polished cut hordes our light
To toss, teasing with every turn.
The trick to being a prism is to face the light,
Polish all the cuts,
Then let the magic happen.
†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††
This may be kind of short tonight. It's strange when the old ways no longer work. I have allowed my heart to be completely accessible for the first time in my life, having saved some part of it to come out again when I thought I would be safe at last. Turns out that I was mistaken, and that my heart was even less safe with him. And with having every corner of my life vulnerable, this particular misstep on my part has taken a toll.
We can, as I said, reach a wall and feel there is nothing left. And I don't know that I can find a way to keep my home. And I really have no idea how I will make a living at all, and the disability application process is appallingly slow--I've been through it twice before. I worked my way off it twice before. Not this time.
I think that this is where it is all so hard. I've reached the end of my back's getting better. And losing my home ... I can't even talk about that fear. And losing the career that I worked so hard to create, the career that my central nervous system could handle for so long. At this time of life, it is hard to create another. To have no retirement. To have no health insurance within the next three months. Possibly to lose one's home.
This, my friends, is why this man's desertion, his betrayal hurts to the core and has had such an impact. It was the hope he created that is the hardest to lose. No hope is better than false hope. I was foolish; he was worse. But it's the timing of the thing, that has made it so very hard. It's done; he's gone. Faster than he arrived he's done. And I have to get on with this life.
Then I thought about my friends, my "laundry eagles" who are hovering around me now, closing ranks. The flock is here. They call; they send notes. They let me know I am better than any man who would betray and leave me. They tell me all the things to make me remember I'm whole. We talk about Christmas and children and chocolate. We laugh about nothing at all. They make me remember to shine, these women. All by myself, to shine.
The strength of their love begins to sink in. They tell me he's stupid to leave, that he's weak and he's blind if he cannot see he's left the best woman behind. And I smile. These are not things that I say to myself, they are things I find hard to believe. They tell me I'll find a way to fly, to earn my own way, to do anything I want. My friends think I will soar. They think that I am better than I ever believe of myself.
That's what women do, when the men feed and just leave. We close ranks. We lift one another up, put her on a pedestal and unabashedly worship while she heals. I turned 50 in 2002, and it was a difficult year... among difficult years. One of my friends, when she read this poem said, "Well, that's the thing Jetty. You have so many cuts, you are the brightest prism of the bunch." Lucky me ... or maybe I am. Too soon to feel that just yet.
My women friends are busy polishing just now. This newest cut is so sharp and so new, they are busy polishing the sides, smoothing the edge so that I stop cutting myself in all this pain. They won't let me go back into hiding, I'm afraid. They keep drawing me out, reminding me that I will always have a home, or perhaps I'll have twelve and just move from place to place. The Gypsy Jet, they call her. I offer to take my tambourine. We laugh and for moments at a time, I forget the ache, and just be.
And here is this heart of mine, that he so carefully drew out, looked at from every direction, kissed, held, promised to cherish for life... and kicked to the side of the road. Here it is. And now I have written about putting it away. Tying the whole mess up in a box and throwing in a closet. I did that with the horrors for years, the ones I have only hinted at yet. I did it before, like an artist. I could reduce a memory to a bit of tissue and stuff it where I could not see or feel or hear or taste the pain, where it was dead to me. I am an expert at stuffing the pain. And that's what I'd done with this man before, this love of my life. I stuck him far away so I barely remembered his name. And here I am again, ready to put it all away.
Only now I don't know how.
I have lost the ability to hide. I have lost the knack with turning the phrase to make what is poison palatable. I think to put all those parts back in a box would kill something more precious still. He woke up all this love in me, all this sparkling faith that life could be good. He said he wanted just to make it so I would not have to worry, so that I could get up every day and CHOOSE to write or to paint, without having to worry about keeping my home. Such a pretty wish from him. Yes. There is bitterness here... but there's something else I've not named.
Perhaps the only way I can salvage my soul from the damage is to keep that sparkling heart. I loved without conditions, without artifice. For once in my life I did not hold back, I did not pretend, I lived in each moment with him.
The cut that he made is so deep in this newly revealed heart, this child's soul who finally came out to dance. He cut her; I bleed. But the women work on just the same. She is not doing too well, but I think... I think perhaps ... she has a name to me, a child in me, the part I would let no one see. I think I must let her stay here.
Little Rita has come out at last. The quiet, somber, big-eyed child who sat up with the dying,
who turned on her brother when he did his worst, and simply asked him, "WHY?" So he ran.
who dropped the knife, choosing not to attack her attacker,
who closed her sister's eyes.
This child came out for this man who is gone. She slipped her hand in his, one sunny afternoon, certain of his love, of his honesty, certain that this man was her home. She had waited for him to come back; and he did. Never once did she think he would leave ... again. And this tiny child, with the strength of the mighty has, for the first time in my life, been walking through my life with me for six weeks. Since the first time he was here, when she came out only twice, she's appeared only when I needed strength to walk with grace through times when I had none to give. She would come. But mostly she stayed in the shadows, rarely daring to come out just to breathe. I have loved having her out. She does different things with paint. She takes no crap from him or anyone at all. Rita dances without moving at all.
And now she's been ripped open again.
But something's changed; I tried to start putting her back into that box, to that cold, gray place, she shouted me down. She clung to my dress. She begged me to stay with the lights. I told her I didn't want her to hurt any more, that we just can't take the pain, but she made me turn and look.
"LOOK AT THE LIGHTS!" My little girl screamed and I turned and I saw and I cried.
Paige, Martha, Judy, Andrea, Laura, Sue, Linda, Sue G., Nancy, Ann, Gail, Martha L.,
Came the Dozen, Dancing
Twirling, laughing, throwing rainbows every where...
skipping toward us
with tea and with cookies,
with puff quilts and stories,
with hairbrushes and pillows,
coming toward us with nothing but love.
I think I need Rita with me now. I think I need to not stuff one single thing anywhere at all. For the first time in my life, there are no secrets left.
And I am terrified.
And I am heart-broken.
And I am weary to beneath my core.
I am revealed.
I cannot allow his abandonment to cover this newest light.
The women will polish,
But we are finally whole.
No matter what the pain ahead, or loss.
No matter where we make our home,
The women will help us heal.
... and we will dance rainbows at last.
Tucked in dark corners to collect dust
What are prisms but broken glass?
Yet strung gleaming, spinning in the light?
Sun-dancers
Diamond-catchers
Rainbow-throwers.
Every shining cut casts the spectrum,
Each twirl offers a rainbow dance.
Then our gray days spin wonder.
Each polished cut hordes our light
To toss, teasing with every turn.
The trick to being a prism is to face the light,
Polish all the cuts,
Then let the magic happen.
†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††
This may be kind of short tonight. It's strange when the old ways no longer work. I have allowed my heart to be completely accessible for the first time in my life, having saved some part of it to come out again when I thought I would be safe at last. Turns out that I was mistaken, and that my heart was even less safe with him. And with having every corner of my life vulnerable, this particular misstep on my part has taken a toll.
We can, as I said, reach a wall and feel there is nothing left. And I don't know that I can find a way to keep my home. And I really have no idea how I will make a living at all, and the disability application process is appallingly slow--I've been through it twice before. I worked my way off it twice before. Not this time.
I think that this is where it is all so hard. I've reached the end of my back's getting better. And losing my home ... I can't even talk about that fear. And losing the career that I worked so hard to create, the career that my central nervous system could handle for so long. At this time of life, it is hard to create another. To have no retirement. To have no health insurance within the next three months. Possibly to lose one's home.
This, my friends, is why this man's desertion, his betrayal hurts to the core and has had such an impact. It was the hope he created that is the hardest to lose. No hope is better than false hope. I was foolish; he was worse. But it's the timing of the thing, that has made it so very hard. It's done; he's gone. Faster than he arrived he's done. And I have to get on with this life.
Then I thought about my friends, my "laundry eagles" who are hovering around me now, closing ranks. The flock is here. They call; they send notes. They let me know I am better than any man who would betray and leave me. They tell me all the things to make me remember I'm whole. We talk about Christmas and children and chocolate. We laugh about nothing at all. They make me remember to shine, these women. All by myself, to shine.
The strength of their love begins to sink in. They tell me he's stupid to leave, that he's weak and he's blind if he cannot see he's left the best woman behind. And I smile. These are not things that I say to myself, they are things I find hard to believe. They tell me I'll find a way to fly, to earn my own way, to do anything I want. My friends think I will soar. They think that I am better than I ever believe of myself.
That's what women do, when the men feed and just leave. We close ranks. We lift one another up, put her on a pedestal and unabashedly worship while she heals. I turned 50 in 2002, and it was a difficult year... among difficult years. One of my friends, when she read this poem said, "Well, that's the thing Jetty. You have so many cuts, you are the brightest prism of the bunch." Lucky me ... or maybe I am. Too soon to feel that just yet.
My women friends are busy polishing just now. This newest cut is so sharp and so new, they are busy polishing the sides, smoothing the edge so that I stop cutting myself in all this pain. They won't let me go back into hiding, I'm afraid. They keep drawing me out, reminding me that I will always have a home, or perhaps I'll have twelve and just move from place to place. The Gypsy Jet, they call her. I offer to take my tambourine. We laugh and for moments at a time, I forget the ache, and just be.
And here is this heart of mine, that he so carefully drew out, looked at from every direction, kissed, held, promised to cherish for life... and kicked to the side of the road. Here it is. And now I have written about putting it away. Tying the whole mess up in a box and throwing in a closet. I did that with the horrors for years, the ones I have only hinted at yet. I did it before, like an artist. I could reduce a memory to a bit of tissue and stuff it where I could not see or feel or hear or taste the pain, where it was dead to me. I am an expert at stuffing the pain. And that's what I'd done with this man before, this love of my life. I stuck him far away so I barely remembered his name. And here I am again, ready to put it all away.
Only now I don't know how.
I have lost the ability to hide. I have lost the knack with turning the phrase to make what is poison palatable. I think to put all those parts back in a box would kill something more precious still. He woke up all this love in me, all this sparkling faith that life could be good. He said he wanted just to make it so I would not have to worry, so that I could get up every day and CHOOSE to write or to paint, without having to worry about keeping my home. Such a pretty wish from him. Yes. There is bitterness here... but there's something else I've not named.
Perhaps the only way I can salvage my soul from the damage is to keep that sparkling heart. I loved without conditions, without artifice. For once in my life I did not hold back, I did not pretend, I lived in each moment with him.
The cut that he made is so deep in this newly revealed heart, this child's soul who finally came out to dance. He cut her; I bleed. But the women work on just the same. She is not doing too well, but I think... I think perhaps ... she has a name to me, a child in me, the part I would let no one see. I think I must let her stay here.
Little Rita has come out at last. The quiet, somber, big-eyed child who sat up with the dying,
who turned on her brother when he did his worst, and simply asked him, "WHY?" So he ran.
who dropped the knife, choosing not to attack her attacker,
who closed her sister's eyes.
This child came out for this man who is gone. She slipped her hand in his, one sunny afternoon, certain of his love, of his honesty, certain that this man was her home. She had waited for him to come back; and he did. Never once did she think he would leave ... again. And this tiny child, with the strength of the mighty has, for the first time in my life, been walking through my life with me for six weeks. Since the first time he was here, when she came out only twice, she's appeared only when I needed strength to walk with grace through times when I had none to give. She would come. But mostly she stayed in the shadows, rarely daring to come out just to breathe. I have loved having her out. She does different things with paint. She takes no crap from him or anyone at all. Rita dances without moving at all.
And now she's been ripped open again.
But something's changed; I tried to start putting her back into that box, to that cold, gray place, she shouted me down. She clung to my dress. She begged me to stay with the lights. I told her I didn't want her to hurt any more, that we just can't take the pain, but she made me turn and look.
"LOOK AT THE LIGHTS!" My little girl screamed and I turned and I saw and I cried.
Paige, Martha, Judy, Andrea, Laura, Sue, Linda, Sue G., Nancy, Ann, Gail, Martha L.,
Came the Dozen, Dancing
Twirling, laughing, throwing rainbows every where...
skipping toward us
with tea and with cookies,
with puff quilts and stories,
with hairbrushes and pillows,
coming toward us with nothing but love.
I think I need Rita with me now. I think I need to not stuff one single thing anywhere at all. For the first time in my life, there are no secrets left.
And I am terrified.
And I am heart-broken.
And I am weary to beneath my core.
I am revealed.
I cannot allow his abandonment to cover this newest light.
The women will polish,
But we are finally whole.
No matter what the pain ahead, or loss.
No matter where we make our home,
The women will help us heal.
... and we will dance rainbows at last.
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