Stories Are For Eternity

Neat nook needed…

In the handful of homes I’ve owned, one “thing” was always lacking. I’ve long wanted a dedicated space of my own where I might immerse myself in creative pursuits. Decades passed before I was willing to admit that I did indeed have creative abilities.

Arts and crafts were never my thing growing up. I understand now it had a great deal to do with my being left-handed. Demonstrations had to be translated in my head from the right-handed world to my left-handed realm. Fine motor skills require my left hand. Gross motor skills may be done with either hand in my reality.

I abstained from creative pursuits until I was in my 20s. Late in that decade of my life, I learned how to do counted cross stitch and simple crochet. I crochet right handed but am apt to cross stitch with either hand so I have to remind myself to be consistent. I find it’s noticeable, in the appearance of the stitches, to my eye if I switch hands.

In the last few years I’ve become more interested in using photography as a means of expression. I’ve never had any training, I just know what I like. And, of course, I’d like to use the written word in conjunction with the photos. When I was teaching, I was always amazed at what the photography students learned and produced.

I could watch videos to learn but that’s not really an optimal method for me because I’m so distractible. I will figure it out when I make the time to do so. None of this addresses my need for a nook, though.

The idea of a she-shed has been floating through my mind for too long. It isn’t difficult to find places to write…coffee shops, camp porches, park benches, basically anywhere there’s a flat, sturdy surface. But then, it’s nice to have a place that speaks to you as you write. For several summers I rented a camp on a small lake. I loved sitting on the screen porch and writing.

It was easy to lose myself in that setting. The fragrances of nature, the birdsong, the lapping water. So easy to recall but recollections lack the tactile effects. While I can picture it and hear it, I’m unable to feel it. And it doesn’t speak to me unless I’m present. I prefer to be transported by my senses. And drift. “And so it was that later/When the miller told this tale…”. It’s so easy to drift given the correct impetus.

The process is complete. My thoughts have drifted elsewhere. I’m no longer nook-focused. I will continue to develop the concept in my head. “And although my eyes were open/They might just as well‘ve been closed..”. Drifting, envisioning what could be. I wonder if Gary Brooker ever tired of playing his wonderful song and singing those haunting lyrics. I never tire of listening to it.

“A Whiter Shade of Pale” is quoted in this post. Written by Keith Reid and Gary Brooker.

Is there peace of mind?

“I understand about indecision
But I don’t care if I get behind
People livin’ in competition
All I want is to have my peace of mind”

These lyrics by Tom Scholz have been running through my head recently. The song is entitled “Peace of Mind” and is affiliated with the band Boston. I’m aware this band was/is quite popular and I’m certain I could sing along with many of their hit songs. But, trust me, you don’t want me to sing. As a wordsmith, phrases often capture my attention.

After reading a bit about this band, it seems they rose to prominence in the mid-70s and peaked in the 1980s. They were never at the top of my list and may have never made it to any mixed-tape I may have made in the 1980s. However, I’m sure I sang along to their tunes on the radio.

The 1980s was my lost decade. It started out well enough but progressively worsened with each year. I will share that I righted the ship of my life by the end of the decade but I’m far from ready to discuss the events of the decade as a whole. What does this have to do with anything? By now, I’m sure you think I’ve just created a huge tangent. Though I’m proficient at tangential thinking and storytelling, this is not one of those moments.

“All I want is to have my peace of mind.” This is all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve worked toward it my whole life but it remains out of my grasp. On a simple level I will admit my life is stable. My possessions are meaningful and more than sufficient. My career was meaningful and more than sufficient. That’s the tangible stuff. Peace of mind is a subjective concept and could be seen as tangible or intangible. Individuals measure peace of mind in any of a number of ways.

I’d like to experience this state as I conceive it to be. Here’s the real tale. I don’t know that it will ever happen. Words of a pessimist? No, words of a realist. I have a handful of chronic illnesses. That’s not an unusual state for many individuals. A couple of mine, severe depression & generalized anxiety disorder, while manageable, are very challenging. My life has been a series of obstacles and speed bumps. Again, not unusual for most individuals.

“Don’t let me be misunderstood.” A song written for Nina Simone, best remembered as a cover by the Animals. I’m misunderstood a great deal. Why? Because many people are dismissive of mental health conditions and illnesses. People don’t think they’re real. People think they may be overcome with more effort and self-discipline. People just don’t comprehend what it really is.

I used to tell my students that it’s okay to be ignorant. It’s what you choose to do about your ignorance that’s important. So if you read about people who talk about how difficult it is to get out of bed at times, or shower, or pay a bill…please, take them seriously. The vast majority of us are sincere and challenged by the most simple of tasks at times. We aren’t lazy. We don’t lack ambition or self-discipline. In fact, we possess a rare and unique superpower. Many of us have the ability to function in a “normal” manner and to seem as though we don’t have the slightest of issues with life. It’s taken us a long time to hone those skills and the “I’m normal” facade is exhausting to maintain.

How do I know this is genuine and real? Because I live it. Every.Single.Day. There is no vacation from it. It never takes a day off. When I say this existence is exhausting, it’s truly impossible to describe the levels of physical and mental exhaustion. Does it ever end? That I cannot tell you, except to say that some choose to end it themselves. Two folks, whom I called friends, could not bear it any longer. I miss them beyond any logical explanation. Because I know. I get it. It’s hard.

I don’t want pity. I want understanding. Take a little time to read about mental health illnesses. Don’t dismiss us as lazy and indifferent. It comes at a great personal cost. It influences friendships, intimate relationships, credit scores, day-to-day life, maintaining one’s physical health…just too many things to list. And please, please, please understand that when you say, “take a deep breath and get some air,” “put your big girl panties on,” “you’ll be fine,” “did your cleaning lady quit?,” you contribute to our self-mortification and lack of confidence. Self-education is good. Besides, I’ve worked too damn hard to give up.

According to Google, this is peace of mind.

Always waiting…

I feel my life has been spent in a perpetual state of anticipation. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to be noticed. Waiting for Godot. Waiting for purpose. I’ve waited for that “something” for a majority of my life to my own detriment.

I will be forever waiting. “I have climbed highest mountains/I have run through the fields.” These words from U2 metaphorically describe a constant feeling within my mind. “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.” Will I be searching forever?

Not to be trite, but I’m looking for purpose. What is my purpose for being here? My consciousness holds so many ideas that have never come to fruition. Though it isn’t my “fault” my ideas haven’t come to fruition, it’s more of a lack of being assertive. I’ve never been one to prioritize my ideas to a group. Is that what’s holding me back? Doubtful.

I wrote a book. Some might say, “big deal it’s just a local history book.” I’m not dismissing it. Far from it. I’m proud of my effort. Mostly I’m a better person due to the interactions with the book’s readers.

And yet, I wait. Wait for inspiration. Wait for that one moment. Wait as life goes on around me. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow..” lamented Macbeth as he had not realized the depths of his descent into a horrible hell. That isn’t what I want. Nor am I the hopeless optimist of Little Orphan Annie and her vision of tomorrow.

My eye is on the “prize”though I know not its substance. Will the waiting ever end? Will fulfillment ever be mine? Will I keep searching? I’m programmed to continue my quest for meaning. I also know I have to put in some hard work. My mere existence is hard work. I accepted that long ago. I’m just so tired, more tired than I’ve ever been. As long as the light of my quest burns within, I will keep searching…and waiting. I hope I find “what I’m looking for”…

The same old…

If you’re my age or older, I’d bet you can remember going to a grandparent’s home and seeing it as a museum piece, frozen in time. Each piece of furniture never changed and always occupied the same place in the room. In those days one’s furniture lasted and was handed down from family members to the next generation.

This idea is stuck in my mind lately because my mother had to move to memory care. Six years ago she transitioned from the family home of 53 years, a two-story colonial, to a small apartment in an assisted living facility. The apartment had a sitting room and a large bedroom. Her latest move to memory care has her down to one bedroom.

My house is packed with furniture from her past moves as I sought to combine some treasured pieces with my own, pieces I remember from my earliest childhood. I already rent a large storage unit and acquired another for this latest move. I will need time to sort through things and consolidate in the future.

Her bedroom at the memory care facility contains two important pieces of furniture that she will always recognize. One is the dresser from her bedroom set, approximately 75 years old, and one is a dresser/bookcase that is probably almost 70 years old. For most of my life it was in my brother’s room. It was noticed in this last move that the latter piece is now cracked on the side but it will hold together.

It’s funny how our current younger generations have no such attachments to things. I’m happy that I do as it’s a bridge to happy times for me. I can remember how my mom would scrimp and save to add another piece of furniture to our house. It didn’t happen often because she purchased good quality furniture. I’m thankful not to be a person who needs to change the look of my home frequently. If the furniture is functional and still looks nice, it’s fine for me.

My mom is no longer the parent I remember. She looks like my mom but age has robbed her of her ability to think. I’m thankful she still knows me. I’m comforted by seeing some of those pieces of furniture and other belongings I associate with her. And they remind me of the mom who was such a vital part of my life.

Words fail me at the moment. Emotion has taken over. “Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.” Erich Fromm

Her dresser and mirror flanked by two drawings done by her mother.

One of my brother’s dressers. Ethan Allen was a good investment.

N.B. I’m not writing for pity. And I know so many have gone through this. Writing is a way for me to process my emotions. I’m writing to maintain my sanity.

Another chapter…

from the book of writing hard and clear what hurts. I’ve had an overly close relationship with my mother since childhood. Due to various circumstances, it feels I’ve been “taking care” of my mother since I was ten years old. At the very least, I was a protector. Initially from my father and brother, who could be physically and verbally abusive, to all other perceived manner of threats. But it has certainly provided its own set of issues as I continue to “take care” of my mother.

The other day my mom moved to a memory care facility. The administrators at the assisted living facility, where she lived for almost three years, told me in December to look for a memory care facility. I’d seen the cognitive decline, but it was swift. For now my mom is at the “top” of the class for cognition at her new home. At her age of 96, I know it will not last long.

My mom has understood me throughout my life. She knew, and accepted, my faults, health challenges (physical and mental), and supported many of my dreams. I’m glad she was able to see my first published book.

It remains that I’ve lost two valuable anchors in my life in the past two years. This is challenging for me, very challenging. Many times I feel adrift, many times I feel panicked, many times I isolate myself. An overwhelming amount of the time, I do what I’ve always done best…force myself to my feet and put one foot in front of the other. It’s a much slower progression these days. My physical health is the worst ever, an arthritic knee cries for help, one eye is a little worse for wear, and the perpetual is the compulsion to overeat to calm myself. My domicile shows the state of my mind…cluttered.

My anchors are gone. No one understood me the way they did. No one accepted me the way they did. No one supported me the way they did. It will take time to find new anchors, to ask for assistance, to trust. It will happen. For now, it’s one foot in front of the other until I’m too exhausted. Then it’s rest and repeat. I’m so tired.

“So angels say – on yesterday – /Just as the dawn was red/One little boat – o’erspent with gales – /Retrimmed its masts – redecked its sails – /And shot – exultant on!” Emily Dickinson “Adrift! A little boat adrift.”

“I’m just a soul whose intentions are good/Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood…” The Animals

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

The title for today’s blog post is a quote by Ernest Hemingway. He was a brilliant writer. His style was concise, he advocated use of one-syllable words wherever possible. But his prose packed a punch and conveyed realistic messages and images. I am not Hemingway though I value his sense of adventure. Like Hemingway, I’m not immune to my own demons but will refrain from an exit such as his.

In an effort to spring clean my subconscious thoughts, I choose to confront some in the hope they will turn to vapor and dissipate. Though I present as a stoic individual with a good sense of humor, my facade hides so much more…both positive and negative. One thing I have I accepted is I am a highly sensitive individual. Due to my “uber” sensitivity, I feel things at far greater levels than many individuals. In addition, I feel your pain and hurt as if it was mine.

I stopped going to the movie theater more than twenty years ago. Because I hate crowds? No. Because it caused me real pain. The ever-increasing levels of sound and the flashing of lights made the experience physically painful for me. And some thought I avoided theaters because it wasn’t cool for us, as adults, to fling jujubes and junior mints across the rows of seats at one another. I never wasted a junior mint. If I caught one, I ate it. BTW, Milk Duds are the best for slinging, due to their heft. I liked them, though, so never tossed them.

Back to sensitivity…Being ultra-sensitive may also lead, as it did for me, to super-sensitive reactions to rejection. It’s a two-way street, though. I feel other’s rejections in addition to my own, but mine are soul stopping. I’m able to cope with them much more effectively now that I’m mature. Not so when I was younger.

This post is really about unsuccessful relationships. Bet you didn’t see that coming. I’ve never married, through my own choice. I’ve had opportunities. Bottom line, in truth, is I never wanted to have to “share” my true self with someone else. I felt damaged beyond any hope of normalcy and did not want to inflict that on another individual. My friendships were guarded, my intimate relationships were guarded. My emotions transcend depths that few feel. While that may be euphoric at times, it’s also devastating at times. We all go through this to different degrees.

Though I was an attractive young person, I had few dates. Raised at a time when nice boys weren’t supposed to take liberties, sometimes they did and I learned that could be fun. Also influenced by my Catholic upbringing, I was well aware that becoming pregnant just wasn’t something that was going to happen. What I also didn’t realize at this young age was I was asserting my own independence in refusing certain activities.

What I didn’t know, due to gross naïveté on my part, was I was creating a bit of a negative reputation for myself. I was considered a tease. Say what? I wasn’t sophisticated enough to even conjure up an idea like that. But I guess I was. Fueled by beer, and wanting to be “accepted,” there were some brief dalliances at parties. So thrilled to be an object of interest from a cute boy, things changed at warp speed when I put on the brakes. Worse was being ignored by said boy in school in the ensuing days.

I admit to being ignorant as to how that whole romance ritual was conducted. I was too much of a reader and thought things would be nice and sweet as I’d read in books. Yeah, no, that’s not the way it worked. And the really, really silly thing is I still feel that hurt fifty years later. It gnaws at me sometimes like a bad toothache. I doubt the boys could even recall it.

In a lighthearted effort to banish my blues recently, I put some words to paper. Though they desecrate the lovely tune “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,” my apologies to Willie and Julio, my words convey some of my thoughts. Here is my flawed rendition called “To All the Boys I’ve Kissed in Life.”

To all the boys I’ve kissed in life/Who caused me hurt and endless strife

They thought they were so great/But I can clearly state

I’m glad I’m not your wife.

To all the boys I once acquiesced/Who merely wanted to grope my chest

Due to my naïveté/I became a rude cliché

And just another conquest

The rules of love are fraught with fraud/The boys walked out the door

The rules of love count for naught/Most of you were boors.

There were a few decent sorts. And there were a few I should have treated more kindly. I went on a date with a boy a year older because his sister kept bugging me to do so. He was nice but I did not have a romantic interest. He may have come to my house and rung the doorbell. I may have hidden on my basement stairs despite my best friend’s car being in the driveway. It may have hurt his feelings. I hope he would accept my apology for me being a dumb teenager.

Trust me when I tell you my actual poetry is world’s better than my attempt at lyrics. Sometimes I’m still in 9th grade mode…you know…when we made up stuff like “Yellow River” by I.P. Daily.

There you have it, Mr. Hemingway. Not at all as mellifluous as your prose. But it’s genuine and from a personal place. It may always hurt but I am also able to see it from a more lighthearted point of view.

Ch…ch…ch…choices…

Gotcha! Ever since I completed and published my first book, my wheels have been slipping and sliding through a vast expanse of mud. I’m blessed to have choices. My mind, in its perpetual state of motion, flits from one thought to the next like a prize-winning contestant grabbing dollar bills from the air. Each day I ask myself the same question…what should I do next? Each day the answer is different. Each day I struggle to decide.

In the last several months I’ve come to realize my time to finish what I want to do grows shorter. And though I’m on the downside of my time on Earth, I don’t want to leave with so many of my “songs” inside of me.** But the choices pose an interesting roadblock. It’s inaccurate to call it a writer’s block. I think of it more as a decision block.

My files contain hundreds of hand-written pages. Some include poetry, some include vast chapters of fiction, some include family history. With the exception of the poetry, most are unfinished. The digital files in my computer reveal snippets of memoir and more fiction. And, yet, my head still holds an almost endless stream of ideas.

Do I have time? It is not my question to answer. I do my best to keep juggling. There are days when I’m successful but there are days when the balls drop. Each day I pick them up and get them going again. The outcome of the daily juggling is not always mine to control. And though I ask myself the same daily question, I do not get the same answer.

This I know for certain. I must write. It’s as essential to me as breathing. Most days this one thought travels through my conscious thought…”The desire to write was planted within you for a reason.” Hmmm, ok. I get it. But, why?

My beloved Ray Bradbury says, “Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.” I feel this one to my core and, yet, the fear of reality is strong. Hemingway tells me, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.” Am I ready to go there? Maybe not. Stephen King posits, “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.” I could go on. Don’t worry, I won’t.

Today I’m following Anne Lamott’s advice…”You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

For today, I have chosen to soar. To sustain me, the lyrics of a Lynyrd Skynyrd classic, “If I leave here tomorrow/will you still remember me?”

**N.B. Please don’t make assumptions from my words. Mortality is an issue many of us ponder as we age. I’m not planning on going anywhere soon, but that’s controlled by a Higher Power.

Paying it forward

The Alone Girl yearned to give back in some way. Not so much because she’d taken advantage of programs available as a youth, but in spite of them. The Girl had never been much of a joiner. And, honestly, there were few programs available when she was growing up.

Thankfully, literature offered the Girl a reprieve from some of the stress and responsibility of her life. After several attempts at publishing novels, she managed to hit the mother lode. That success paved the way for her to give back.

A writer’s life is solitary, but in a happy way. One is alone with the thoughts that stomp and rage through one’s conscious and subconscious minds. Harnessing them in a meaningful way is the true test of a writer’s skill. After repeated attempts, the Alone Girl wrote about what she knew best…challenges and what they do to one’s soul. It wasn’t that she wanted to “bare” it all for recognition, she hoped that what she wrote would help at least one other person understand and cope with what life had wrought.

Now the Girl was ready to pay it forward, to help other young people find a niche. And she was ready to do it in her own unique way. The Girl was a dreamer from her early existence. She yearned for opportunities to enrich the lives of others, to create practical learning experiences, to leave a legacy so there would be fewer Alone “Kids.”

And it was slowly taking shape. Over the years, she had developed her dream and put her ideas on paper. Her burgeoning literary success allowed her to create specific visions and definitive business plans. The trade off would be having to become more involved publicly. While this was not an idea that caused her comfort, it was not a high price to pay for illuminating her dream.

Though she created the dream, it could not be carried out in a bubble. It would require assistance from the rest of the “village.” It was not in her nature to ask for help, but ask she did. The response was staggering.

“If you build it, they will come.” Field of Dreams

“You better – lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go (go)
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime”. Lose Yourself by Eminem

N.B. The Alone Girl knows she has the same odds of winning the lottery as she does writing a smash novel, but she knows dreams may come true. She’s also playing the lottery.

“I keep the visions to myself”. *Dreams* – Fleetwood Mac

You do you…

Acceptance finally entered my heart yesterday. It was a bittersweet moment and, yet, it brought peace to my agitated soul. With an elderly parent who is losing cognitive ability, it’s so easy to want to correct them. This is especially true if your parent was a perfectionist and you, in turn, are a perfectionist. Life is not perfect.

I found myself wrapped in a sweet moment yesterday that served as a lesson. It told me to rethink my expectations as my guidelines no longer fit the situation. I was seated with my mom, on a comfy sofa, in the common living room area of her assisted living facility. She was reading me an article from the New York Times. I don’t know why nor do I know her purpose but it was important to her at the moment. Instead of asking her questions, I settled directly next to her and listened.

As she read, occasionally pointing at a picture within the article, things made sense to me and I knew I needed to just let her do what she felt was important. In that moment, her need was to share those words with me. Mind you, she reads the paper without glasses. With my newfound acceptance of letting “her do her,” I relaxed next to her and let my head rest on her shoulder.

Without missing a beat, her hand reached up and cupped the side of my face. My soul was content. She stopped reading long enough to exclaim about the softness of my skin as she patted my face. I chuckled and reminded her of the many times she’s told me that since I was little. Looking directly into my eyes, she smiled and said, “you’ll always be my baby girl.”

“You were my strength when I was weak/You were my voice when I couldn’t speak/You were my eyes when I couldn’t see/You saw the best that was in me.” Because You Loved Me by Celine Dion

Beautiful wreckage…

“The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage.” Jack London

Jack London’s writing style was fresh and descriptive. Given his penchant for writing about the natural world, I enjoyed reading his work. And life is full of those moments when something sneaks up on you and bites you somewhere that gets your attention. I’ve been experiencing spurts of those moments.

While visiting my 96 year old mom at her assisted living facility the other day, I experienced a moment of empathy for Wile E. Coyote when struck by an anvil courtesy of the Roadrunner. (A point on your average if the “beep beep” just sounded in your head.) She had discovered some pages from an old address book and was reading the names aloud to me.

For most of them, there was no longer a connection in her memory to those names. Finally she looked at me and said, “They’re all gone, aren’t they?” All I could do was nod. So I asked her what she wanted to talk about. She gave me a confused look and replied, “Is there something to talk about?” Then she started to read the names aloud again.

These moments rocked me to my very core. They signaled the end of my intellectual and verbal relationship with my mom. No longer will we have cogent conversations. No longer will I be able to seek sound advice. No longer will anyone understand my unique flaws as she did.

I’ve been adrift for a few days. “There is no pain, you are receding/A distant ship, smoke on the horizon…”. The problem is I’m not comfortable nor am I numb. It’s heartbreaking to watch, the decline of a once substantive individual. I’m handling it rather selfishly at the moment. My diabetes has decided this is a good time to manifest itself through damage to my right eye. And the one who understood me best cannot comment.

I will sail through this emotional abyss. “oh but that’s the irony, broken people are not fragile.” This I know.