relationships

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tangled

IMG_0571The windows are shut tight, yet, the faint rhythm of music that gently flows from someone’s radio is swaying over the ivy-covered walls, seeping into the crevices of the window’s frame, into our home. Other than that, the outside world seems shut off from inside this small room. Peacefulness is felt, but it’s wrapped tightly around angst.

I am at peace in the quiet confines of my sanctuary, but I worry because my son worries. He’s concerned that Rudy and I are arguing because of something he did. Something that should not have happened. But I assure my son that the anger has nothing to do with him but everything to do with hopelessness.

Rudy is drowning. On some days. Floating on others. His mood is all over the place. Aimed at everyone. And no one. And all the while I am simply trying to figure out how to hold it all together. To maintain a sense of balance so that my son will believe that everything will be OK.

The ceiling fan spins slowly, round and round, tossing puffs of air towards me. Cooling me and my thoughts. But then, suddenly, I hear a door slam from somewhere at the other end of the house. And that’s when my toes curl, my feet stiffen, and my heart seems to skip a beat.

A moment later a child laughs and a puppy barks. Over and over. So much so that my mixed emotions fade and I’m tuned into the wonderment of what’s happening beyond my life.

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There’s an Angel on my shoulder, sitting right next to the Devil

IMG_5519While life is full of obstacles, things that happen that challenge me, I do what I can to jump, to improve, to move forward. Optimism is my middle name. Or, it was. I used to consider everything with the idea that my life is mine alone. That the path I have chosen is the right one. The solid one. The road that will take me to everlasting happiness. I would see things in a positive light, even within a negative situation. But somewhere along the line, I lost a piece of my goodwill feelings, honing in on what’s not right. What’s bad. What’s wrong with our world. And I’m concerned, about me.

The Devil sits heavy on one shoulder, tells me not to care, while my Angel reminds me that life is what I make it. The Devil says life sucks, why bother. The Angel counter-argues that it’s worth the effort. All the while, I simply listen to their opposing arguments, taking in what each has to say, roll their thoughts around my heart. Where normally the Angel would shine as the true winner, as of late, on occasion, more times than I’m used to, it’s the Devil who makes more sense.

My writing has suffered because of my lack of optimism. Not because I don’t want to write, I do, I know it’s the way for me to project my voice, to be heard but, my thoughts and my hands aren’t communicating because, well, I feel depleted of energy. Focus. And desire.

I have so many things to say, but haven’t. I have a story I’m working on, a chapter book for children, a kind of a mystery, but one full of love, forgiveness, morals and values, a story that turns bad to good. The narrative swirls around my mind, fills my head with its characters, the setting, the motive, and the triumph. It’s there, all of it, waiting. Waiting to come to life.

My blog, my stories, also wait. Until, like today, I find my voice spilling onto the page.

Yesterday, Rudy and I took a walk along the Southern California coast, in Laguna Beach. A soothing, no-nonsense, salty-air, full of happy people kind of place. And I felt invigorated, renewed, and happy. I felt my optimism hug me, reminding me, whispering to me, that it’s the Angel who speaks the truth. That the path I have chosen is the right one. The solid one. The road to everlasting happiness.

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I’m an Introvert.

IMG_5263There’s an article going around on Facebook, you know the kind that always have a number in the title, like this one, 23 Signs You’re Secretly An Introvert by Carolyn Gregoire | The Huffington Post.

Well now, I zoomed right in, only to confirm what I already knew. I’m an introvert. And it’s no secret, unless of course you don’t know me, then well, maybe it is a secret, by default.

The article basically explains to the reader how to spot an introvert, that they aren’t always so obvious, and it even goes on to say how an introvert may not know they are indeed introverted. So here I sit, wondering, How is it that someone who’s shy, or withdrawn, or engaging with an inner hidden feeling of anxiety due to socializing, doesn’t know they are an introvert? I am guessing here, that the first ones to read such an article do so because it relates to them. Meaning, an introvert reads this article because it’s fun to read what they already know. Everyone enjoys things that pertain to them, personally. Right?

I’ve known forever, or at least as long as I began socializing, that I am an introvert. In my younger years, I was very uncomfortable with the prospect of being in situations with groups of people. Rather than engaging, I stood back worrying what everyone else was thinking and anxious about joining in. But as the years have passed, and though I still consider myself drawn-in, I socialize, hold conversations, and am overall content around others. Yet, rather than trying to be a person I’m not, someone others would probably feel more comfortable around, I have embraced my listening skills, rather than trying to overuse my voice. I now understand it’s okay to speak when I feel like it, rather than talking because others expect me to.

As a child, almost all my teachers told my parents I was too quiet, that I needed to participate more (that’s probably when I began to feel I wasn’t as awesome as everyone else seemed to be). And because of that, as a teacher of young kids, I never tell a student he or she needs to ‘come out of their shell’. They will discover their own voice, in their own time.

I remember being invited to a birthday party when I was about 10 years old. It was a sleep over, my first. And even though it should have been an exciting time, it actually brought out a tremendous amount of anxiety. Having to socialize and talk nonstop, tell secrets and giggle, was way too difficult for me. I never wanted to participate in that kind of gathering again. And I don’t think I ever did. Now, take me back to that time, but with the grown-up me, the person who now understands who I am, what I have to offer. I would have made the most of being an emotionally in-tune person. Also, time and again, it seems so many people are striving for what I, and many introverts, possess. Simply, quiet calmness. Someone who is balanced. A person who can interact with others when deemed necessary, even if it’s not always easy, but who is also comfortable being alone.

I suppose the article is simply bringing an introverts traits into the limelight, to our attention, so that we – well, not me – can be sure to understand the personalities of the quiet, or not so quiet, ones; the obvious introverts and the hidden kind, and make sure they are not overlooked but rather included, graciously.

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He Caught Me. Cheating.

IMG_2090Rudy has been, for the past year or so, questioning himself. Wondering if there is any meaning behind the fact he can’t just seem to find a job, in his field of expertise, or anywhere else. With every phone call about his resumé, listing his superior qualifications, to the several interviews, leading nowhere, he’s gone from a high of believing he can do anything to a low feeling he can’t.

People occasionally ask me how I am dealing with his situation, without much complaint. The thing is, I do complain, if that’s what you want to call it, to him, where my words should be aimed. I don’t talk in a way that makes things worse, rather I express how I am feeling, hoping he’ll understand that we are both affected by his lack of participation, in life. His desire to succeed has diminished. He’s frustrated, angry, and overall disappointed in himself. I handle it by looking beyond what I actually, physically see and go deep, observing what is not so apparent. Taking clues from what’s not being said.

The other day, Rudy and I were in the kitchen, talking, but not really, when he needed to tell me about a dream he’d had.

In the dream, he began, I saw you, hanging all over some young guy, your arms wrapped around him, and you were laughing, having fun. I never could see the guy you were with. He was so young, but you were you, the age you are now. 

As I was listening to his tale, trying to understand his reason for telling me his love affair dream, his knees suddenly gave out. He began to breathe rapidly and his eyes widened liked someone experiencing a traumatic, unexpected moment. He grabbed a chair, sat, and lowered his head between his shaking knees. He seemed lost, unsure. I thought for sure he was going to faint, so I walked over to him, coaxed him into a sitting position, cupped my hands on both sides of his face, and gently told him to breathe.

Slowly, I told him. Slow down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slow.

I wanted to calm him, soothe him, let him know everything was okay. But, also, inside my mind, behind all my kind words I wondered who the heck I had an affair with that caused Rudy so much turmoil. Once his breathing was, again, under control, he looked at me with eyes full of sadness, a kind of heartbreak I had never seen before.

The guy, he continued, never looked in my direction, and when I asked you what you were doing you shouted at me ‘That’s your problem, not mine!’ and that’s when the young guy finally looked my way, looked right at me. And I couldn’t believe who he was.

Again, Rudy cried, smashed his palms into his eye sockets. I stooped, rested my hands on his thighs, and waited for him to tell me more.

It was me! he shouted. It was my 21 year old self! You were having an affair with me!

Tears once again filled his eyes, reflecting the overhead lights, before splashing down his cheeks.

You? It was you? I asked, just to confirm.

Yes. Me. When I was probably only 21. When we first met. You were you, your age now, and you were cheating with me, but a young me, he answered.

That’s pretty intense, I told him.

All that I could think about was the symbolism within the dream. How it was full of meaning. His internal story. But, I didn’t say anything. I remained quiet, wondering what he thought about it. Yet, Rudy couldn’t control his crying. His blubbering. As if he realized the dream was trying to tell him something. I embraced him. Held him tight. Knowing this may be a breakthrough. A turning point. A new beginning.

And then he spoke. It means you miss the young guy I was, he told me. That I have left that not-a-care-in-the-world kind of guy, the ambitious one behind and have forgotten about him. And that is what you are seeking. The real me.

I do miss him, I honestly said, the person I met all those years ago. The guy I’ve grown up with. But, I needed to add, just so we’re clear here, if I was going to cheat, it’d be with you.

I laughed, but it was his smile that brightened the room.

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Grave Plots, Cremation, or Tibetan Sky Burial

IMG_1934I don’t know about any of you, but for me, when I die, I want to be cremated. Cremation is a choice I made many years ago, and have expressed as much to my family. I am not sure of the exact moment I decided this – was it after watching intriguing shows about death, like Six Feet Under, where the details of what to do with a body after a person dies is the focal point? Whatever the reason, what I know for sure, is that the idea of having my remains sprinkled into the strength of the ocean’s movement combined with its serenity soothes my soul.

When I was 16 years old, my brother Bill (one of my nine brothers) was killed in a car accident. At the time, amongst severe grieving, my parents purchased not only a grave site for my brother to be buried, they also bought plots for each member of our family, all thirteen of us. A little less than ten years after Bill died, my brother Scott passed away during a seizure. His body was laid to rest in a shiny casket, directly above Bill’s. And then about fifteen years after Scott, my Dad departed from this earth. He was quietly placed in the ground, next to Bill’s coffin, diagonal to Scott’s.

As one might expect, over the years, I visited the graveyard, and wondered which plot would be mine. Until I married and became a mother. Wait, I’d say to myself, while wandering over the low rolling hills. How do my husband and children fit in here? At some point, while considering options about where we should be buried, I also received, filled out and have carried around for what seems like forever, the organ donor card, which eventually became a permanent pink dot ingrained on my driver’s license. The want to be a donor furthered my thinking about where I wanted my body to go after I passed on. Ultimately, all this in-your-face information, and lots personal consideration, I knew, being a simple, no-nonsense, matter-of-fact person, that cremation is for me.

Simple. No-Nonsense. Matter-of-Fact.

And then, I was unexpectedly introduced to another, very raw and natural, way to finally let go.

Recently, I was reading Oprah’s June 2014 magazine (the theme being Age Brilliantly!) when I came across a snippet about reckoning with death by Caitlin Doughty, who also is the creator of the YouTube™ series “Ask a Mortician”. Interestingly, she talks about the ancient art of Tibetan sky burial, in which the deceased body is placed outside for vultures to eat and taken into the air with them. (Ms. Doughty does give more vivid details on her series – Episode Three, in case you’re interested). “It is one of my favorite death customs because it’s just beautiful,” she begins. “The idea of your body being taken apart and flown into the air is really powerful.”

Talk about simple, no-nonsense, and matter-of-fact.

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i’m the mother of a jerk!

IMG_0926one day my teenage son walked into my bedroom, and stated,

oh geez, mom. this girl is planning on asking me to a dance. but the thing is, she’s not my type, not someone i want to go with. so i have this plan. when she asks me during class, or wherever we are, surrounded by a ton of people I will say yes!

yes? i wonder.

yes, yes. but then when we are somewhere else, when no one else is around i will tell her no.

no? i say a bit too loud.

yes, no. he claims.

i stare at him. i don’t get it.

mom, it’s like this. I don’t want her to feel embarrassed by me saying no in front of everyone (‘ah, how sweet’, i think) but, I don’t want to go with her, so i will tell her the truth afterwards.

seriously?

it’s good, mom. it’s good.

you’d be a jerk! i say in defense of all girls being treating badly by dumb boys.

huh? no. no mom, no. he laughs. you see i have no idea when she might ask. she might even have it announced over the intercom, and you know, i want to look like a good guy, but then, well, i don’t want to go, so i will be nice about it when i tell her forget it. i’ll be kind. i’ll even smile, let her know it’s okay, that i am doing her a favor.

oh! my! god! i scream, even though my mother told me to never take God’s name in vain.

he laughs.

i try to explain how unreasonable, how jerky, how rude! his idea is.

it’ll be okay mom. trust me. she’ll be fine.

he saunters, nonchalantly out of my bedroom.

you’re a jerk! i yell after him, knowing he knows i’m a good mom, a responsible mom, and that sometimes words fly out without much effort.

he laughs.

i love you, too, mom, he shouts back.

not two minutes pass when he walks back into my room.

he’s laughing, jovially.

she just tweeted me, he begins. she straight out told me not to believe anything i’ve heard. she has no plans to ask me to the dance.

thank goodness, i say. so glad she won’t have to deal with your jerkiness, i add.

ah, mom, you’re funny.

funny or not, i realize that somewhere down the line, when teaching my son about being a good, honest person, and the importance of treating others with respect, he twisted it, most likely without intent, and assumed it was okay to do the wrong thing to make something right.

sigh.

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La Habra, CA

IMG_3666Earthquakes are nothing new. Something experienced through the years. A shift here. A  jolt there. A rock. And a roll. Everywhere. But not often. They come and go. Spend years hibernating. Then one day, or another, they jerk. Wake up whatever location the epicenter is in and its surrounding areas. Put people on the alert. Scare them. Mix up their emotions.

FRIDAY, MARCH 28

When I felt the house move, unexpectedly, as if something sharp jabbed into its side and from below, something like an aggressive child playing a rough game of Hide-and-Seek, sticking his pointy edged stick into the solid confines of the cardboard box, suspecting a hider hidden within, my heart did a quick-step and my voice squeaked surprise.

Cupboards flew open. Glass shattered. Pictures fell off the wall.

From our bedroom, I leaped from my side of the bed, ran to the door frame, and stationed myself there, hollering to Rudy to do the same. He stood in the frame by the kitchen and waited for the earth to stop rolling, hollering back, “I’m good!”

The electricity suddenly turned off just as the house stopped moving, making one last loud creak of its wooden bones. Dark. And. Silent. Until I heard Rudy stomping through the kitchen, the glare of flashlights bending around walls, eventually coming into full view. “Here,” he said, handing me a light source. Then he walked away, returning a mere minute or two later with candles, saying we should conserve the batteries on the flashlights. (Which, by the way, we learned that candles are a no-no. Wicks mean matches, matches make fire, and fire can cause an explosion if there is a gas leak.)

Curious about where the actual earthquake hit, I tried my phone. Googled Earthquakes Today. La Habra, 5.1 it said. Confused that my location was getting in the way of facts, I tried again. La Habra, 5.1 Magnitude. I re-Googled my request with something about Earthquakes in CA Today. La Habra, 5.1. Just then lights flashed back on. And I heard the newscast relaying  the information that, yes indeed, La Habra had been hit. Interestingly, I thought, Cool, we have never been the epicenter of an earthquake! But then I thought, What! We are the epicenter! Yikes!.

Not much damage. A few things scattered about. Some shards of glass spread on the floor. Framed pictures faced down. A single wine bottle, hurdled off its rack, leaving its large family behind, landed, unbroken, under the kitchen table.

SATURDAY, MARCH 29

The day was filled with aftershocks, most notably in the evening. Large jolts, as if we’d been smacked hourly by an out-of-control car, veering into our home’s structure. Though my heart jolted right along with the quake, I knew there wasn’t much I could do except be prepared to duck-for-cover, if necessary. Our floors are scattered with mementos, some antiques, most not. It matters not whether we put these things back up today or next week. Earthquakes are unpredictable. Random.

SUNDAY, MARCH 30

Just before I planned to drag myself to the kitchen to start brewing a cup of coffee, another precursor to The Big One, or just an aftershock, hit. My body tensed. Toes pointed. Calves tightened. My stomach was sucked in, pressing my back into the bed’s mattress. Shoulders froze. Arms wrapped around my head. It took me a minute to realize I was under some form of duress, until I took a deep breath. And felt my body slowly loosen. Relax. Return to normal.

Not long after, with coffee in hand, while looking out the living room windows, gazing at puffy clouds, blue skies, and swaying tree branches I felt the floor roll, something like sitting in a row boat, gentle waves rocking it back and forth. Quietly. Peacefully. And yet, not knowing if danger lies beneath.

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Liar, Liar

girl_boy talkingThey’re sitting around a large, rectangular, standard issue, classroom table, doing work, and chatting. Well, one girl was chatting chatting chatting. Nonstop. She’s telling the story about an accident her mom was involved in. A serious one. I mean, seriously, this girl went on and on and on about how one car crashed into the rear of another car, which caused that car to crash into the next car’s rear-end, and it just continued. A domino effect. Collide collide collide. Somewhere in this story one of those car flipped, “like five times,” she said. Flip flip flip.

Someone asked if her mom was okay and the girl just kept chatting, stating that her mom was fine. That she had just a little bump. On her forehead. Right there, right above her left eyebrow. One kid, a boy who seemed to be deep in thought, stopped her mid-sentence. Looked at her with contemplation. His lips gently pinched, and his eyes narrowed. Squinted, full of doubt. He casually claimed that she was lying. And she responded that she was not.

“I mean, really?” he began. “That many cars crashed into one another, and one kept flipping? It’d be all over the news,” he pressed.

The girl went on to say that yes indeed it did happen, and that she didn’t know why it wasn’t on the news. But the boy challenged her, brought up an old story from a previous time.

“Last year you told me your brother’s super strong tooth, the one that could chomp through anything, took a bite out of a brick building. That the whole thing fell down.” Crumbled to the ground. Crumble crumble crumble.

She went on and on, saying it was all true, that it all really happened, but the boy just looked at her, and he had only one more thing to say.

“Liar,” he told her.

“Liar,” someone else added.

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The Moment is NOW

IMG_2860I don’t feel it, yet I am. 52 years old.

Where did the time go? I ask myself. Sometimes. Most times, though, the real question I’m curious about is, What is ahead of me?

The stickler is, not what are my future plans, but what are my here and now plans. The living in the moment moments. And now, right now, this is a moment. Me. Writing. Talking to myself. And to anyone who wants to hear, or read, what I have to say.

Life is what I make it. It’s up to me.

I try not to look back, unless there is a lesson embedded back there, a lesson I can use at this moment. Right now.

I am 52 today.

It is what it is. A number. A number that belongs to me. Describes me. But isn’t who I am.

I am a person.

Someone full of wisdom. Careful thoughts. Patience. And deep-rooted happiness.

At this moment, this very moment, I contemplate how I fit into the natural world, rather than how nature fits into my world.

Why am I here? What is my purpose?

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Women Rule the World, but Men are in Control

IMG_2074It’s funny, but if you watch, seriously pay attention to TV shows, movies, and commercials, it’s the women who rule the roost. A roost that parallels real life. Men back off, and accept the knowledge and skill women seem to possess.

If she wants a certain car, there’s no debating. She’s simply in-the-know and her decision is the solid one. If a guy wants to help his girl with the new baby, he better-well embrace her standards and specifications. Otherwise, he’ll find himself being shoved aside, being told he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I mean, because really, she’s the expert, right?

Watch a man’s face, when confronted with a confident, knows-what-she-wants woman. He looks down, unsure of himself, feels like an idiot, and backs off. All the while the woman smiles her winning smile, crowding him out, taking over all the available space, having her way.

Yet. Change locations. Have men step out of the home-front, the personal life, and suddenly they are in control. In general, it’s a location overloaded with testosterone. A place where guys confidently fist-and-shoulder-bump one another. A guy’s hangout, where men become powerhouses. The top-dog. A guy’s guy. The master’s of the universe.

If women maintained their bossy role, the one they possess at home, and threw it out into the world at large, they might just rattle a few chains, turn things upside down, and not only would they rule the world, but they’d rule it with complete control.