Ancestors

As I flipped the date on my block calendar this morning, the date struck me. Today is not a particularly striking date that I know of for me, personally. It is because of the day itself. Thoughts triggered in my mind and began ricocheting around, tripping the wires of memories and deep thought.
Today’s date is of no special significance to me, but it is to others in the world. Dates of birth, death, anniversaries, engagements, promotions, of being fired. So many possibilities. With 7 billion people in the world, this date is noteworthy to many. I have my own dates. My Mom-Carole’s birthday is Monday; the 17th. My best friend from high school days has her birthday the 13th. My mom married her 2nd husband sometime in September; I have no idea of the date now, but I used to know when I was a pre-teen. Of course, Americans have the memory dates of Labor Day, and no small, easy memory, September 11.

It made me think of Mom-Carole’s birthdate in 1936. Of my mom’s in 1942. Of My great-grandmother’s in 1898, and my thoughts continued farther back. The other day in meditation class, Beth, my wonderful instructor-friend, mentioned our ancestors – not just the recent ones we know of and can remember, but farther back – 50 generations, maybe. I am proud to have Native American blood from both sides; my paternal great-grandmother was full blooded Mohawk. My maternal aunt, while doing our family tree was able to trace ancestors back from one branch back to the 1500s coming from Holland. Along the way she discovered those settlers new to America obtained Mohawk offspring, so I have it on both sides, and it makes me proud. It was easy, with Beth’s instruction, to imagine those fierce, wild, wonderful women dancing around a bonfire – hair swinging, mocassined feet touching the earth, stomping, shuffling, living their lives and passing on their own past to future generations. I could feel that connection deep within me, and it makes me feel bolder, more connected, more in tune with myself. I cannot help but feel those distant ancestors would approve of who I am today.

We are survivors, all of us. We all have histories that have brought us to where we are right now, to who we are right now. Each of us have past generations that began farther back than any of us can grasp in the realm of our imagination. Somewhere back into the far reaches of time life began then bloomed and spread. We evolved, and even if we are believers in the Creation or Evolution it doesn’t matter. Each of us has evolved from which ever creation myth our religion says, or from what science believes; we have evolved from those first persons, on and on and on, forward, 

to who we are today.





Each of us have ancestors who lived, breathed, died and passed those genes forward – good, bad, or indifferent. We are who we are because of them. Each one of them endured, thrived, suffered; they lived for us. To have a small glimmer of those who can before me so long ago was such a gift, and such a special, eye opening moment for me. I felt connected to the past, and I felt empowered for my future. I am not able to pass on pieces of my DNA to future generations, but I can pass on other parts of myself. One day my words and thoughts will make a difference to someone who will either read them or feel them in their soul. My nieces, my nephews, my cousins – they all pass on blood that has been part of our shared past, and I am so very proud to be part of all that will come.

The Late Bloomers Club, book review

This was the perfect book for my mood the past few weeks. It is simple, yet complex, and full of niceness. It is set in a small town in the Northeast Kingdom, otherwise known as northeastern Vermont. A development company has set its sites on acquiring property in fictional Guthrie, and is determined to install a big box store. At the same time, Nora, owner of the local diner, inherits a piece of property that the developer is interested in when it's owner, Peggy the cake lady dies. Nora's sister is part owner, and her vote is to sell the property, take the money, and run. Nora has spent her life caring for people; her mother when she became, ill, her father when he could not fathom how to live without his wife, her younger sister, Kit. She has to learn how to juggle all the demands on her time and resources, but at the same time, she wants to keep her small town intact and not let the developer interfere with "keeping Guthrie small."

It is a satisfying book, with characters I came to truly like and appreciate. I found myself sad when the book came to an end. A true feel-good book, I am so pleased to have been able to read it in advance from Net Galley in exchange for a review.

A Day in the Life

Let me tell you about my evening. About my evenings the last month or so, actually. At some point I leave my desk, lock my office door and walk to the parking lot to my car that has baking in the sun all day. I start the car, roll down the windows and let more fresh, hot air in, yet some of the steam escapes at the same time. I start whatever audio book I am listening to at the moment – today it is fiction, but over the past month it has been a mixture of non-fiction books; Brene Brown’s, Daring Greatly or Rising Strong, Thich Nhat Hahn’s Silence, Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart. It calms me as I drive. I drive back roads 99.5% of the time, and once I cross a certain main highway, the traffic lightens and the scene becomes more bucolic. This is by choice. It is less miles and a whole lot more stress to take the interstate. Along the route I travel I meander around a lake, and each day I look forward to how the lake will look; rainy today, smooth, calm (this time of year not very often). I cross a tributary river and enjoy the sight of people fishing off the bridge. I pass farm land with cows grazing, I pass swampy areas with water standing because of the plethora of summer rain storms. I pass a few abandoned houses, and these always make my heart skip a beat; the story of the people who must have once lived there fuel my imagination. Eventually I wind my way down the north end of my road, pull into my driveway. As I open the car door, nine times out of ten I sit and smell the heat, smell the sunshine or the rain blowing in. I listen to the sound of wind in the trees, dogs barking in the distance, a chicken clucking and squawking down the road. I listen to the quiet and the calm and I feel my shoulders begin to loosen as I set my feet on the ground, grab my bag and walk into my quiet, cool, waiting house. I speak to my cats, to my bird, make sure all have food and water, and I head back to my bedroom to change my clothes, take off my jewelry. I thank God, my angels, the Buddha who all wait patiently on my personal alter. I thank them for allowing my safe return home. I light a candle, a stick of incense, I set a timer on my iPad and I settle in to meditate for 20-45 minutes. This is my time, my sacred time, and it has become a ritual and a routine in my daily life. Without it, I know I would bring home the stress of the day and the tensions of this year. I am determined to not live my job 24 hours a day.

Tonight as I chopped chicken and kale for my dinner my mind wandered. In spite of my quiet meditation and my refusal to dwell on my job, snippets of conversations from this afternoon drifted through my thoughts. It occurred to me that writing is a catharsis, and it occurred to me that someone needs to write about this. It feels necessary to let others to know what the day is like in my line of work. What it is we face each and every day. From the conversations this afternoon, throughout the day, for the past few months, and even the last few years I know that many co-workers are stretched beyond a breaking point. Today the discussion was centered on why they have not walked out the door already. There are many reasons that range from needing the work, from fear of what they would do without the job that has become their livelihood. If someone were to take the pulse of all the people who work where I do, I believe it would be safe to say that over 95% of them are unhappy, over-worked, scared, stressed, worried, fearful of many things; evaluations, failure, their sanity, and worse of all, fearful for their physical safety and that of others around them. I did not today hear any of them talk about the more noble reasons they stay where they are, but they are firmly rooted inside of them, I have no doubt. Today was not a day to be noble, though. Today they were tired and filled with angst.

Now let’s talk for a moment about what I do for a living. I am a school librarian. I work at a high needs, high poverty, inner city elementary school. The state evaluation has rated us as an F school, and we are in our last year of bringing the school grade up to a C or higher. It seems, at the surface, to be a task that is achievable. I would like to think it is. We put in long hours, work hard on lesson plans, work hard to make each day special for the kids, for our co-workers, for ourselves. To get where I am I did not go to school to learn to teach. I attained a BA in Humanities and earned my MA in Library and Information Science. I took 13 graduate level classes and paid a lot of money to become a librarian. More about that another time.
Now let me give you a glimpse of my day today. Just today. I arrived at work at 6:20, leaving my house by 5:50 this morning. I expected children at 7:45, so in the hour before they arrived to do the morning show, I did everyday routine tasks – filled the copier with paper, filled a bucket with ice for myself to use throughout the day, ran the laminator, checked the weather and date for the kids to report on the morning show. I searched for literacy standards for kindergarten through fifth grade reading. I considered the classes I would have later – both 2nd grade. I am the technology resource at the school, which means I have to keep around 400 computers in working order, in addition to managing the library for students and teachers. I have been struggling with three new carts of laptops gifted to us last year; they were all prepared for the school year and then 90 of them dropped off the wireless network. That is long and complicated, but I am down to 61 not connecting; a headache to be dealt with, slowly each day. Throughout my day I hear a lot of “I know you are super busy, but…”. Many people hear that. I do what I can to help; make copies, laminate, gather books, fix a laptop; whatever needs doing.  Essentially, like many people on the job, I hit the ground running each and every day. New to my job requirements this year is being a part of the school master schedule. More about what that means at a later time. Essentially, I fill in for teacher planning time in order to help them concentrate on planning for the needs of their individual students.
This is hard for me. It sounds minimal – about 10 classes a week, for a total of around 5 hours of my week. I only see each class every second or third week, so walking an entire class to and from locations without their teacher is quite a challenge; like herding cats, quite honestly. The first class made it finally, basically intact, and then we ran over in time for me to pick up the next class. In this hour of time I tried to adhere to boundaries set by the school, by their teachers, by myself for media center etiquette. In this I failed miserably. There is no reason to sugar coat it; it was a circus and the chaos circled around me. I was told no, there was shouting, pouting, resistance, tears (not mine), running, jumping….and today was actually a more quiet day than yesterday. Did I mention books? I was able to check out books to one of the classes today – imagine that? I was a librarian for about 40 minutes of my day 9 ½ hour day today.

Today I took a lunch. Most days I can’t, or I eat on the fly. I actually had 15 minutes that I could sit with a friend and we could chit chat about our day, our lives (it is her granddaughter’s birthday today!). She was called away, as she often is when we try to share a few moments for lunch. I finished working on one laptop, switched to another. I checked and answered emails, I created a form to help track equipment repairs, did some maintenance requests, helped a teacher find a few books, logged into the computers for a kindergarten class. This class is without a classroom teacher. Their teacher left last week; she just quit. There are rumors as to why, but I cannot speculate, and really, to me it does not matter; there is nothing I can do except support where I can. The class was doing really well. Until all at once, they were not. These are kindergarteners. This is the same class that last week; the same day their teacher left them, who thought it was fun to run around the library, hitting computers, pounding on keyboards, laughing, shouting NO, shoving books off shelves. It still makes me sweat. I admit I had a bit of a sigh when the exact same behaviors happened today. It was a relief to know that I was not alone in my inability to handle them. And it was interesting that it was the same four students this week causing the same chaos. Very destructive, however, and very scary that in kindergarten they can think of these terrible ways to behave. Together we wrangled them and I helped get them back to their classroom, safely, but it took a toll on her, a seasoned teacher, just filling in to allow the students time to learn how to use a computer. It broke my heart when she came back in a few moments later to gather her belongings, after they were safely out of her care. She fought very hard to hold back tears, and she had to walk away when the tears tried to take over.
From there it was dismissal time. It is in the high 90s each day, with humidity well into the 80s or higher. The noise of the buses, the noise of the children, the heat outside, all make a very uncomfortable wait as we try to make sure that 500 children leave us safely. It is something to be experienced. Indescribable. After dismissal I went back to my office to finish the last minute things I needed to do. 3:10 rolled around, and I made a mental note that I could leave, but it was 4:10 before I finally was able to walk away. My desk is cleared, a pile of laptops waiting to be picked up for repairs, another left to reimage overnight. Emails finished, everything on my desk wrapped up for the day. Tomorrow is another day.
Tonight I still hear the voices of sadness in the teachers I work with. I hear their despair; their tone of frustration and defeat that they are not able to teach, that students behaviors are too unruly and too disruptive. The voice of one or two per class can, and do disrupt the learning of the entire class. It is heartbreaking.

As children we adults of the world today attended school. Some of us liked school (I did) and some did not, but we could depend on our teachers and our school, for the most part, to be a safe environment. Learning was there for us; we just had to grasp it. I understand that not everyone had a great school experience. There is bullying and always has been, there are tensions and rules and regulations. There were tests and failures and successes. There were friendships that I personally have had since kindergarten. I am lucky enough to be from a small town and to have attended the same school as my parents, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother. My aunts and uncles, cousins, both younger and older attended those same schools, and the youngest of our generations still do. Times have changed. The world has changed. People have changed. Schools have changed. Today’s education at high poverty, high needs schools is beyond anything any of us have signed up for. There has to be a change in education. We are so quickly losing teachers, losing the attention of students. I do not know the answers. I do know that many people point fingers at teachers and schools, and many people, including the state, set mandates and guidelines about what will occur, or else. If someone could step in our shoes for a day, for a week, they would see that we, as educators, are stretched to the limits of what we can do as human beings. If those who were so busy pointing fingers as if that can make a difference – if they had to deal with being bit, hit, punched, spit on, kicked – shouted at, disrespected, lied to, stolen from, threatened, cursed at, and so on; they might put their fingers down and possibly find a much better way to do things. Because at this point, I am not alone in believing that I have done what I do because I love it. I don’t love it anymore, and in all honestly, I have not loved it for a very long time. And judging from today’s overheard conversation? I am not alone in this either.

I heard the train call my name.

The crossing, looking into
downtown in front of our old house.

Off in the distance I hear a train whistle on this early Sunday morning. It's a lonely sound, that. It's always made my heart ache a little, hearing its siren call, deep in the night. Long and mournful. I used to hear it in my old room as a teenager and it set my heart in motion, creating a longing and a low ache deep inside of me. As children, my sisters and I lived just a few houses from the tracks, and I don't know if it is a longing for childhood that creates that emotion inside of me, or if it is something more I cannot pinpoint. I can imagine the location of the tracks, and how we used to joyfully walk the rails during the day - not too far down, and not to a point where we could not hop off without injury if a train ever did rush on by. We could always walk safely from our house to the right down the rails, all the way to Volney Street. There were safe places to hop off along the way, and we were expert at walking on top of the rails.

Hollyhocks

We played in the ditches near the tracks, too, catching frogs, watching dragonflies dance and flit around tall stalks of hollyhocks,

Hollyhock dolls

cornflowers, cattails, and Queen Anne's lace. We picked the hollyhocks to make beautiful dolls from their flowers; elegant ladies with with wide, flowing floral ball gowns. Their heads and faces came from the unopened buds, and we loved them. I remember my father teaching us how to make them, which surprises me, even now. It is a memory I am not sure where came from, but it is there, nonetheless.   

I have an image permanently in my mind of those tracks and the elegant curve that swept away from our house back toward Syracuse. Still, the last time I was home I walked around town taking photos - of some of these very things; the flowers in the ditches along the train tracks, of the sweep of the curve of the track near our old house, and even the trees and the yard from far in the back where we used to play. As time passes I am so glad I have these photos to take out and look at now and then.

The tracks and curve near our old hom

Cornflowers

I know in my mind, I saw a plethora of faces pressed up against the glass as passengers were swept along from point to point. I also know now that these were not passenger trains, but freight trains coming from Oswego and Fulton and from the nuclear power plant at Nine Mile Point on Lake Ontario and at a variety of other points north and beyond. Their destination was Syracuse and maybe other points within the state or west. At one time in the distant past, Phoenix was a hub of activity, although rail travel was not at it's heyday; it is a part of the Old Erie and Barge canals, and river travel was a pretty sound means of transporting goods through the village. Still, the sounds of the train; the whistle, combined with the clickity clack of the metal on metal; the high pitched squeal of iron wheels on the steel of the rails themselves all created an indelible memory in my mind and heart. The low rumble of the motion and the weight of cars passing is something I can hear even now as the train moves along far in the distance from where I am now - points unknown. The image still in my mind's eye is the curve of the tracks as it headed left from our house, toward the city. The trees closed in a bit, although there were wide ditches on the sides, beautiful, elegant, tall hardwood trees grew glorious in the autumn, were picturesque and snow covered in the winter, then brilliant green in the spring and early summer.

Flowers in the railway ditch.

It is imprinted in my mind always. Now, as an adult, I know that Chestnut Street crosses the rail track not far away over near the cemetery. I know that if I were to walk or drive toward downtown, turn left on Cherry Street and walk to the end, then turn left on Chestnut the tracks would cross my path again. But that stretch in between, to a child was unknown and unexplored. We were not allowed to venture that way on foot; the fear instilled in us by our parents and grandparents of the danger involved and never knowing when the train would appear. It was a healthy fear, and we took heed, although today I would be curious to walk it. From a child's point of view, that was destination unknown and because I listened to my parents, where the tracks went and what they passed was something I could only ever imagine.

Cat tails along the tracks.

The whistle in the night, and the rumble in the distance still, all these years later make me long for something although I have never been able to pinpoint just what. I have seen movies and read stories about people who rode the rails - especially back during the days of the Depression. I have had fleeting thoughts that maybe my soul lived back then, and I rode the rails all over, living off the land or whatever could be salvaged from the cars themselves. I can't help but imagine myself as a hobo, as a vagabond, no home to go back to, the only future in front of me wherever the train took me. It is a romantic notion, this. It does not feel sad or lonely, or even overly tragic. I like to think that, although we are programmed to believe it was a hard life, it still was a life of freedom and of choice that moved individuals along wholly free with choices, not a life a life of tragedy or sadness as we now believe. In the children's book The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, Edward encounters a railway tramp, and for many years he travels with him, until one day he is taken from his friend, and his next adventure begins. Edward was happy travelling the rails, and I cannot help but believe that if that was a past life of mine life so long ago, it was a happy one full of adventure and wonder. And I cannot help but believe that those are the reasons why my heart is so full of longing and ache whenever I hear a train whistle at night, or off in the distance very early in the morning. The longing is for a life that probably made me happy long, long ago.

In 2005 when I was in Italy I took my first real train ride from Florence to Venice, and then from Venice back to Rome. It was beautiful, watching the scenery from the window. Last summer I took the train from Syracuse to Toldeo, Ohio, where I met my boyfriend and we drove to the west coast. This summer I took the train from Lakeland, to my sister's house in Columbia, SC. Riding on the train, looking out the window at the car's the houses and the landscape flashing by, it filled my heart and soul with wonder and even more of a longing to travel more. I believe it is imperative to who I am that I am meant to wander, to wonder, and to dream. The sound of the train whistle speaks to me from some place deep inside of my deepest imagination.

Queen Anne's Lace, along the ditch by the tracks

Wild flowers

The house where we spent our early childhood, just two houses from the rail road tracks.

Lavender growing near our old house.

Trees in the yard behind our old house.

Eat Your Peas First

Another day. Saturday. I was glad for a bit of a morning; to me my morning time sets the tone for my day. When I rise to go to work it is so early, and it is hard to get up even earlier to take a few moments to myself. I have the habit now, of coming home to have some quiet time for meditation, for quieting my brain, for thanking God and my angels for a good day; or for knowing that tomorrow is a new day; a chance to have a better day.

Stress and strife are inevitable. I learn that more and more as I listen to and read more self-help, self-guidance books. I started the habit of those books when Steve was gone a lot and I would spend hours in Barnes & Noble reading. I was restless and it was a time when fiction did not resonate with me; that happens from time to time. I think even then my angels were letting me know something was not right with my life, even if my heart and my brain would not agree there was. After Steve left, I switched to more books about surviving loss and coping with every single day, along with the heartache I was in. I used to see Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart, but reading it escaped me. I know I saw it, especially when I became a bookseller. It came out in 1996, and Steve left in 2000 so it was still prominently on the shelves. It just never reached for me; I think that time in my life was bad but I needed other guidance. The book, now, is capturing my attention. Her words are down to earth and simply put; they resonate with me. Things fall apart; it is the human condition that nothing ever stays the same, and it makes sense that life and relationships don’t either. Her words make me know that I am not alone in any of the situations I have ever been in; there are good and bad times both. It is how we deal with the inevitably bad times; we can strike out and be angry, we can pass blame or responsibility. We also hide behind several masks to try and get through bad things.

Another lesson Pema teaches is that sometimes we just feel off and we don’t know why. We must persevere; that “off” feeling is perfectly normal too; it is our psyche, our world – the spirits – trying to let us know that trouble is there, even if our brain does not want to recognize it. My world has been off this summer. I could not pinpoint the strife, as I have written about so much already. For me, I know now, but did not want to recognize or give voice to it; it was fear, plain and simple. Fear of change, fear of loss, fear of picking up again. We have to change in order to grow, and sometimes the change involves discomfort or sadness, even difficult challenges we do not want to face. Yet when we face them, accept these challenges – fear, vulnerability, we grow. We may not know the answer or the solution but we cannot get to the other side of the challenge without living through it; there is no other way or no other solution. Any side-stepping we do will really just avoid what we don’t want to face, and sooner or later it will be there waiting for us to deal with it.

I understand and appreciate that philosophy, that of side-stepping or avoidance. I think of my grandmother’s simple advice when I was young. I hated peas with a passion – I still do. But as a child you have to eat what is put in front of you. I remember sitting at the table for a long time after everyone was finished with peas on my plate. It was excruciating. And – for the record, I do not think my parents did me any harm by trying to enforce this rule. I believe in discipline and facing difficulty were taught as a result of it. Still, as a kid, it was tough. I remember my grandmother telling me simply "eat your peas first". Get it done, get it over, and then you can go on and enjoy the rest of your meal. I took it to heart. I don’t eat peas now – they still disgust me. But I live by that philosophy. Eat your peas first. Do the hard tasks first, saving the better ones for after. It has made me less of a procrastinator, and boy, does procrastination run in my family. It is a lesson I am glad I learned early on; not just for procrastination, but also a lesson in doing those tasks I dread first, before they can stew too long. It is a habit pretty much ingrained in me. I know, too, if I catch myself dragging my heals on something I need to just go ahead and do it; it is often the only solution. There is a song by O.A.R. called I Go Through. I love it. The lyrics describe how I feel: "But you go 'round and around it, you go over and under; I go through".It's a great song - here is a link to listen : I Go Through

Everything Changes

Everything changes; nothing stays the same. It is the one truth in life I believe with certainty. I've considered this all summer, with all my walks in nature; mountain hikes, bubbling streams, crashing ocean waves against seemingly timeless rocks. Those changes are so slow and so gradual, but time and weather; the elements wear down even the hardest of rocks. It's quite beautiful, and yet when I look at mountainsides or ocean shorelines I cannot help but try to imagine what once they looked like. Life is like that, too.  Continually changing; wearing away, evolving, moving on and becoming something new.

I've been all about Me the last few months. I have had a harder time empathizing with others, because I have been so preoccupied with myself and working through the peculiarities of life. Part of me acknowledges that I am allowed to be human and I am allowed my own thoughts and concerns. Part of me judges myself for lacking so little time to spend considering what others might need. My friend just told me “that’s ok; we are all busy.” It kind of stuck in my head, and it has been echoing around. "Busy" is a word we hide behind. The more I hear it the more it irritates me; not so much from others, but for myself. What is this “busy”? That is how I live my life; continually fluttering from on thing to the next, and yet feeling like I not wholly living as I should. As if I don’t complete any one task easily or completely because I am so busy being “busy”. It’s not a great way to live, task to task. I don't want to spend my life being "busy". That is no life.

I am so hard on myself. I am trying to figure out this new chapter in life, and I am a little bit topsy-turvy, not quite certain where my place is anymore. I feel on the outskirts of everything; my friends my work, living here in Florida; very much on the outskirts of my own family. I am working so hard, wanting to do everything the right way, and I am not even sure what that entails anymore, trying to adapt to a new reality. Right now my safe place is here in my house, in the quiet and peace, with the kitties. Yet even here I sometimes feel restless, uncertain, unsettled. My mind moves relentlessly, continually in many directions, I feel so tumultuous all the time, I can barely even settle on one thought or one action. It’s a whirlwind, for sure.

It’s been a long time since I have questioned where I belong; I am usually pretty good at adapting and working it out. Professionally, I am at the same place. And yet nothing is the same; I am an outsider looking in and feeling different energy. All the upheaval makes me feel completely off track. I wish I could pinpoint why I am so unsettled. None of it is about me; I am just a small part of a big picture, and truthfully at the end of the year I have a choice to move on or continue; it will not be a failure for me, regardless of how it plays out. That is putting the cart before the horse; it is just the beginning of the year, and there is every reason for hope. It occurred to me just now as I was typing, that truthfully, the answer my disheveled brain seeks lies within myself. Only I can control how I feel and how I act. What I do professionally does not change inherently who I am. It is in my nature to be dedicated to whatever I do in all matters. I give my best, and I give as much of myself as possible. That is not going to change, and I am no less than I ever have been. Things need to be different in order for success. I am making this bigger than it needs to be inside the confines of my own head. As a former boss used to tell me, that which we resist persists. It is time to stop resisting and just do what needs to be done in the most acquiescent way possible. It’s pretty much as simple as that.

So I ask myself, do my beliefs in the way things have been in the past liberate me? If my beliefs don’t allow me to feel free, then what is the point in holding on and resisting change? These words are a trigger for me. My following the path of least resistance has not liberated me to being open to a new future. I think my anxiety is not really a whole-hearted belief in an old way of doing things. It is more of an unknown uncertainty of what the new direction will be. I have had little say in the way things progressed over the years anyway, so why does it now matter? It is my own resistance to change that is causing me the stress and strife I feel.

I think I need to be accepting of my fear; to face what it is that makes me scared and anxious, rather than just trying to help myself feel better. Maybe that is what I just did; by admitting that  I am scared and anxious. I need to reassure myself that it will be okay, but not hide behind it. Maybe the continual thinking about it and talking about it is helping. I feel like I just earned the breakthrough of a little clarity. I’ve considered whether I am self-soothing or numbing myself from my fears. I am not running away from the truth, but I have been not quite making the connection that I need to just face my fear, acknowledge it and let myself feel it. I have been worried about not being enough. I have not ignored the monster in my closet; the fear of change, but I have been giving it far too much power in my life. It is alright to recognize it, but not to allow it to run my life. I am curious now; what is it my fear wants me to learn; what lesson is it trying to teach me, because there is a lesson here somewhere.

I read a lot of things – blogs, articles, books, and so on, to try to keep myself sane and healthy. One I read recently is that I should question whether or not something catastrophic or traumatic happened to me as a child that may have instilled a fear in me that something bad may happen again. What a connection. I remember coming home from school when I was young; 6th grade. I remember sitting on the front porch with my older sister waiting for our younger sister to get home from school. We were blowing bubbles and kicking the lattice on the front porch with our heels contemplating what it was our parents wanted to talk to us about. It was so normal and so casual, and yet it was such a life changing event; our parents were divorcing. The world shifted completely for me at that moment. I think since then I have had a fear of change. I have long recognized that I don’t react well to change. Once it is upon me I end up adjusting, but it is that transitional time that is so difficult for me. I have never quite been able to shake that shoe-dropping feeling. I imagine that is what is happening to me now; a very real change that feels as if there is nothing I can do; it is completely out of my control. It has happened a few times in my life; that day with my parents. The day Steve left. The day I found out I was not going to be invited back to Corbett Prep. And these huge changes now, professionally. I think the common thread is that I always do the very best I can – even back when I was 10 or 11 years old, and it feels as if my best is not always enough. I have been so unprepared for changes completely out of my control. The first event in my childhood of losing control and having no voice have hugely affected me. It is a childhood trauma that continues to distress me even today, despite my best efforts that it doesn’t.

So how is it that I soothe myself when I go to the place of fear, anxiety; panic? I have learned deep breathing techniques that do help with everyday stress, and they definitely help when I am helping another soothe their anxieties. This time my calming techniques have not entirely been helpful, but I continue to try. To cope with these changes I have been hard on myself, willing myself to be "normal" and to just be open and accepting, but it has not worked completely at every moment. Rather than pausing to stop, think, and contemplate, I have found myself more reactive than I like. However, as time passes, I am finding the more I think and process, the more accepting I feel, so it seems that time is the healer this time. Writing has helped, too; writing for myself only; my thoughts and feelings, frustrations, and fears; that has been a true catharsis for me. There is still a road ahead of me, but being open, recognizing all those feelings and reactions makes me feel a little more open to where the road is taking me. There is a reason for all of this; each step in life we take sets us on the path we are meant to be on. One day I will be able to look back and know what it was.

Poetic Heart

Poetry. I've loved it all my life, even as a child. The flow of the words, the meaning behind them, the power they carry. Mini stories all on their own. I've written poetry as long as I can remember. My early attempts were rough. I remember re-reading them awhile back, and although I kept the book, I cringed at the rudimentary attempt. Life is about growing, and I did, especially with my poetry. Now and then I go through spurts of needing to write a poem-a-day. It can be about anything or anyone; they just make my heart happy. I was just reading some I stumbled on in a file from 2011. My random thoughts on life and living are really about the poetry of life; how I see it, how I feel, what life instills in me and how it inspires me. Sometimes the best name I can give them is the date they were written, and that is the case with these below.

April 26, 2011

The midnight once,
long ago was my friend,
my confidant.
we’d spend hours together,
the velvet midnight and I.
Somewhere, somehow,
along the way, the midnight
lost its grip on me –
the quiet of the hour
frightened me for awhile
The soul I bared
became lost somewhere
in the darkness –
caution, fear – life – all took over.
Tonight I find the midnight
holds me entranced again.
I’ve missed you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 27, 2011

Cats soft head
bumping my arm
stealthy paw reaching out
to touch; toes curling
around my finger.
A pleading “meh”
asking for something –
attention, the time of day
a scratch under the chin.
Sleek, warm body curled
up at my hip.
Life is good for Boots.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 28, 2011

If I could describe
the dream come true
of my trip to Italy –
another April 28
I am finding myself at a loss for words.
Rome, ancient and yet new
beautiful, grand, crumbling, full of life.
Chianti, where the pace
of life is slow.
Lilacs and jasmine,
sweet, peaceful, gorgeous
fat bumblees living la dolce vita in the
profusion of blooms.
Florence, small, vibrant,
haunted with ghosts and history
-incredible, delectable art.
Venice – the most serene.
Indeed.
La bella – che bella Italia.
Amore; mille baci e un forte
abraccio.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 29, 2011

I dream of green spaces –
long stretches of road,
no traffic in sight
shaded, hushed corridors
of leafy canopies.
Waves crashing the shore line,
huge islands of rock
standing sentinel
offering safety for none
but the seagulls.
I dream of tidal pools, primordial forests
but the dream – it scares me for the distance and the difference
offered – for the chance I cannot seem to take.
What is this hold that cannot –will not
release me from here?
The hold that keeps my dreams
to the dark of the night.
Is it opportunity I am unable to take
or, is it opportunity
waiting to find me here?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 30, 2011

Tonight I wore loneliness like a glove –
tight around me, letting me know it was there,
holding on so I had to do nothing
but sit
and do nothing
while listening to the quiet around me.
The cold will come
when the glove comes off.
For now, there is nothing
except the quiet loneliness
and my life,
ticking by,
second by second
not looking back to see if I am following.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 1, 2011

Tears, I think,
are often poison in our souls
that the body tries
to give back to God.
With tears, tonight,
I asked God to help me get rid of the harshness in my life-
the harshness in my heart
for the things I have let
build inside of me.
Natural disasters –
volcanoes;
they build over time,
pouring lava from the center of the earth
when just the right
pressure builds.
So too, are tears
--a volcano purging
my fears from my body.
My heart cries out—
I’m lonely
but somehow?
The tears help.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 2, 2011

Bruce Springsteen—
I always think of a
winters night in February 1981.
Oh, so long ago now.
Snow falling all around;
one of the most beautiful,
romantic moments of my
then young life.
A blue down ski coat,
  snowflakes falling,
  blue white in the night,
  blue eyes falling into
  my own
a first kiss, light,
sweet, then more.
Bruce Springsteen later
on the stereo; Born to Run
over and over;
I lost track
of time, of myself
of the moment.
Time did pass eventually.
Sunday morning came
but I never forgot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 3, 2011

The day? It came and went.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 4, 2011

I think of my mother today—
her birthday; it would have been
her 69th..yet she will remain
forever young
in my mind;
always laughing,
her smile,
her eyes
missed, but oh, so loved.

Her birthday, before she died,
I was in Italy.
I brought her card with me
and I mailed it from there,
the Italian stamp thrilled her and she
told me she’d keep it
forever.
and she did—
but who knew her forever
would be so short?
I was in Italy six years ago today—
thinking of my family--and what a time I had.
How proud I believe she was.
I love you Mom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 6, 2011

The heart doesn’t always
know what is good or bad
--right or wrong
the heart just
knows what it knows.
How can it be wrong
to want something
that was right to be again?
The heart—
it knows
and does not judge—
wrong, past hurts
past cracks.
It only knows
broken hearts need healing
often not caring how,
just reaching
for something—anything
to fill it up again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
May 15, 2011

I woke to a storm
early this morning—
thunder, far off, close,
lightning flashing like a
neon strobe.
rain—a deluge from above
I watched for a while,
then drifted back to a
restless sleep,
waking to a morning
   bright, sunny, fresh.
A new day, shiny
  with green grass
  already growing
happy from the rain
reaching toward the sun.
Rain, washing away
yesterday
leaving today wide open
to all it’s possibilities.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 8, 2010

Diamonds glitter on the
  dark road tonight—
    reflections of starlight
      on the sandy roadside.
I am reminded of watching
snow fall, silent
late at night;
the night a shimmering
joy all around me
diamonds on the snow
diamonds on the road.
Now and then the simplest of joy
and beauty reflect
upon my soul
  and I smile.