I also did a version of this one in July of 2011, but I think I like how this one turned out better. From October 2011, the last installment of the-story-of-my-life-in-one-hundred-words-or-less-assignment:
Maracas in the sky, I call them. They play their music with the whispering of the trees or in the heavy heat of a breeze-less day. Always, there is sun and warmth to accompany their continual concert of hypnotic buzzing and maraca-like harmonics. It is the steady, bewitching song of the cicada that has the power to soothe my soul and transport me back to my childhood summers in Michigan--camping with my grandparents, lazing in the hammock while reading Nancy Drew Mysteries; collapsing onto the cool, fragrant grass with ten other kids after a lively game of freeze-tag; walking home from Warren Pool in quiet contentment with my best friend, the flip-flopping of our shoes in rhythm to those maracas in the sky. It is in these hushed moments that our minds acknowledge the lulling call of the cicada and the renewing sway of their good vibrations.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Thursday, December 6, 2012
It Will Only Hurt for a Moment
As I lay on the couch, cocooned under a light blanket, in the throes of shivering feverish shudders, I argued with myself about reaching up from beneath that shelter to grab a heavier blanket. I wanted it so badly; it was draped across the top of the same couch, yet my fear of the intensely painful symptoms resulting from any movement, stopped me. I argued, justified, and taunted until finally, I just did it. New waves of nausea and misery wracked my body...but in a few moments it was over...and I laughed. Many of us do this everyday: afraid to move on from a situation, even though we know we will be better off. We stay--wishing, obsessing, arguing--but in the end, we can only help ourselves (and oftentimes, others involved) and know that the pain it causes to move on will pass. And then we will fly.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Do Your Thing
It is that thing that is closest to love, making you do things you would not ordinarily do. It is a different form of love. It is passion and joy. When you are doing it, you lose all sense of time; you forget to eat and sleep. It is that thing you have done since you were a child. If you have a child, they have told you that you should be doing it. You can't stop thinking about it even if you tried because it keeps coming up in your daily life: in movies, books, conversations, and most amazingly, in the people you meet. It is that thing that makes others secretly think you are crazy for giving up a stable, decently paying job in order to pursue your dream of doing that one thing. For me, it is writing, writers, and butterflies and my life is transformed.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Look Who Else Says to Dance (not Ellen...but we know she does, too)
Literally, within a few hours of deciding to post my old Dancing Upside Down piece last night, I was in bed leafing through a book I had just bought as a gift for Nathan or for all of us as a family--I had not decided--which was why I was looking through it, to see if he would like it. It's called Daily Joy and is a book of 365 photos with inspirational quotes by some of my favorite people. The book was put out by National Geographic, one of Nate's favorite organizations, and the photos are stunning, of course. Each page is dated, and there, right at the start of the book (I opened up to it--it's for January 4), is a quote by Rumi: .
Dance, when you're broken open.
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you're perfectly free.
Dance, when you're broken open.
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you're perfectly free.
Dancing Upside Down
I need to use my own words...
In October of 2011, I did four little writing projects: my life story in 150 words or less. Yesterday, while revising a larger project, I was sifting through some of my old pieces in search of a particular one to assist me with that larger revision. The piece I was looking for was one of those four short projects and was saved with the other three. When I pulled them up, I realized I could use my old words just as I was using other writers' old words. The Dancing Upside Down Snoopy was just what I needed to read, so maybe it's just what someone else might need to read too. (I did blog about this one when it first happened in September 2011, but this version is a bit different, not only for its brevity, but because I wrote it to encompass more of my life.)
I will print one piece each day for the next four days, just...because...they are my words and that is what a blog is supposed to be...
My dad always loved Snoopy. On a particularly dissonant day in September, I placed a dancing Snoopy sticker in my journal to somehow ensure my dad's guiding presence. The next day, I realized I had inadvertently stuck Snoopy upside down...
During my first thirty-three years of life, people doubted and awed as I deftly managed my riotously convulsing father through his daily grand mal seizures. To them it was improbable and precarious. To me it was just life. I danced when others could not hear the melody.
That day to day training taught me to flex and flow and be supple of spirit. My husband lives in Arizona while I raise our kids here in Michigan. Though we chose, we never expected...nearly three years now...but we dance. Even when we look or feel upside down, we find harmony and we dance. Thanks, Dad.
In October of 2011, I did four little writing projects: my life story in 150 words or less. Yesterday, while revising a larger project, I was sifting through some of my old pieces in search of a particular one to assist me with that larger revision. The piece I was looking for was one of those four short projects and was saved with the other three. When I pulled them up, I realized I could use my old words just as I was using other writers' old words. The Dancing Upside Down Snoopy was just what I needed to read, so maybe it's just what someone else might need to read too. (I did blog about this one when it first happened in September 2011, but this version is a bit different, not only for its brevity, but because I wrote it to encompass more of my life.)
I will print one piece each day for the next four days, just...because...they are my words and that is what a blog is supposed to be...
My dad always loved Snoopy. On a particularly dissonant day in September, I placed a dancing Snoopy sticker in my journal to somehow ensure my dad's guiding presence. The next day, I realized I had inadvertently stuck Snoopy upside down...
During my first thirty-three years of life, people doubted and awed as I deftly managed my riotously convulsing father through his daily grand mal seizures. To them it was improbable and precarious. To me it was just life. I danced when others could not hear the melody.
That day to day training taught me to flex and flow and be supple of spirit. My husband lives in Arizona while I raise our kids here in Michigan. Though we chose, we never expected...nearly three years now...but we dance. Even when we look or feel upside down, we find harmony and we dance. Thanks, Dad.
Friday, November 30, 2012
More Fitting Frankenstein
"...and if I was ever overcome by ennui (to put it lightly), the sight of what is beautiful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man, could always interest my heart, and communicate elasticity to my spirits."
Mary Shelley Frankenstein
Mary Shelley Frankenstein
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Fitting Frankenstein
"Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lour; but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before."
Mary Shelley Frankenstein
Mary Shelley Frankenstein
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Scattered Like Marbles
"...when, all in a moment some confounding remembrance...would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; often, before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought..."
"Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
"Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
It's All Relative
The waves of laughter swelled and rolled through the air, right at me, until the sudden splash of twenty-eight kids' and one teacher's joy drenched my senses. As the giggles died down, but all the smiles remained, a dawning awareness seeped into my thoughts: the very word that had caused near euphoria in a fourth grade classroom, barely registered a blip of sentiment when mentioned in my former field of nursing. How wonderful it felt to witness the antipodal response--a washing away of the stagnant and a refreshing swig of the new.
But their reaction really wasn't new...just...different. And not different for most, but different for me--a varied view of the same thing. Like the sight of the immense, ebbing and flowing ocean from any shoreline on Earth compared to its seemingly static, solid, blue-marble appearance as viewed from space. It is the same water, but what a distinct departure from what we're used to seeing up close. That's what the mention of this one word, in this one classroom did for me that day. It made me remember the relativity of life.
Can you figure out what the word was? I'm sure you have an idea. But here's an easier one:
During the same week, I was again jarred out of my old thought patterns. After over three years of being away, Joel realized that no one else in this family minds the pretty wild flowers that lightly dust our lawn in happy yellow spots. Nathan always kept it neatly mowed, but not once in those three years, did either of us put chemicals on our grass. Unbeknownst to Grace, until it was too late, Joel resumed his measured maintenance of the lawn, which included a methodic distribution of fertilizer and weed-killer, because that's what those yellow flowers were to Joel: ugly weeds.
When Grace found out...oh, the indignation and passion of our eight year old: "Daddy!" She was sharp and to the point. "You. Are a flower. Murderer!" Then she was nearly weeping, "Why? Why did you do it? I love those flowers! They're not ugly, they're beautiful!"
For the next six days, as the sparsely sprinkled yellow wildflowers wilted and died on our lawn, Grace went out each day and picked bountiful bouquets from our neighbor's chemical-free yard (probably the last one left on our block), to disperse into smaller bunches in varied miniature vases throughout the house, where Joel would be reminded of his murderous mistake. She put them on the little stand near the front door; she put them on the bathroom sink, in front of his toothbrush; she put them on the kitchen counter, near his lunchbox for work; she put them on the kitchen table, the living room table, and his bedside table.
Ironically, she failed to realize that by picking the flowers, she, too, was cutting their life short. I didn't want to squelch her tenacious drive to prove her point--Grace always stands up for what she believes in and she has no fear attached to doing so--I love that about her.
So. Diarrhea and Dandelions: a mundane, if inconvenient, bodily function and some ugly weeds? Or, I prefer: a hilariously gross-me-out-the-door word with the power to uplift and renew an entire classroom and beautiful, golden blooms that ignite the passions of at least one eight year old girl. It's all relative.
But their reaction really wasn't new...just...different. And not different for most, but different for me--a varied view of the same thing. Like the sight of the immense, ebbing and flowing ocean from any shoreline on Earth compared to its seemingly static, solid, blue-marble appearance as viewed from space. It is the same water, but what a distinct departure from what we're used to seeing up close. That's what the mention of this one word, in this one classroom did for me that day. It made me remember the relativity of life.
Can you figure out what the word was? I'm sure you have an idea. But here's an easier one:
During the same week, I was again jarred out of my old thought patterns. After over three years of being away, Joel realized that no one else in this family minds the pretty wild flowers that lightly dust our lawn in happy yellow spots. Nathan always kept it neatly mowed, but not once in those three years, did either of us put chemicals on our grass. Unbeknownst to Grace, until it was too late, Joel resumed his measured maintenance of the lawn, which included a methodic distribution of fertilizer and weed-killer, because that's what those yellow flowers were to Joel: ugly weeds.
When Grace found out...oh, the indignation and passion of our eight year old: "Daddy!" She was sharp and to the point. "You. Are a flower. Murderer!" Then she was nearly weeping, "Why? Why did you do it? I love those flowers! They're not ugly, they're beautiful!"
For the next six days, as the sparsely sprinkled yellow wildflowers wilted and died on our lawn, Grace went out each day and picked bountiful bouquets from our neighbor's chemical-free yard (probably the last one left on our block), to disperse into smaller bunches in varied miniature vases throughout the house, where Joel would be reminded of his murderous mistake. She put them on the little stand near the front door; she put them on the bathroom sink, in front of his toothbrush; she put them on the kitchen counter, near his lunchbox for work; she put them on the kitchen table, the living room table, and his bedside table.
Ironically, she failed to realize that by picking the flowers, she, too, was cutting their life short. I didn't want to squelch her tenacious drive to prove her point--Grace always stands up for what she believes in and she has no fear attached to doing so--I love that about her.
So. Diarrhea and Dandelions: a mundane, if inconvenient, bodily function and some ugly weeds? Or, I prefer: a hilariously gross-me-out-the-door word with the power to uplift and renew an entire classroom and beautiful, golden blooms that ignite the passions of at least one eight year old girl. It's all relative.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Happy
The day after hearing the news that Joel was on his way home, I received a text from the dodge ball friend, who said she'd been whistling and smiling all day thinking of our family. She said she even had two people say to her, "I didn't know you were a whistler."
That's the kind of friend she is.
At night, Grace goes to bed, and she is not kept awake by her anxiety or sadness; she knows her dad will be gone to work when she wakes and that he will be home each night. Her mind can finally rest as it should at night.
Nathan had ordered a movie ("Forrest Gump") from Netflix and we had planned on watching it Monday evening after we were all home from school/work. But then his coach asked him to help out with the middle school swimmers and I remembered that I had yoga class...so Nate said, "We can just save it for tomorrow...watch it then..." And it hit me that, yes, we could save it for tomorrow. It was a revelation. For three years, when we saw Joel, we lived our lives in hyperdrive, like we had to fit it all in in such a tiny amount of time. Often, even something as simple as figuring the logistics of watching a movie together, was not so easily solved when we had to factor in other activities that were maybe higher up on our list. Now, we could all...relax a little.
Since Saturday night, I've been going to bed with my husband and, like Grace, I am not left awake for hours, unable to turn my racing mind off, finally, I can sleep, too.
And Joel, he comes home from work and calls out: "He--LLO--- FAMILY!" Just like he did before he ever left.
And we are grateful and happy.
That's the kind of friend she is.
At night, Grace goes to bed, and she is not kept awake by her anxiety or sadness; she knows her dad will be gone to work when she wakes and that he will be home each night. Her mind can finally rest as it should at night.
Nathan had ordered a movie ("Forrest Gump") from Netflix and we had planned on watching it Monday evening after we were all home from school/work. But then his coach asked him to help out with the middle school swimmers and I remembered that I had yoga class...so Nate said, "We can just save it for tomorrow...watch it then..." And it hit me that, yes, we could save it for tomorrow. It was a revelation. For three years, when we saw Joel, we lived our lives in hyperdrive, like we had to fit it all in in such a tiny amount of time. Often, even something as simple as figuring the logistics of watching a movie together, was not so easily solved when we had to factor in other activities that were maybe higher up on our list. Now, we could all...relax a little.
Since Saturday night, I've been going to bed with my husband and, like Grace, I am not left awake for hours, unable to turn my racing mind off, finally, I can sleep, too.
And Joel, he comes home from work and calls out: "He--LLO--- FAMILY!" Just like he did before he ever left.
And we are grateful and happy.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Happy Birthday Joel--Balls, Balls, Everywhere!
Thursday, March 15, 2012: He was guided by Grace; he was persistent; he was resolute. His supervisors, inspired by his words, his determination to make something happen, put a date on it: March 25. They sent the fax off, yet again, requesting that he be accepted for duty at the Detroit Sector, but this time with an exact date: the start of the next pay period, March 25.
Joel had unearthed his ball and he put it right back into play!
He called me with the news. He told me about the date. He said his supervisors were going to "push this through" for him to get an answer from the "higher ups". He said that they were as determined as he was. He was elated. I was astounded; my eyes immediately filled but did not spill. Yet, after I hung up, quiet caution crept in, three years, two and a half months...such a long time with various and vague hopes that were never realized...
Nathan, calm, knowing, and sure said for the second time in two days: "He'll get it this time."
Me, confused and unsure: "Are you just saying that to make me feel better, or do you still really feel it?" (A few hours after I had dropped Joel off at the airport, he said he just felt it--that Joel would get it this time. He also said he knew Joel had finally learned that he needs to be more aggressive and that the guys he works for simply won't let him quit because he belongs in that job field.)
Nathan had heard about this story: When we were in Mexico, his brother, Dino, brought it up to him, about what he's been doing to get home to us these past two months, and then came the word "aggressive" and I couldn't help myself, I started to sing the old middle school/high school cheer: "Be! Ag-GRES-sive! Be! Be! Ag-GRES-sive!"
So Nathan knew: Leg work, combined with faith in yourself and the faith of others, combined with excellent work ethic equals Joel will finally get assigned a detail to work in Michigan. My son, the calm blue sea who makes others feel so at ease and peaceful, made me feel, at least for the moment, that this could be it.
But still, we did not tell Grace.
Inexplicably, I did tell everyone else. Not really on purpose. I didn't set out to tell people like my (favorite) sixth grade teacher, whom I hadn't seen in (calculating...) wow, 28 years or so (over 30 if you count from when he was last my teacher), but whom I had breakfast with on the morning of (and into the afternoon of) the 20th; he quizzed me on my life story and out it flowed.
I told school moms and school office workers who knew our story, because over the course of the school year it was revealed in one way or another, by Grace's frequent absences, by the absence and sudden appearance of her father, by the uncharacteristic (they thought) sadness during those moments in the mornings just before the school bell rang, when she was seeing him for the last time until...she never knew when...I told them. I told people every detail, down to the March 25th date. I told people who asked, like my sister, Cheri, who had read the latest post and knew the story of the night before Joel left, so she asked what happened with it once he'd been back to work in Arizona...and she happened to ask in front of all our book club members, so I told all of them, too!
And maybe Joel told his people...friends, family, I don't really know. But I do know the whole group of guys he worked with, and even the ones he rarely saw, knew about it because he said, "The news is spreading around the station; everyone knows about it, even this guy I hardly ever see from the K-9 Unit said something to me the other day; everyone's pulling for me, Gina..."
In a sense, together, we had started an energy chain...a prayer chain. Not that friends and family were not already always sending out their prayers and goodwill to us, but this time we had an exact date in a succinct time frame. If those people prayed, and even if they didn't, but simply hoped for it to work out for us--for Joel to get home to us by March 25th to work the same job in Michigan, so he could be with his family, finally-- now they had a pinpoint-focus.
Thoughts are energy and energy equals matter...thoughts do matter...
It's funny because really, I was worn and weary. My usually acute vision was blurred. Though I spoke hopefully to others about the magical March 25th date, it was not because my armored heart truly believed anything one way or the other. (My son's words soothed me, but could not completely convince me to drop that armor just yet.) It was because my head knew that my entire being (even my hiding heart) did believe in the power of thoughts and intentions, in the power of energy creating a reality--in other words, along with doing the all-important leg work to make things happen, I still believed in the power of prayer.
But though I was hopeful and optimistic when I spoke to others--because that's who I truly am in my buried core--my heart could only peek warily over the protective barriers. I couldn't see clearly to feel ...anything. I said this to Joel and to Nathan who were both so sure this time, especially Nathan. I realized that in juggling all the balls I tried to keep in the air for the past three plus years, and in trying to help Joel find his lost ball this past month, I had lost my own very special ball, the one made of crystal. At some point, without realizing it, I must have passed it off to Nathan, because he never wavered in his conviction that Joel would be home by the 25th.
Thursday, March 22, 2012: Still no news, but I did get a voicemail from a friend who had only the purest of intentions but who had inadvertently hurled a big, red dodge ball right at my gut with the perfect aim and velocity to knock the wind right out of me. She said, "Obviously the 25th isn't happening..." She went on to ask if we had heard any other news, a new date perhaps, that she could focus on for us...
The reason that ball had such power is because she put into words what I kept pushing to the back of my mind. The reason it had such power is because though I only wanted to believe that Nathan and Joel's intuitions were spot on, I didn't. It seemed too far-fetched. But to believe her words seemed...more realistic.
Yet, because some part of me knew that I must at least make others believe, I continued to spread the news to anyone I could, including that friend, to whom I reiterated the date in a text: Hi...Just heard your message. We're still waiting to hear and hoping for the 25th.
I had a hair-cutting appointment that I had forgotten about, and I didn't even want to go to because I knew she'd ask about Joel. But I went. I told her of the mystical March date and this time, I felt a little foolish because she could see I was only pretending to be hopeful and I could see that she was more than a little perturbed at my husband. She's never met him and she's always verbalized support our way, but I think she was just fed up with the whole situation and he was easiest to take it out on. The dodge balls were coming from all angles now.
Before driving home, I called Joel (told him lightly how I had inadvertently created friction between him and my hair dresser friend) who tried to reassure me that things were happening, he didn't know exactly what yet, but he was set to talk to his supervisor after he was done in the field at the end of his shift. He said: "If the answer was no, then they would've just told me already, right? And why would all these people know about and sound so positive...?"
Later, after Nate was home from school and I had just returned from my appointment, I asked him yet again: "Are you sure? Do you really feel it still?"
Without pause, he replied: "I'm sure. March 25th, Mom. He'll get it. He won't have to quit, he'll get it."
I balked: "But the 25th?? It takes two days to drive!"
My son, still so calm and clear, like the blue skies above during our two weeks of summer in this remarkable Michigan March, said: "He'll find out today that he got it."
Just like that.
An hour and half later, while Cheri was visiting after dropping off a dozen eggs from her friend's backyard chickens, and Grace was on a play-date (Providence: Nate and I had purposely kept her out of this ongoing seven day match...) Joel called to let me know he had received a call from a guy who he'd been talking to since this started, he mentioned, essentially, that he would be Joel's liaison while he was in Michigan...but then the guy said he really doesn't know anything and he has no authority to tell him whether he got the job in Michigan, but if he DID, then x y z...
And though I was finally hopeful, I still could not let myself fully believe it was happening.
Fifteen minutes later, Nathan was on one side of me and Cheri was on the other when I got the text from Joel just before I had to pick Grace up: I got it! Approved to start March 25. Waiting on a call back to get the next two days off. Will call in a few. Coming home baby!
When your balls are lost, when you can't keep track of all of them, when you feel like they are coming at you from all directions, it's nice to have friends and family who help you stay in the game. Thank you for the support and love; thank you to all at the station who helped "push it through" for my husband; thank you to those who, really stayed focused on that ethereal (at least to me) March 25 date as the day that Joel would get to come work and live in Michigan.
As promised to Nathan, I did not say anything to Grace until we were home so he (and his dad, who was there to pick him up by the time I got back), could see her reaction. Her friends were there in our drive-way, waiting to see if she could play, but we told them to give us a minute, and she knew, we barely got the words out... she shrieked with joy, "Daddy's coming home!!!??? He's really coming home for good??" We grabbed each other in a bouncy hug (bouncy--of course) as she chanted and we continued up and down in circles, while her friends looked on, "My daddy's coming home, my daddy's coming home...!" We clarified that it would only be the "job detail" that we had talked about back in January: 90 days here alternating with 30 days in Arizona for the next year and a half. But none of us, including Grace, cared. Joel was finally coming home and he didn't have to quit his job to do it.
But then she did ask when. When will he be coming home? I started to give her the "We're not exactly sure but in a few days" answer, when Nathan interrupted me with: "He's leaving tonight. He's packing right now and leaving. He called again while you were getting Grace..."
Grace was elevated to a higher shrieking decibel, "To-NIGHT??? Daddy's coming home toNIGHT?"
I was finally able to release without thought and the tears came. My husband was coming home...tonight. And I let my son hug me while my daughter ran up the street to spread the news.
By Saturday, the 24th, Joel had made it home to start work on Monday morning, March 26, the day before his 43rd birthday.
By late Sunday morning as we sat together on our sunny porch swing having lunch, one of the dad's from up the street, who was walking their dog congratulated Joel on getting home, and Joel wondered aloud at how he knew he was home-home. "Your daughter told the neighborhood and anyone else who would listen that Thursday night."
Happy Birthday, Honey. It's so good to have you home.
Joel had unearthed his ball and he put it right back into play!
He called me with the news. He told me about the date. He said his supervisors were going to "push this through" for him to get an answer from the "higher ups". He said that they were as determined as he was. He was elated. I was astounded; my eyes immediately filled but did not spill. Yet, after I hung up, quiet caution crept in, three years, two and a half months...such a long time with various and vague hopes that were never realized...
Nathan, calm, knowing, and sure said for the second time in two days: "He'll get it this time."
Me, confused and unsure: "Are you just saying that to make me feel better, or do you still really feel it?" (A few hours after I had dropped Joel off at the airport, he said he just felt it--that Joel would get it this time. He also said he knew Joel had finally learned that he needs to be more aggressive and that the guys he works for simply won't let him quit because he belongs in that job field.)
Nathan had heard about this story: When we were in Mexico, his brother, Dino, brought it up to him, about what he's been doing to get home to us these past two months, and then came the word "aggressive" and I couldn't help myself, I started to sing the old middle school/high school cheer: "Be! Ag-GRES-sive! Be! Be! Ag-GRES-sive!"
So Nathan knew: Leg work, combined with faith in yourself and the faith of others, combined with excellent work ethic equals Joel will finally get assigned a detail to work in Michigan. My son, the calm blue sea who makes others feel so at ease and peaceful, made me feel, at least for the moment, that this could be it.
But still, we did not tell Grace.
Inexplicably, I did tell everyone else. Not really on purpose. I didn't set out to tell people like my (favorite) sixth grade teacher, whom I hadn't seen in (calculating...) wow, 28 years or so (over 30 if you count from when he was last my teacher), but whom I had breakfast with on the morning of (and into the afternoon of) the 20th; he quizzed me on my life story and out it flowed.
I told school moms and school office workers who knew our story, because over the course of the school year it was revealed in one way or another, by Grace's frequent absences, by the absence and sudden appearance of her father, by the uncharacteristic (they thought) sadness during those moments in the mornings just before the school bell rang, when she was seeing him for the last time until...she never knew when...I told them. I told people every detail, down to the March 25th date. I told people who asked, like my sister, Cheri, who had read the latest post and knew the story of the night before Joel left, so she asked what happened with it once he'd been back to work in Arizona...and she happened to ask in front of all our book club members, so I told all of them, too!
And maybe Joel told his people...friends, family, I don't really know. But I do know the whole group of guys he worked with, and even the ones he rarely saw, knew about it because he said, "The news is spreading around the station; everyone knows about it, even this guy I hardly ever see from the K-9 Unit said something to me the other day; everyone's pulling for me, Gina..."
In a sense, together, we had started an energy chain...a prayer chain. Not that friends and family were not already always sending out their prayers and goodwill to us, but this time we had an exact date in a succinct time frame. If those people prayed, and even if they didn't, but simply hoped for it to work out for us--for Joel to get home to us by March 25th to work the same job in Michigan, so he could be with his family, finally-- now they had a pinpoint-focus.
Thoughts are energy and energy equals matter...thoughts do matter...
It's funny because really, I was worn and weary. My usually acute vision was blurred. Though I spoke hopefully to others about the magical March 25th date, it was not because my armored heart truly believed anything one way or the other. (My son's words soothed me, but could not completely convince me to drop that armor just yet.) It was because my head knew that my entire being (even my hiding heart) did believe in the power of thoughts and intentions, in the power of energy creating a reality--in other words, along with doing the all-important leg work to make things happen, I still believed in the power of prayer.
But though I was hopeful and optimistic when I spoke to others--because that's who I truly am in my buried core--my heart could only peek warily over the protective barriers. I couldn't see clearly to feel ...anything. I said this to Joel and to Nathan who were both so sure this time, especially Nathan. I realized that in juggling all the balls I tried to keep in the air for the past three plus years, and in trying to help Joel find his lost ball this past month, I had lost my own very special ball, the one made of crystal. At some point, without realizing it, I must have passed it off to Nathan, because he never wavered in his conviction that Joel would be home by the 25th.
Thursday, March 22, 2012: Still no news, but I did get a voicemail from a friend who had only the purest of intentions but who had inadvertently hurled a big, red dodge ball right at my gut with the perfect aim and velocity to knock the wind right out of me. She said, "Obviously the 25th isn't happening..." She went on to ask if we had heard any other news, a new date perhaps, that she could focus on for us...
The reason that ball had such power is because she put into words what I kept pushing to the back of my mind. The reason it had such power is because though I only wanted to believe that Nathan and Joel's intuitions were spot on, I didn't. It seemed too far-fetched. But to believe her words seemed...more realistic.
Yet, because some part of me knew that I must at least make others believe, I continued to spread the news to anyone I could, including that friend, to whom I reiterated the date in a text: Hi...Just heard your message. We're still waiting to hear and hoping for the 25th.
I had a hair-cutting appointment that I had forgotten about, and I didn't even want to go to because I knew she'd ask about Joel. But I went. I told her of the mystical March date and this time, I felt a little foolish because she could see I was only pretending to be hopeful and I could see that she was more than a little perturbed at my husband. She's never met him and she's always verbalized support our way, but I think she was just fed up with the whole situation and he was easiest to take it out on. The dodge balls were coming from all angles now.
Before driving home, I called Joel (told him lightly how I had inadvertently created friction between him and my hair dresser friend) who tried to reassure me that things were happening, he didn't know exactly what yet, but he was set to talk to his supervisor after he was done in the field at the end of his shift. He said: "If the answer was no, then they would've just told me already, right? And why would all these people know about and sound so positive...?"
Later, after Nate was home from school and I had just returned from my appointment, I asked him yet again: "Are you sure? Do you really feel it still?"
Without pause, he replied: "I'm sure. March 25th, Mom. He'll get it. He won't have to quit, he'll get it."
I balked: "But the 25th?? It takes two days to drive!"
My son, still so calm and clear, like the blue skies above during our two weeks of summer in this remarkable Michigan March, said: "He'll find out today that he got it."
Just like that.
An hour and half later, while Cheri was visiting after dropping off a dozen eggs from her friend's backyard chickens, and Grace was on a play-date (Providence: Nate and I had purposely kept her out of this ongoing seven day match...) Joel called to let me know he had received a call from a guy who he'd been talking to since this started, he mentioned, essentially, that he would be Joel's liaison while he was in Michigan...but then the guy said he really doesn't know anything and he has no authority to tell him whether he got the job in Michigan, but if he DID, then x y z...
And though I was finally hopeful, I still could not let myself fully believe it was happening.
Fifteen minutes later, Nathan was on one side of me and Cheri was on the other when I got the text from Joel just before I had to pick Grace up: I got it! Approved to start March 25. Waiting on a call back to get the next two days off. Will call in a few. Coming home baby!
When your balls are lost, when you can't keep track of all of them, when you feel like they are coming at you from all directions, it's nice to have friends and family who help you stay in the game. Thank you for the support and love; thank you to all at the station who helped "push it through" for my husband; thank you to those who, really stayed focused on that ethereal (at least to me) March 25 date as the day that Joel would get to come work and live in Michigan.
As promised to Nathan, I did not say anything to Grace until we were home so he (and his dad, who was there to pick him up by the time I got back), could see her reaction. Her friends were there in our drive-way, waiting to see if she could play, but we told them to give us a minute, and she knew, we barely got the words out... she shrieked with joy, "Daddy's coming home!!!??? He's really coming home for good??" We grabbed each other in a bouncy hug (bouncy--of course) as she chanted and we continued up and down in circles, while her friends looked on, "My daddy's coming home, my daddy's coming home...!" We clarified that it would only be the "job detail" that we had talked about back in January: 90 days here alternating with 30 days in Arizona for the next year and a half. But none of us, including Grace, cared. Joel was finally coming home and he didn't have to quit his job to do it.
But then she did ask when. When will he be coming home? I started to give her the "We're not exactly sure but in a few days" answer, when Nathan interrupted me with: "He's leaving tonight. He's packing right now and leaving. He called again while you were getting Grace..."
Grace was elevated to a higher shrieking decibel, "To-NIGHT??? Daddy's coming home toNIGHT?"
I was finally able to release without thought and the tears came. My husband was coming home...tonight. And I let my son hug me while my daughter ran up the street to spread the news.
By Saturday, the 24th, Joel had made it home to start work on Monday morning, March 26, the day before his 43rd birthday.
By late Sunday morning as we sat together on our sunny porch swing having lunch, one of the dad's from up the street, who was walking their dog congratulated Joel on getting home, and Joel wondered aloud at how he knew he was home-home. "Your daughter told the neighborhood and anyone else who would listen that Thursday night."
Happy Birthday, Honey. It's so good to have you home.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Ball is Lost
And only Joel can find it. That's what he had to realize. It was still in his court, so it's still on him to make something happen. He will. Tomorrow. He will fly in too late tonight, but tomorrow, he will do something about finding that ball and putting it back into play.
Grace's sobbing last night and her adult words and her adult confusion: "I don't know what to do; I don't know what to do..." We told her it's not up to her to do anything...but I know why she was saying it. At one point, after 25 minutes of her gut-wrenching sobbing that she could not stop, though she tried, Joel told her through his own quiet tears that he would have an answer for her in a week. That if they didn't answer him about getting back to Michigan, he would quit and come home. She cried out in frustration and sorrow, "But that's why I'm crying, too! I don't want you to have to quit your job! You like (your job) and how will you earn money for our family?" Her intelligence and maturity are piercing.
Joel said: "But Grace, I like you and Nathan and mom even more and I want to be home with you guys again. Don't worry about what job I'll have, or mom will have (earlier she had tearfully said that she doesn't want me to have to go back to nursing because she knows I am trying to be a writer...piercing)..."
And again, she sat up (we had been tucking her into bed for the night and she knew he would leave while she was at school today), and said, "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do..." And finally she lay down in a ball and said, "I'm staying in this bed; I'm staying in bed forever; I don't want to do anything or see anyone. I don't want you to leave, Daddy. Don't leave, Daddy..."
Last month, on February 14, while Joel was still in town for the Daddy-Daughter Dance, I asked her teacher after school about her opinion of whether she thought it would be okay for Grace to miss yet another day of school the next day since Joel was leaving. She said it would be fine and then she said, "I have to tell you: your daughter is just lovely. Today I watched her literally BOUNCING down the hall, and I thought (sigh) 'I wish we could all be like Grace.'..." then she quickly added, "I don't mean that in a naive way; I know Grace knows that it isn't all easy. She's just so happy with life..."
She BOUNCES. Grace really does bounce. Two days after that, after Joel had already left, I heard her singing a song she'd made up. Grace has been making up songs since she could speak and though I usually listen, there are times, such as that day, when I'm too distracted to really listen to her words. It was an upbeat tune, but when I finally caught some of what she was saying, I was moved: "Doctor can you help me? I'm not hurtin' in my bones. I'm hurting in my heart."
So last night, that sad, sad little girl finally fell asleep and woke this morning, telling us, "I'm not moving from this bed; I'm staying here; I don't want you to go, Daddy." She cried a little more--begged us to let her stay home in bed. But I know my daughter. I told her she would end up feeling better at school no matter how much she didn't want to move from where she was. She has a math test today and she really does miss so much school...but I told her if she went until noon, I would be done dropping Daddy off and I would come get her if she still felt like she couldn't be there. I called her wonderfully-awesome-best-teacher-in-the-world and told her the situation to see if Grace could take the test during morning self-start and her teacher (I wish I could say her name, but don't want to unless I get her permission and I haven't...) said that would be fine, she even said she could gather all the work, including the test, so Grace could do it at home today, or that she could do the test tomorrow if she left at noon...she was so accommodating to Grace's needs (as she always is), I love her. Grace loves her. We are so lucky to have her as Grace's fourth grade teacher. Joel said today, "There's a reason Grace got (her) as a teacher."
I was there at noon. Grace was skipping up to greet me from the lunchroom to tell me she decided to stay. Her ball is not lost. Grace will show Joel how to find his and make it bounce, too.
P.S. I just picked her up from school and saw that in her school agenda for her weekly goals she had written: "Try not to cry."
Definitely not naive. And she does what needs to be done when it needs to be done. She got out of that bed and she went to school. Her teacher is right, we should all be more like Grace.
Grace's sobbing last night and her adult words and her adult confusion: "I don't know what to do; I don't know what to do..." We told her it's not up to her to do anything...but I know why she was saying it. At one point, after 25 minutes of her gut-wrenching sobbing that she could not stop, though she tried, Joel told her through his own quiet tears that he would have an answer for her in a week. That if they didn't answer him about getting back to Michigan, he would quit and come home. She cried out in frustration and sorrow, "But that's why I'm crying, too! I don't want you to have to quit your job! You like (your job) and how will you earn money for our family?" Her intelligence and maturity are piercing.
Joel said: "But Grace, I like you and Nathan and mom even more and I want to be home with you guys again. Don't worry about what job I'll have, or mom will have (earlier she had tearfully said that she doesn't want me to have to go back to nursing because she knows I am trying to be a writer...piercing)..."
And again, she sat up (we had been tucking her into bed for the night and she knew he would leave while she was at school today), and said, "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do..." And finally she lay down in a ball and said, "I'm staying in this bed; I'm staying in bed forever; I don't want to do anything or see anyone. I don't want you to leave, Daddy. Don't leave, Daddy..."
Last month, on February 14, while Joel was still in town for the Daddy-Daughter Dance, I asked her teacher after school about her opinion of whether she thought it would be okay for Grace to miss yet another day of school the next day since Joel was leaving. She said it would be fine and then she said, "I have to tell you: your daughter is just lovely. Today I watched her literally BOUNCING down the hall, and I thought (sigh) 'I wish we could all be like Grace.'..." then she quickly added, "I don't mean that in a naive way; I know Grace knows that it isn't all easy. She's just so happy with life..."
She BOUNCES. Grace really does bounce. Two days after that, after Joel had already left, I heard her singing a song she'd made up. Grace has been making up songs since she could speak and though I usually listen, there are times, such as that day, when I'm too distracted to really listen to her words. It was an upbeat tune, but when I finally caught some of what she was saying, I was moved: "Doctor can you help me? I'm not hurtin' in my bones. I'm hurting in my heart."
So last night, that sad, sad little girl finally fell asleep and woke this morning, telling us, "I'm not moving from this bed; I'm staying here; I don't want you to go, Daddy." She cried a little more--begged us to let her stay home in bed. But I know my daughter. I told her she would end up feeling better at school no matter how much she didn't want to move from where she was. She has a math test today and she really does miss so much school...but I told her if she went until noon, I would be done dropping Daddy off and I would come get her if she still felt like she couldn't be there. I called her wonderfully-awesome-best-teacher-in-the-world and told her the situation to see if Grace could take the test during morning self-start and her teacher (I wish I could say her name, but don't want to unless I get her permission and I haven't...) said that would be fine, she even said she could gather all the work, including the test, so Grace could do it at home today, or that she could do the test tomorrow if she left at noon...she was so accommodating to Grace's needs (as she always is), I love her. Grace loves her. We are so lucky to have her as Grace's fourth grade teacher. Joel said today, "There's a reason Grace got (her) as a teacher."
I was there at noon. Grace was skipping up to greet me from the lunchroom to tell me she decided to stay. Her ball is not lost. Grace will show Joel how to find his and make it bounce, too.
P.S. I just picked her up from school and saw that in her school agenda for her weekly goals she had written: "Try not to cry."
Definitely not naive. And she does what needs to be done when it needs to be done. She got out of that bed and she went to school. Her teacher is right, we should all be more like Grace.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
They Hold Hands and She Realizes a New Love
Well I may not be much of a poet, but I love it. I never knew I loved it until recently. By recently, I mean since Joel has been gone. Sometimes, over the past 15 years or so, a poem would flow out onto my journal pages, but it never occurred to me until a few years ago to read poetry, to study poetry (and poets), to write more poetry in a conscious effort to maybe become a poet (that one obviously still hasn't stuck, but it's a good goal, right?).
In eighth grade, eight of us were chosen to be in a special advanced reading program that the school was piloting; we would study different aspects of literature or writing each quarter, each time with a different teacher. I can pinpoint the last day of Poetry class with the very strict, no-nonsense and no-fun teacher, rumored to be an ex-nun (think ruler slapping on the desks...at least it wasn't our knuckles), as the day I joyfully told myself I would never have to read poetry again.
And I never gave poetry another thought.
But then Joel left. And now, more and more, out of the blue, I write poems in my journal. No thought about it beforehand, I would just sit down to write as usual, and it would come out as a poem. If a writer wants to be a writer, he or she must share their writings with others. No matter how lousy the story, a writer must write and they must eventually share what they write with others. If a poet wants to be a poet...
Here's another one that came to me on February 15, the day Joel left. A-gain. He had only been with us for four days (per usual), for the Daddy-Daughter Dance. Still no answer from the higher ups he spoke with on January 9. We thought for sure he'd be home for it, but finally, paying double the price because we waited so long in the hopes that he would be driving, he bought another plane ticket to come home.
And leave.
A-gain.
Now the difference here, about this poem, is that it came to me, but I didn't write it down, because I have so much going on right now. But it wouldn't leave me. So I wrote the gist of it quickly, knowing I would later write it as a poem. That's a first. I mean, that conscious effort, that I would write my thoughts as a poem rather than in a journaling format. I'm getting there...
Keep this in mind for yourself, too. It doesn't have to be writing. Whatever it is for you, that thing you have a passion for, that thing that makes you forget all sense of time, that thing that you have loved doing since you were a child...start doing it! And if you already are doing it, but you are not sharing it with others--put it out there! Just try it. I guarantee it will be the scariest and hardest thing you do, but it will also be the most joyful and satisfying work of your life. And just like anything else, you will have to work your ass off, for years maybe, before you are good enough to get recognition from the outside world, but that won't matter; once you start, you will never want to go back.
So here, I expand my writing genres to include some mediocre poetry (really, I have no idea; maybe it's worse than mediocre, maybe it's better; for now, I don't care, I only know that I love it and I want to keep working at it to improve my overall skills as a writer.):
They hold hands
Before they
Touch
Or see each other
Their light
Reaches out
A rainbow becoming a beautiful braid
They are intertwined
He is on a plane
Again
She is in a car
But they see
feel
Their plait of light, connecting, entangling
She looks up
Knows it is
him
At the exact moment
He looks down to
see her
car
They hold hands
Driving
only four days
They hold
hands
A physical connection
But their plait is
Undone
Their rainbow braid disentangled
disconnected
pooled at their feet
Less painful than the
Sudden sever
At the airport
Again
They hold hands
They kiss
Hug
They are in love
But already
Gone
From each other
Until
Next
Time
When
They hold hands
Again
g
In eighth grade, eight of us were chosen to be in a special advanced reading program that the school was piloting; we would study different aspects of literature or writing each quarter, each time with a different teacher. I can pinpoint the last day of Poetry class with the very strict, no-nonsense and no-fun teacher, rumored to be an ex-nun (think ruler slapping on the desks...at least it wasn't our knuckles), as the day I joyfully told myself I would never have to read poetry again.
And I never gave poetry another thought.
But then Joel left. And now, more and more, out of the blue, I write poems in my journal. No thought about it beforehand, I would just sit down to write as usual, and it would come out as a poem. If a writer wants to be a writer, he or she must share their writings with others. No matter how lousy the story, a writer must write and they must eventually share what they write with others. If a poet wants to be a poet...
Here's another one that came to me on February 15, the day Joel left. A-gain. He had only been with us for four days (per usual), for the Daddy-Daughter Dance. Still no answer from the higher ups he spoke with on January 9. We thought for sure he'd be home for it, but finally, paying double the price because we waited so long in the hopes that he would be driving, he bought another plane ticket to come home.
And leave.
A-gain.
Now the difference here, about this poem, is that it came to me, but I didn't write it down, because I have so much going on right now. But it wouldn't leave me. So I wrote the gist of it quickly, knowing I would later write it as a poem. That's a first. I mean, that conscious effort, that I would write my thoughts as a poem rather than in a journaling format. I'm getting there...
Keep this in mind for yourself, too. It doesn't have to be writing. Whatever it is for you, that thing you have a passion for, that thing that makes you forget all sense of time, that thing that you have loved doing since you were a child...start doing it! And if you already are doing it, but you are not sharing it with others--put it out there! Just try it. I guarantee it will be the scariest and hardest thing you do, but it will also be the most joyful and satisfying work of your life. And just like anything else, you will have to work your ass off, for years maybe, before you are good enough to get recognition from the outside world, but that won't matter; once you start, you will never want to go back.
So here, I expand my writing genres to include some mediocre poetry (really, I have no idea; maybe it's worse than mediocre, maybe it's better; for now, I don't care, I only know that I love it and I want to keep working at it to improve my overall skills as a writer.):
They hold hands
Before they
Touch
Or see each other
Their light
Reaches out
A rainbow becoming a beautiful braid
They are intertwined
He is on a plane
Again
She is in a car
But they see
feel
Their plait of light, connecting, entangling
She looks up
Knows it is
him
At the exact moment
He looks down to
see her
car
They hold hands
Driving
only four days
They hold
hands
A physical connection
But their plait is
Undone
Their rainbow braid disentangled
disconnected
pooled at their feet
Less painful than the
Sudden sever
At the airport
Again
They hold hands
They kiss
Hug
They are in love
But already
Gone
From each other
Until
Next
Time
When
They hold hands
Again
g
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Still Rolling...And Bouncing
Up
Down
Up
Down
we wait
we wonder
we wax
we wane
we try to stay in rhythm
with the bounce
Down
Up
Up
down
we feel the jerk
the jarring of our being
when we lose the rhythm
but we keep rolling
and we bounce
Down
Up
Down
we wait
we wonder
we wax
we wane
we try to stay in rhythm
with the bounce
Down
Up
Up
down
we feel the jerk
the jarring of our being
when we lose the rhythm
but we keep rolling
and we bounce
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Ball Is Rolling
Yesterday Joel sent me this text: "The ball is rolling. Talked to one supervisor. Tears rolling instantly. Writing a memo right now to send up the chain."
Three years and six days after he started. We might finally be getting help from the decision makers to get him home to us. At least until Nathan graduates.
If anyone ever reads this, your prayers, light, love, anything-- would be so appreciated if you could help this along to get Joel home to his family with his job intact.
Oh, and Grace is good. I'm now in her classroom regularly, twice a week. I see now...and I saw even in December, when her teacher first invited me to volunteer regularly in her classroom, that the problems stemmed mostly from the girl who was supposed to be her friend. That girl's untruthful gossip was a big part of all of the other bullying problems. Her teacher and the principal are wonderful and have even gone so far as to assign lunch seats so that Grace is at a mostly-boys table (the boys don't pick on her) and things have been so much better for her. She has learned and accepted some things. She's had to grow up too fast, but...
Grace is good.
Three years and six days after he started. We might finally be getting help from the decision makers to get him home to us. At least until Nathan graduates.
If anyone ever reads this, your prayers, light, love, anything-- would be so appreciated if you could help this along to get Joel home to his family with his job intact.
Oh, and Grace is good. I'm now in her classroom regularly, twice a week. I see now...and I saw even in December, when her teacher first invited me to volunteer regularly in her classroom, that the problems stemmed mostly from the girl who was supposed to be her friend. That girl's untruthful gossip was a big part of all of the other bullying problems. Her teacher and the principal are wonderful and have even gone so far as to assign lunch seats so that Grace is at a mostly-boys table (the boys don't pick on her) and things have been so much better for her. She has learned and accepted some things. She's had to grow up too fast, but...
Grace is good.
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