tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22666672161678138822024-03-06T01:19:52.603-08:00mamaUP!written by nancylee bouschernancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-26172660200496715382015-04-29T07:19:00.000-07:002015-04-29T07:19:13.728-07:00lost and foundadventure seems to follow any major appliance debacle. more than just melting meat in a tired freezer or a flooded laundry room floor, both of which i lived through. it seems that as i am forced into the process of replacing any square hunk of white metal that rules my domestic life, mysteries appear, hair is pulled, teeth are gnashed, heart is tugged, and ultimately...eventually...peace is restored.<br />
<br />
this happened years back with the whole i-keep-concert-tickets-in-my-freezer-event, which i wrote about somewhere on this blog. if i was a snazzy tech type i might even have a link or a hashtag (which at five in the morning makes me think only of sausage links and hashbrowns) but i am fearful that if i navigate away from this stream of writing, to try some tricks of modern writing to get you to read more of me, the magic may be broken. and while i do love that you are reading this and i am so motivated because of that, let's just remember that writers write for themselves, first and always.<br />
<br />
so, yes, jack white tickets were found in a plastic bag in the garbage. there were maggots. and happy chickens eating maggots. that happens.<br />
<br />
what also happens is that spiders break. you may be a person who likes to think you don't have spiders in your house. perhaps you scream and scuttle at the sight of eight thin legs crawling across your kitchen ceiling. not me, i adore spiders. (once in college i had a large spider in my house, her immense web stretched through a houseplant in the living room. i learned how to stun flies so i could feed them to her then watch as she knitted them up faster than any waldorfian-knitting-mama-blogger ever could. it was like "wild kingdom" but oh so much better.)<br />
<br />
turns out the most adorable spider in the house is the one inside of your washer machine. it's a metal brace of sorts, with many arms, that holds your tub together to let it shimmy and gyrate and agitate and clean your dirty, nasty clothes. when the spider breaks, everything stays dirty. the tub does not nicely spin, but wobbles and grinds and sounds like maybe someone is killing your neighbor's noisy geese which makes you only feel mildly sad for those bad-behaving fowl.<br />
<br />
when the spider breaks, you need a new machine because fixing a broken spider costs $500 and your washing machine's boot (black rubber seal thingy) has already been patched with an bicycle inner tube and bottle of gorilla glue. you measure your tiny laundry "hall" and look for options. they are few. <br />
<br />
you contemplate used verses new, local appliance store verses big box store, pick up verses delivery, all the while the laundry grows like the killer blob from that ridiculous movie from the 50's. You visit stores, tape measure in hand, and sales people size you up in seconds flat and once they realize you are not going for the cherry red, steam enhanced, pick your own tune to play when your laundry is ready to be folded, kind of gal...they steer clear. there is no money to be made from you. you have so little of it to begin with.<br />
<br />
however, you have a generous dad who offers to help and you have new job that came with a raise. you find a machine, scratch/dent special. good. the pile of jeans and underwear shudder with an...ti...ca....ti,ti,ti..ca....paaaaa. shun.<br />
<br />
except, you know what happens when you give a mouse a pancake? yup. translate that story to washing machine replacement. here's how it goes.<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>broken spider.</li>
<li>find new washing machine.</li>
<li>have to disconnect gas line, which is behind old stand up freezer.</li>
<li>move old stand up freezer., smash finger in process. swear in new creative ways that scare/amuse children.</li>
<li>move it out into the kitchen so you can move the washing machine far enough into the hall to disconnect the gas line. be careful not to blow up house. that would suck.</li>
<li>oh wait, moving the washing machine reveals torn-the-hell-up linoleum floor with water damaged particle board sub-flooring that disintegrates when you stab it with a flat head.</li>
<li>contemplate how your husband planned chaperoning a youth conference in Idaho at same time all this shit would go down. damn, he's clever.</li>
<li> ok, find scrap of flooring to thrown over that mess like a band-aid and just make mental note to add that fix it to the list of "stuff that will never get down but will wake you up at 3 am to think about."</li>
<li>buy new washing machine from guy who sweats a lot and talks too fast. drugs, no doubt.</li>
<li>have new washing machine delivered and watch in glee as they take away the old broken spider and all the treasures stuck in the coin trap that you will never know you are missing.</li>
<li>install new washing machine with help of awkwardly awesome 12 year old son who is way more patient with missing tools and swearing mothers than anyone else on the planet.</li>
<li>realize old stand up freezer is gross as hell. bodies may have been stored in there.</li>
<li>find new home for old freezer (don't share dead body theory with happy new owners found via facebook).</li>
<li>find new freezer. be awed and amazed at how light they make those things. rejoice that it doesn't have a lock- cuz that is creepy. locking freezers? hitchcock plot for sure.</li>
<li>decide what items you want from old freezer. not much. put that in new freezer.</li>
</ol>
<div>
that should be about it, but no. because something is lost. something you put in the freezer over a decade ago (then added to a few years later) cannot be found.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
now, this is where it's no longer hypothetically YOU, but is actually me. i do this as a favor because some of you will not be ok imagining YOU doing this. it's all me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
the placentas are missing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
yes, the two placentas of my children. the organs that i grew. the literal trees of life that sustained my spawns for hundreds of days. freezer burnt though they may be, cannot be found.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i make a quick inventory of contents of old standing freezer that i have not chucked out: roughly one gallon of beef stock made over the course of several days, strange brick of duck parts from son's hunting season, loaf of breadfarm goodness via free box at work, two dead owls, pint of cuban beef stew - also via free box. my inventory is so quick, that i barely touch the plastic bags and bins because i am scanning for the mental image i have of the placentas. tin foil wrapped, tape wound about it with "PLACENTA, DO NOT EAT" written as cross, using the N to intersect the two words in the center of the package.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i am at a loss. in a panic, i review possible placenta misplacement options:</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li> they got thrown away when i lost the jack white tickets.</li>
<li> they go thrown away when my mom cleaned the freezer.</li>
<li> aliens came and stole them for genetic testing.</li>
<li>....that's all i got.</li>
</ol>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
now, good reader, perhaps you are asking yourself "why save placentas?" well, i had a plan. i had many possible plans (none of which involved eating them...unless, i was diagnosed with something really, really bad then i would have considered cannibalizing myself by eating my own organs that i grew inside my uterus which maybe would not have cured myself, but i just think if you can eat your own organ for the potential of curing yourself that the universe should recognize you are the kind of person that either should be able to stick around longer or gets a fast-pass to a better existence).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
the main plan was to plant them under a tree, in our yard. even thought this seems like a simple plan i never carried it out for two reasons.</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li>i couldn't decide what type of tree or trees.</li>
<li> i couldn't decide where to plant them.</li>
</ol>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
these two obstacles where kept afloat by a superstitious fear that the tree/trees would die and this would feed my morbid view of life and worry about my own children's well being (which i owe to my mother singing horrible, really gruesome, songs to me as lullaby. i kid you not, one of the lyrics says "husbands and wives, little bitty child lost their lives, it was sad when the great ship went down.") </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
as i tried to reason my way through this mystery, i found myself so disappointed with my procrastination. (which i have mostly come to terms with since i am an optimist and in love with potential and projects, but cannot achieve so much of what i imagine because of limitations like time, money, and lack of mind control abilities). i imagined my placentas in a land fill somewhere, just rotting away and it felt like the most disrespectful thing i could have let happen to the most magical piece of my body. i felt myself grieving over the loss.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i started reviewing all the placental memories, like a power point slide show at a wake with soft music humming softly, completely cheesy but so darn authentically cheesy, like when a hallmark card makes your cry in the aisle of a grocery store.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
looking at my first placenta, held gently by my midwife in a towel while i sat on the bed. my son snuggled on me, our skins warming each other, i saw the iridescent shine on the twisted cord, leading up and branching out and around this canopy of deep purple and red. it was full of beauty and mystery. it was perfect in it's strangeness in a way that my spleen just probably would not be if it happened to pop out of my body someday and land next to me on my bed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i remember, as we readied to move back to Washington, having to leave that placenta in my mother-in-laws freezer, amid elk ribs, deer roasts and buffalo steaks, and really hoping she didn't mistake it for any of those and report back to us about the experience of eating it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i remember my husband, months later, pulling a ziploc bag full of blood out of his luggage after being picked up from the airport. me, gazing at it in confusion as it dawned on me that, post 911, he had managed to carry on a human organ to an airplane and fly it across several state lines...without arising suspicion. as a big, brown man he found pride in this. i could tell.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i remember the second placenta, sloshing out into the water. Being only a little less impressive cuz.., well, we had seen that trick before. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i remembered all the placenta stories...how people made smoothies from them or encapsulated them or sauteed them or sold them to cosmetic companies so wealthy woman could ward off wrinkles for a few days more or mistakenly referred to poinsettias as placentas when commenting on christmas tree decorations to my endless amusement.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i grieved for all the ways i had not shared any of this with my children. how i had not followed through with the simple plan i had for trying to stretch out some of that placental magic into the ground, the roots, the branches of a tree where happy birds could sing. and eat the bugs in the tree. make a nest in that tree. hatch baby birds in that nest, in that tree, from those roots, from my placentas.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
cirlce of life, indeed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i was only mildly relieved when my husband wondered aloud if a friend had maybe mistaken the placenta for some of the grass fed beef we were storing for her. i found it comforting, if not disgusting, to think she had feed it to her ailing cat, believing it to be liver. this felt like a better use of my organs than being picked from a trash heap in the county dump by a startled worker in an orange vest, him calling out to his supervisor, "hey trevor! what the hell do you think this is?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
all of this flashes through my mind at a manic rate as i sort the remaining frozen items, sending the dead owls off with my mom.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
that's a whole other story.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i grab the miscellaneous duck brick, wondering what my child is going to do with this (plant it under a tree?!) when i look closer and see that it is not duck gizzards. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
nope.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
it's my placentas. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
red brick of human goo that is not so different than duck guts. i promise to honor you this spring and put you in the ground so a tree can take root. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
or maybe throw you into the skagit river so you may feed the salmon. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
of course, i am getting older and if i decide to do that genetic testing, and it's positive maybe a little placenta pot pie would just get my cells back on track. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i mean, this freezer is going to last a long time. so i got time. </div>
<div>
and lots of placental potential.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-1141110570620568802014-04-28T09:10:00.002-07:002014-04-28T09:10:55.794-07:00both waysthey say "comparison is the death of joy." or maybe i say that. i do, i did. i believe it too, but apparently i like killing joy because i still compare.<br />
<br />
i compare my couch to yours.<br />
my job to her's. <br />
my status update to everyone's.<br />
my present to my past.<br />
<br />
it's that present/past comparison that has the most sting to it, right? because i bet we all have at least one pocket where we store wishes and wants that have yet to take hold in our life. we pull them out, pick out the bits of lint and crumbs, and stare at them longingly, hold them up to our current commitments and wonder.<br />
<br />
how does the peace corp dream compare to your minimum wage job?<br />
the grand mansion to the rented room?<br />
master's program to the motherhood program?<br />
or vice versa.<br />
<br />
of course, the comparison is just the starting point. after the weighing and humming and mulling, after all that, there's judgment. and if joy is already dead, judgment is pouring concrete on her grave.<br />
<br />
i try to resist judgment and turn to her kinder cousin, curiosity instead.<br />
<br />
"hmmm," i think, "i wonder why you imagine that life to be more fulfilling than yours?"<br />
<br />
(snarky middle school bitch replies: DUH- they just traveled to freaking CHINA and you can't even make it to the national park that is less than an hour away!")<br />
<br />
"hmmm," i muse- making the universal sound of curiosity- the hmmmm, "what can i do right now to bring some of that past desire into today's destination?"<br />
<br />
(yeah, she's right there: "how about you get out of the house? that might be a good first step.")<br />
<br />
and so i do.<br />
<br />
we somehow manage to gather fishing supplies, rain gear, snacks and get on the road before noon. we even buy a topographical map because the last time we wandered around the trail systems we ended up relying on my husband's internal compass- which is accurate but often sarcastic. as a rule, sarcasm while lost in the woods doesn't sit well with me.<br />
<br />
map, food, gear. bonus points for camera, colored pencils, first aid kit, flashlight and lots of water.<br />
<br />
we drive to the trail head, load up the backpacks and head out onto the 1 mile trek up an old road to the lake, known as Whistle. sounds delightful.<br />
<br />
the papa and the big son have long legs and excitement to fuel them up the gradual grade and their forms quickly shrink in front of me and my 5 year old. in his red rubber rain boots, hoodie of chunky primary colors, and blue and red spider man fishing pole- he gets all the style points to be awarded today.<br />
<br />
but his attitude sucks.<br />
<br />
when he notices papa and brother up ahead he starts with the "wait up" mantra. except mantras are relaxing and his yelling is not. when he tires of his echoes bouncing around the woods, he settles into whining about how tired he is. his steps slow down, he is looking at his feet, he is miserable.<br />
<br />
i know the feeling because i am kinda starting to feel miserable too. i think about how much i like hiking by myself. i start comparing my current hike with hundreds of other hikes of my past that were better because i could pick my pace, and go where i wanted and not hear a whining child next to me. <br />
<br />
joy is withering.<br />
<br />
fortunately, it is beautiful out. the sun is shining through new leaves in a way that makes them glow like neon. ferns are stretching out their arms after the long winter nap and even the smell of skunk cabbage makes me breath deeply.<br />
<br />
joy takes hold and i start singing. this is distracting to the little son. especially since i am singing about him, his whining, how he wants to fish, how his feet hurt, how he is tired. i throw in some lines about bodily functions to make him smile. for minutes he forgets his misery, until it returns.<br />
<br />
i check his backpack- wow, he's really prepared with two liters of water. i lighten his load. that's better- for 14 seconds.<br />
<br />
i feed him peanuts and raisins, three at a time, popping them into his mouth like he is a little bird. when his mouth is full, he is silent. but his foot steps drag and he can still do that sigh. deeeep sigh of discontent.<br />
<br />
then i remember how little he knows of the world. he has no concept of time, really. if you say something will take 10 minutes, he counts to 10 and looks at you with "now?!" firmly planted on his forehead. also, distance means nothing. he is consumed by the present emotion that rests in his heart.<br />
<br />
i kneel down and explain, "we are walking uphill and that makes it harder. but look how far we have come!" and i turn him around to stare back over the path we have taken. he looks at down the road and for a moment i can tell he understands why it has been so hard.<br />
<br />
i can tell he understands because when i look back at the path i have taken, i understand why it has been so hard. when i look at your present state and compare it to mine, i'm not honoring our paths. i'm thinking somehow your path has been easier. or that your reward means you are more deserving. but really each step has brought me right were i need to be.<br />
<br />
i realize how important it is to have someone next to you to sing you songs, lighten your load, feed your spirit, and turn you around now and then and say "look what you have overcome so far."<br />
<br />
i realize how important it is that i do this for others, especially for my children.<br />
<br />
"just think, walking back it will be all down hill and super easy." i say to him, knowing that he cannot see into the future three hours from now when we pack up, without any fish, and head back.<br />
<br />
also knowing that sometimes, it is uphill both ways- but that doesn't make the journey any less worthy.<br />
<br />
sometimes struggling a bit, makes the joy you feel when you top the last hill and see the lake shining at you even better and your tiredness flies away- and in a surge of YES! you just run. run. run.<br />
<br />
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nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-4326433443464164622013-06-06T09:26:00.002-07:002013-06-06T09:26:43.053-07:00the groovetruth: household chores bore me. they are like chisels slowly chipping away at my foundation of creativity. they are fleas in my bed of contentment. they are rusty spots consuming my sense of freedom. they are mold on my ceiling. they are holes in my tires.<br />
<br />
in short, i do not like doing them.<br />
<br />
yes, they are boring and repetitive. more than that, they suck time that i would rather use to write a novel, dance wild and loud, walk fast down green trails, plant a garden to feed me, dream about the future, work on projects that give back to me as much as i give to them.<br />
<br />
work? chores are work. yes, but they are boring work. while it can be rewarding to vacuuuum a rug and see all the parakeet feathers and lego pieces disappear (especially if you use a shop vac because you can suck up much bigger items too like avocado skins, broken pencils and things-you-can-no-longer-identify), the act of vacuuummming becomes boring because it has to be done so often. by me. many times a week.<br />
<br />
yes, the gripe goes to a deeper level here. it's not the just the hum-drum factors, it's the no-fair factor too. in the part of my mind that does emotional math -you have one too- if there are four people peeing in a toilet, that means each person cleans the toilet once a week. this is so reasonable to me, that my emotional math brain says i should only have to state this one time - everyone will see the logic- including the 4 year old and voila! toilet cleaning chore has been reduced by 75%, happiness factor increased exponentially more.<br />
<br />
while i certainly don't do all the chores around the house i do enough to feel resentful about it at times. typically when this begins to happen, i step back. i do less and it passes. sometimes i don't even see the gray haze drop into my heart. i just keep doing stuff i don't really want to do.<br />
<br />
until a sign appears.<br />
<br />
i'm big on signs. i count the number of birds in a flock as it flies over my head. i count twice to make sure i get it right, then i see if that number reminds me of something or i add the digits of the number together. ok, i do both. thirteen geese. small son was born on the 13th. 1+3=4. four directions. four corners. family of four.<br />
<br />
i also flip open to random pages of books to see what words the world is offering. <br />
<br />
i turn on the radio to random stations (am often rewarded by Journey or Bon Jovi more often than is statistically possible).<br />
<br />
i pull tarot cards.<br />
<br />
i find rocks.<br />
<br />
i watch.<br />
<br />
recently i was sweeping. a chore made tolerable by the rhythm and my magical broom purchased at the Oregon County Fair four years ago. here's how i sweep. i sweep everything that is on the floor, clothes-toys-books, into a big pile and then i yell "does anybody want any of this?" my boys come scampering over. they paw through the dusty pile and retrieve marbles, coins, hair ties, and such. i stop them from eating anything, and i rarely offer any reasoning to keep anything they haven't self-selected. i scan the pile for earrings and it all goes into the black metal dust pan. then i dump into the trash or recycling depending on how green i feel.<br />
<br />
but this time- one thing stuck to the dust pan. i shook. still there. i look down, squinting since i broke my glasses, i see a small, white rectangular magnet. it's one of those popular poetry magnets. i got a set as free swag from a company we sell where i work. it's all inspirational words for women. i thought i had given the set away until i found them on the fridge, apparently this one had left the nest.<br />
<br />
delight.<br />
<br />
now, i could stop the story here and you'd get it. you'd be happy and think "cute." <br />
<br />
but i couldn't. the message was too trite. "delight in taking care of your family. delight in having a floor to sweep. delight in your life of domestic bliss."<br />
<br />
no.<br />
<br />
i thought- maybe the meaning of delight held more for me. i attempted to decode the word by trying to remember what the prefix "de" means. but i couldn't...so i thought of words that have that prefix:<br />
depend<br />
defense<br />
decode<br />
defrost<br />
decipher<br />
<br />
when i tried to apply the implied mean to "delight" i kept coming up short. "de" in defrost seems to imply to "do away with the frost" so how does that translate to "delight?" and what is the inspirational sign as it applies to sweeping? decode- you are breaking apart the code. this also implies kind of a negative, but accurate definition if i were to assume that "delight" means taking the light away and that's what chores do to me.<br />
<br />
i know that i could have gooooooggled it, but that pretty much would have sucked the soul out of my quest.<br />
<br />
i was resigned to just going back to the original cute ending. in fact, that's what i was going to do until i started to type. then i realized what "delight" referred to wasn't the typical "something that brings you joy,"<br />
<br />
no.<br />
<br />
it's about bootsy collins, paisley pants, platform shoes and slide whistles. you feel me?<br />
<br />
Deee-Lite.<br />
groove is in the heart. <br />
and i think maybe she sings something about a succotash. <br />
<br />
then the sign appears.<br />
<br />
basically, no matter what damn chore i am doing, no matter how damn often i do it. if i blast Deee-Lite i will enjoy the chore. i will dance, i will sing, i will do that little move with the leg kick, head tilt, hands swing. and i will do my best to force anyone around me to do it with me.<br />
<br />
because the groove is always in the heart- even when my hands are in the cold dish water trying to unclog the beans before they ferment there and bring the summer swarm of fruit flies.<br />
<br />
sing<br />
it<br />
baby.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-20551150270714263152013-05-24T07:46:00.002-07:002013-05-24T07:46:58.600-07:00collapsejust when you think you are getting to the heart of it, the deep place of discontent in a situation that feels so murky and dank- whoooosh! - the world provides you with a perfect example of why you need to shut-the-hell-up.<br />
<br />
i needed this.<br />
<br />
for weeks, i have had a inner moping going on. this little irk' of a troll hunched under my breast plate, t'sking and sighing about every little thing. <br />
<br />
-those cleans clothes have been on the couch for three days.<br />
<br />
-the morning glory are back. curse them.<br />
<br />
-the truck needs the oil changed. again.<br />
<br />
even as i am totally irritated with the troll, let's call her Prissy, i still manage to give her a voice. a voice that i listen to. a voice that i totally despise and completely distrust - and yet, i listen to her. i talk back to her. i conspire with Prissy, the hunching troll under my breast plate.<br />
<br />
which only proves to me that i am even more of a troll than her.<br />
<br />
i mean, who gives a troll that kind of power? if i met a troll, besides being completely terrified and wanting to believe jim henson was somehow in charge of it, i'm fairly certain i would doubt everything that came out of her drooling mouth. but, in the wicked way of my brain when she says, "no one really knows you, so they can't really appreciate you." i nod in agreement and <sigh> go on trudging along, dragging my wounded Achilles heal, all decorated up for bonus points (stay tuned for that story).<br />
<br />
back to the whoosh.<br />
<br />
i am mid-sentence, allowing Prissy to run my mouth to a human ear - a mistake, even when it's called "venting"- when the human is distracted by her husband reporting something ridiculous, like "the I-5 bridge over the Skagit River has just collapsed." <br />
<br />
um, no. not that bridge. i drive over that bridge all the time. it's perfectly safe. it's made out of steel and concrete and cars are always on it. so, no. that didn't happen. <br />
<br />
but just in case, let's google that.<br />
<br />
there it is. this chunk of bridge in water. see the people? they are on top of their cars. waiting in a jungle of bent metal for someone to get them. to be honest, i have imagined my car winding up in the Skagit. i drive over the Skagit, on a much older bridge, several times a day. we live in the flood plain, less than 1/2 mile from a curve of the river. almost every errand i run involves going over a bridge that spans the Skagit. i have i actually thought "remember to roll down the windows" and like a checklist of Things To Do When Your Car Goes Into The River. <br />
<br />
like anyone would ever need that.<br />
<br />
even as i clearly don't want to wind up in the river, i imagine it. i don't want to feel the seemingly solid ground sink underneath me in a chorus of screeching steel and snapping cables. i don't want to feel murky river water rush into my windows and make the feather around my rear view mirror float, my clothes billow, my heart race. i don't want to meet the troll under the bridge. or become her.<br />
<br />
and there sit those stranded people. there are hunched there, wet from scrambling out of the cold water, atop of the honda, looking up at the helicopters, seeing the crowd thicken along the banks, feeling their skin slowly warm under a persnickety sunbeam - but still their brain is blank except for one pervasive thought:<br />
<br />
thank you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-86598569769556422572013-03-19T22:51:00.001-07:002013-03-19T23:05:34.764-07:00hell yesthe young son has begun preschool. not a cooperative preschool where i am down the hall kneading bread - which i miss. but a preschool where i walk him up the three concrete steps, sign my initials on the sheet, kiss/hug, kiss/hug, kiss/hug, kiss/hug and then walk out into the afternoon with three hours to spend with the big son which i wholeheartedly enjoy.<br />
<br />
today we saw a movie. in the middle of the afternoon. it was an awful movie- another million dollar mess of a good book, but the flying baboons were terrifying. something the 10 year old remarked about several times over dinner.<br />
<br />
the thing i like about the preschool is the same thing that i dislike about most schooling settings: the rules. as a montessori preschool there are very specific routines in place. consistent expectations. this now, that later. repeat.<br />
<br />
it both lures me in and horrifies me. it speaks to the part of me that wants to always have the scissors tucked into the sewing basket for speedy retrieval and disgusts the whimsy gal who is too distracted by the sound of migrating geese outside to take the extra ten steps back to the bathroom to put the nail clippers away.<br />
<br />
as a mom, i have never mastered the art of routine. honestly, i don't completely believe that "children crave routine" either. i think adults crave obedient children and routine is the quickest way to train a child. or a baboon, especially if you want them to do something completely unnatural like fly or go to sleep alone in a dark bedroom.<br />
<br />
so, i'm conflicted often. i do enjoy watching my son sit down and do his "coffee work" with precision and pride. the way he rolls the place mat up so tightly, like it's a tortilla to be dipped in salsa, makes me smile. his tiny fingers on a tiny dropper as he polishes a wooden dolphin sculpture with a q-tip and cotton ball- its melts me. <br />
<br />
at the same time, i am equally thrilled when he attempts to put his slippers in his cubby by flipping them off of his foot toward the ceiling- rather than picking them up, stacking them together like a sandwich and gently placing them above his name. i am thrilled because this small deviation thrills him. i know i should be alarmed that he likes to deviate, but i am not in the least.<br />
<br />
i suppose i see it as being himself. liking himself. putting his own thoughts and whims on a slightly higher shelf than what others expect of him. and i want him to continue to be that independent and assured. i want him to hold onto a spark of individuality midst the herd. if following the rules leads to being normal- veer from that path, son.<br />
<br />
just this morning, as we dashed out the house, he saw me eating a banana and was inspired. he attempted to pull one from the bunch, but as you know, that's tricky.<br />
<br />
"hey mom, get me a banana!" he called in a sing-song voice of mock authority. typically, i would have just handed one over or maybe said back "Git your own banana, monkey boy!" in some kind of East coast slang if the mood struck. but because he is in school and we are "working on asking" i prompted him, "are you asking me to help you get a banana?"<br />
<br />
he looks at me with this "i know what you are doing" look. he's got that one nailed.<br />
<br />
the thing is- my kids are gorgeous. neither of their parents are especially stunning, but the combo of euro-mutt and pueblo native...well, wow. it's distracting sometimes. like in that moment, when he looks up at me through his bronze curls and slanting crooked eyes with a playful glint jumping out at me like a star winking. i just swoon a little. and maybe if i could have frozen the clock right then i would have thought about all the rules i will never tell him about because i trust his heart is golden enough to know right from wrong and how to hear its whispers even as mouths shout their truths in his tender ears no matter if he 4 or 14 or 44.<br />
<br />
i might have thought all of that and more but he didn't skip a beat before he hollered-"hell yes!" enthusiastically, "get me a banana!"<br />
<br />
and i did.<br />
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<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-37456150216402154962012-11-14T05:20:00.000-08:002012-11-14T05:20:26.631-08:00deep downi boarded the train at 9:38 am on thursday and it sped south toward olympia with the same straight-forward determination i felt. it was something along the lines of "get me the hell out of here." perhaps not the warm and sappy thoughts a mother "should" have about leaving her family for three nights away, but then in many ways i don't feel like most mothers.<br />
<br />
if there was a twinge of my heart aching it was hard to hear over the sizzling of my nerves after two weeks on my own with the boys while my husband and boss were away- leaving me to find places and people for my sons to be with while i worked for a depressing wage. so while i do love my family and i do love my job...i loved leaving them too.<br />
<br />
during the train ride i smirked at the overheard conversations of men drinking bloody marys, introducing themselves as "mobile entertainment technicians" which makes being a carnie sound like it requires a degree and lamenting about the loss of the sonics to another city- and the sad reality that even if the sonics did come back they would never be loved again. it wasn't particularly interesting conversation under normal circumstances but it was entirely different than the usual and so it was interesting to the point that i began recording their sentences in my journal to savor for later.<br />
<br />
the purpose of my trip was to get away and the means to this end was a 5Rhythms workshop at Waves Studio- a place I had spent many hours blissed-out, battling myself, building friendships that counter the closest of family ties. blood is thicker than water, but shared sweat rivals blood bonds most definitely.<br />
<br />
i danced Thursday and Friday evenings at the studio, each night for two hours and had breakfast plans for saturday morning- and here's where the tale really begins. over eggs and tortillas i learn that a friend of a friend- sitting to my right- has a deck of tarot cards in his pocket. i watch as two others pull one card as a sort of guide or symbol of that moment, their day. the deck is beautiful with muted warm earth toned illustrations that have a vague feeling of munche or toulouse. i watch each person before me draw queens, the later one a perfectly symmetrical drawing of one woman with one cup, beautiful and regal.<br />
<br />
this reminds me of the last time i drew a card in olympia, about four years prior when i was pregnant with Small Son. i sat on the living floor of marie's and "asked" the deck about my unborn child. specifically i wanted to know what gender my baby was. the first card i pulled a knight with a long sword. i slapped it down and pushed it aside. i tried again. another sword. and again. more swords. i then flipped through the deck to ensure there were some feminine images, and yes of course there were- but none had touched my fingers. all i had drawn were true to him- my second son.<br />
<br />
so when i decided to pull a card on saturday morning i was confident the deck would show me what i needed to see. i pulled out a card and gazed at it. my first thought was "she looks like me!" and then i laughed to see how completely wobbly the card was. the image was of a woman with a light pink derby on with wavy blond hair and uneven eyes. it seemed that she was looking straight on with her right eye while her left looked far off to her side. in front of her was a thin infinity sign with a red pentacle in the center of each loop- at first glance it looked like she was roping them up in a rodeo. the blue sky was above her and around her was water.<br />
<br />
i described what i saw to my new friend- a fiery man with small round spectacles that intensified his eyes even more so than his observant nature. he listened carefully and then pointed out that she was indeed surrounded by water and that perhaps she was in a boat. he mentioned, almost casually the need for balance, although his warm eyes looked at me meaningfully like a teacher willing a student to "get it."<br />
<br />
balance. ah yes. what i seek, what i miss, what i need. in all aspects of my life i often feel out-of-balance. too much this, not enough that. within my own self, in my relationship, as a mother, as a human it feels that i often am struggling to redistribute tasks, thoughts, needs to be more balanced. coming to the dance was an attempt to right myself a bit- to figure out how to balance a job, homeschooling kids, working on my marriage, having a garden, serving on a board, and the keeping the house from falling into complete ruin, laundry pile first.<br />
<br />
coming to the dance is always about this.<br />
<br />
so dance i did. i danced furiously, curiously, drastically, bombastically. i danced through so many flavors of joy and fear, celebration and indignation, opening and closing....and then right back to fear. the deepest, darkest fear my body has ever held. the fear i think i have "gotten over" only to have her slide up beside me and unsettle me all over because this fear isn't based on a shadow, but a truth i have felt in my exploding lungs and hurting heart- even though i cannot recall the details with my mind, these other organs scream protest, they scream witness.<br />
<br />
the story goes that when i was a child- about 2 or 3- i fell into a swimming pool and sank. my brother, who is 4 years older than me, was my witness. he told me once, casually over dinner in vancouver, that when they pulled me up i was blue. <br />
<br />
now, i could have dismissed this as a mis-memory on my brother's part- except that my body jolted with a clear recognition that was impossible to deny. years of swimming lessons all undone by the slightly splash of water on my face, the way my heart races if my feet do not touch bottom, the many hours it took to simple trust water enough to float in a pool four feet deep. the "click" of understanding a bit more about myself must have been audible that night.<br />
<br />
but i had felt i had dealt with that old fear- until suddenly, while dancing- i was there again. alone, terrified, drowning in tepid water, frantic for someone to come and help me. which, of course, happened. someone did come and help me. i am here now. except for that small bit of me that is stuck somewhere in my past, trying to catch up with me, sending me messages like greeting cards across breakfast tables.<br />
<br />
hours after my break down on the dance floor - oh yes, full on tantrum - i remembered the tarot card and reviewed the sketch i had done of her/me. then i noticed a few more things. i was in a boat. i was safely, securely in a boat. and i was not alone in the boat- someone was looking me in the eye and telling me that even if i lost balance and capsized, even if i sank like a chunk of granite, even if i grew terrified and forgot how to float and how to breath, that no matter what- i would not drown.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-90509044239205325252012-11-02T06:14:00.003-07:002012-11-02T06:51:06.673-07:00My HeroEveryone wants to be a hero, champion, a badass. Few things compare with that feeling of knowing you were there, just at the right moment, and completely changed the outcome of a situation doomed for darkness. I could argue that maybe it's this need that fuels motherhood, because being a mama requires being a badass many times a day. <br />
<br />
Or attempting to be a badass and failing at it, locking yourself into the bathroom and taking a bath at 3:30 in the afternoon because you figure you are least likely to do permanent damage this way while you mourn the fantasy of being the badass you used to once be. <br />
<br />
I realized into my seventh year of parenting my Big Son that this desire, to be the unexpected solution to a problem, was HUGE. It fueled his play, picked his toys, and provided a significant motivation when it came to chores. While asking "can you help unload the dish washer?" was met with lackluster interest, rephrasing the question into something more of a plea for help, the clean dishes being menacing and overwhelming (which they often are, damn plates) resulting in an enthusiastic rescue.<br />
<br />
I'm not above playing the stereotypical helpless maiden bound by circumstances outside of my control (sock sorting, for example) when it comes getting help with the housework. Don't tell Ani, but sometimes being the kitten in the tree has perks. <br />
<br />
There have been real life situation when I did need a hero. A Hero, even (and I include in this the female form of the word Heroine...but not the liquid suicide you inject into your veins. That has no place here.) Times when one showed up, times when one didn't, times when I just got tired of waiting and decided to be my own. Or times when all three happen at once.<br />
<br />
For example...<br />
<br />
Sometimes my brain clicks on, loudly and fierce like a downhill train without brakes, at the wee hours of the morn. I lay in the dark, resentful of nearby snoring, and review all the ways I have fucked up. Or worry about the way I am going to fuck up. Sure, there is a undercurrent of self-love and grandmotherly charm somewhere in my head too, but it's mostly drowned out by the screeching. After ninety minutes of this, it feels like a good time to do laundry.<br />
<br />
On this particular October morn, I found my flip-flops in the dark and wandered toward the laundry room. Ok, that noun "room" implies that it is more than a hall- which is what it really is - the laundry hall/pantry. A very tight hall packed full of glass jars I can't seem to use, recycle or surrender pushed into the crevices of boxes, packages and cans of food that I often forget to use. It's not a particularly welcoming area of the house, it's supposed to be about function - but does not have much form. True, I often get a little skittish because you have to walk through the dark hall, three steps, to reach the light switch and then you stand facing the window on the back door and more than once I have scared the shit out of myself by seeing my reflection staring back at me (really, a child should never watch those Halloween movies). Oh, and there was the time I switched on the light and found a country mouse (also known as a rat) clinging to the wall, staring at me with big, wet, black eyes.<br />
<br />
This morning I was too sleepy to remember to be scared though, and as it would happen, as soon as I switched on the light there was a thudding sound of something hitting a wall and the squawks of startled chickens. At 4 in the morning, before the slow glow of dawn has begun to tickle sounds out of the world, these are really loud and terrifying sounds and instantly cleared the whiny bitch noise in my head. If I had only heard the thudding sound I would not have grabbed the closest "weapon," the broom, and ran out into the dark night. I would have gone and woke up the slumbering big man of a bear in the bedroom. It was the squawk. A squawk of equal parts terrors and indignation...a call to arms. Broom in hand, I went forth.<br />
<br />
As I ran out of the door and down the slippery wooden steps, I hollered over my shoulder to the sleeping house "SOMETHING'SINTHEHENHOUSE!" and ran, full tilt to meet the tormentors.<br />
<br />
And then I stopped. As I cleared the corner of the house, darkness cut a sharp angle and only shadows of the hen house greeted me. I was taken over with the realization that my sleepy attire of yoga pants and flip-flops was sooo not the rodent-fighting armor I was wishing for. I have a vivid imagination, and in that nano-second of seeing the hen house and knowing I was going to get closer to it, I clearly lived the horror of having my toes mauled by a fierce furry thing. Something with a looong and pointy tail. My toes were cold and worried. They were wondering if maybe they were
higher up on the priority list then the chickens, because yes- the eggs
are good but walking is really good. <br />
<br />
Their complaints were hardly acknowledged before another loud round of thumping and squawking erupting from the wooden coop, which caused me to scream and randomly bang the outside of the coop. At the time, I had a vague notion that this was going to scare the critter out of the coop. Now I realize it was just reinforcing the perception my neighbors have of me that I am crazy. In fact, I was just practicing my broom swing...cuz I was fixin' to do some mean sweeping on those darn varmints. "Sweep 'em clear to Sunday," is the term I would later coin to explain my weapon of choice.<br />
<br />
I could see ruffled feathered hens darting in the bottom run of the chicken coop so I ventured round to open the run- squishing into wet grass - toes loudly protesting as I neared the door. Two chickens ran swiftly into the safety of the dark and then ran back out of the dark because the dark doesn't really feel that safe most of the time.<br />
<br />
Now the chicken coop was put together from various found wood, which we hoard, and isn't really the most clever in the design area. It is on wheels and it sits parallel the elevated back deck. There is the bottom run, which has a ramp leading up through a hatch- which had been left open the night before - and into the roosting area and nesting box. The nesting box has a lid that opens and the roosting area has a large door that you can swing open and latch. If you get really close and put down your broom. That's what I did to find sleeping birds and lots of menacing blackness.<br />
<br />
The perfect moment for a hero to arrive.<br />
<br />
The outside light sprang on with a fierceness and the sliding glass down rolled open with a velocity that caused it to bounce back a tad, and out stepped my Big Son, his long brown hair wild and full, clad only in his plaid boxer shorts, holding in his two hands his pellet rifle, cocked and loaded. And as he stepped into the light he yelled out in a high voice imitating a low voice, "WHO IS MESSING WITH MY GIRLS?!"<br />
<br />
I'm writing to Websters and telling them to update their entry for "badass."<br />
<br />
And for "hero" too.<br />
<br />
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<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-72145856785849180462012-08-28T22:15:00.000-07:002012-08-28T22:15:06.193-07:00small spotsas i walked down the houseware aisle toward the cat food, i spied a nymph-of-a-cashier carefully turning the cans of cat food into columns of symmetry. this meditative practice is often referred to as "facing" in the retail world. i spent a good lot of my time at work doing this to antioxidants, omegas, and the like. this cashier however, had a pensive countenance and her movements were slow and measured. this is not the usual approach to facing a store. it is often a much more harried task, so i felt compelled to inquire.<br />
<br />
now this cashier is especially faerie-like. she may be the quintessential cashier for a health food cooperative store. her hair is wispy, light and often has fragrant flower blossoms or found feathers laying in it's haphazard curls. her eyes are a piercing blue but her lids are heavy. she is slight in build and has freckles on her nose. her name is not common. she isn't named after a plant or a state of being - as the stereotype might suggest - but you probably wouldn't be entirely sure how to pronounce her name if you saw it on her name tag. she is kind and genuine. i'm pretty sure when she sleeps butterflies make moss beds on her pillow to slumber near her.<br />
<br />
i wasn't completely surprised when she told me that at that moment she was thinking that "it" was all about balance. "it" being life, not facing - although if you have ever dared to enter the tetris-like task of facing the tea-box-wall then you know that facing is also all about balance. she continued to talk a bit about balance - the need to not swing to far to one side or the other. <br />
<br />
in my own balancing act i have found that when i make a sudden move, there will be an equally forceful movement in an opposing way. while if i made smaller nudges then the pendulum doesn't hit me in the ass on the way back to me.<br />
<br />
i immediately thought of the yin-yang symbol when the faerie-of-cashierland said "balance" because this symbol is often used in my parenting conversations, more so perhaps than most, because i have a very emotional child who can go to extremes in his reactions - clearly a genetic lark. <br />
<br />
the way the swirls suggest motion and a cycle. the spot of light within the dark and vice versa. the small points when light turns to dark and then dark back to light. <br />
<br />
constant circular movement creates balance.<br />
<br />
and i fight like hell against this most of the time. when things are good, i want to stop the clock and just keep it good. for. ev. er. i want laundry to stay clean. i want money to stay in the bank. i don't want to have to buy more cat food a month from now. and i certainly do not want to talk about something that has already been talked about before. yes, ironically i want exactly what i fear the most: stagnation.<br />
<br />
but, as the cashier-faerie demonstrated with her towers of cat vittles and her twinkling eyes - it is all about balance. even when things comes crashing down and land on your exposed toes, it is still about balance.<br />
<br />
even when your checkbook is not balanced and your bounce several checks to the place you work - it is still about balance.<br />
<br />
even when you try to bring in your purse, the library books, and the rotten food at the same time and fail at this attempt. yup, balance. again, when i say "you" what i mean is "me."<br />
<br />
riding a bike. taking a shower. comforting a child. making a meal. asking for help. going to sleep. sun down. sun up. <br />
<br />
over and over.<br />
<br />
thankfully.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-32876122685252279672012-08-19T11:18:00.001-07:002012-08-19T11:18:32.848-07:00let it shinethe divine mostly whispers. small and soft voice in my mind- suggesting solutions, offering detour directions, calming me when i scrap my knee past the age when my mama's lap fits. it is the crux of life that whispering can be easy to ignore. <br />
<br />
often it is about ten seconds too late that i recognize the whispering. the moment after i turn down a street and see the sea of brake lights, when the sound of my son's siren screech out of his square mouth lands in my ears from a trip i didn't catch - resulting in blood and scab, the look of hurt as my impulsive words land on the heart of someone in an ugly splat of black tar. then i think, didn't i hear that whispering that said to turn right, to hold my son's hand, to keep my mouth shut?<br />
<br />
truth is i do hear it. <br />
<br />
truth is i sometimes don't recognize it as my whispering divinity. sometimes she can sound a little bit like a nagging fish wench or a whiny child or a grumpy-ass old man who doesn't brush his teeth often. or maybe it's that it is hard to hear because all of these voices/thoughts are swirling around in my head in an overcooked soup, where carrots and potatoes taste the same.<br />
<br />
truth is, sometimes i hear it, i recognize it and i ignore it. i think "yeah, right i don't need to get gas now." the stubborn part of me that simply doesn't want to be told what to do - even told what to do by my best-self, my guardian angel, my muse, my floating buddha of hope. the rebel without a reason, i just disregard all sorts of good counsel and go straight toward obstacles as fat and crusty as brick walls. <br />
<br />
basically, this is why i got my nose pierced. not because i was rebelling, but because i wanted a reminder that i do have this little light that shines and if i let it shine, as the song goes, i can follow it to where i need to be. <br />
<br />
i discovered this one late night when i sat up and preached a sermon to myself on the couch as i folded laundry. i started off by singing songs and then i started chatting about the song - why it has lasted so long, why so many voices and hearts had found comfort in them. i kept coming back to "this little light of mine, i'm gonna let it shine." and i'd talk to myself, out loud, about what that meant to me in this life. <br />
<br />
i figured the whispering and the light are one-and-the-same. i also figured that i needed a reminder about this, something a little big bigger/louder than the whispering. something purdy and glittery and magically delicious.<br />
<br />
these were the thoughts i had when teri stuck a hollow needle through my right nostril - i was singing this song in my head and imagining the tiny hole was like a star in the night sky. a jewel in a vast dark landscape. a disney tune might have slipped in there too.<br />
<br />
a year later my nose-piercing seemed to be working. except when it didn't. like one morning as i washed my face in the shower, i heard the whisper say "you should be careful washing your face with this nose piercing." and so i didn't. i thought "nah, it's been fine all this time."<br />
<br />
until 5 minutes later when i noticed the moonstone stud wasn't firmly in my flesh, but on the brink of the shower drain. and it wouldn't go back through my nose. i could get it all the way through the layers of my outer dermis, the cartilage but not the inner mostly muscusy layer of my nose. i could feel the tip of the metal but it would not pierce through.<br />
<br />
i'm as vain as the next person, i admit. but it was something more than vanity that caused me a slight flutter of panic to land in my belly at the thought of my nose piercing refusing to be replanted in my nostril. it was like a sign, like my light was being denied. like the whispering had gone away - the tiny stud being it's speaker in my face and i couldn't get the freakin' wires to connect.<br />
<br />
throughout the day, i kept trying to get the stud back in my nose. my nose responded by swelling up and making it even more difficult. i straightening an L shaped piercing to double the length, but still couldn't quite get it through. i stalked pierced folks at stores and later at a party for advice.<br />
<br />
the consensus: i had to push it through or it would only close up more.<br />
<br />
the advice: do it now. make noise when it hurt. use a frozen carrot.<br />
<br />
well, there were no frozen carrots to be found in the farmhouse freezer because really, frozen carrots are never as good as fresh carrots. however we did manage to find a bag of edamame pods in the chest freezer. i've also appreciated edamame pods, especially because of those soft hairs on them. they remind me of $85 tabs for sushi, seaweed salad and sake when it was feasible to spend that much money on 45 minutes of food. it's been awhile.<br />
<br />
while the party continued behind the barn, the jugglers on the stage of the flat-bed truck and the cherries pits being sucked clean and then spit into the bushes, i went inside to the bathroom with my Small Son in tow and a midwife for the pain. sitting on the counter, i shoved a cube of ice up my nose to numb it. Small Son found this hilarious. then in with the fuzzy green pod. the bulbous curve of the bean fit snugly into my nostril. i pushed the piercing through and felt it hindered by my thinnest skin.<br />
<br />
this is where the noise-making helps. because it is really challenging to cause ourselves pain and hold in noise at the same time. it also helps to have someone else, midwife, make loud groaning noises with you from the doorway of the bathroom as your kid plays with the wooden teapot on the waldorf kitchen set up. it is easier to groan into a groan rather than into silence.<br />
<br />
as i pulled the pod out of my noise i saw small spots of blood on the green skin. i felt the silver poking my septum as i wrinkled my swollen nose. i turned my head this way and that to view the little light that had been gone for the past ten or so hours. <br />
<br />
and i thought<br />
next time, i'm going to listen to that whisper<br />
because,<br />
<i>damn, that hurt.</i><br />
<br />
nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-53735540336277432672012-07-26T08:13:00.000-07:002012-07-26T08:13:19.380-07:00luckythe days before my birthday, every one, is awash in a gray film that clouds my emotions and smile. by now, my 38th time at this, you'd think i'd be ready or at least aware of it. but like pms, it's not until after the fact that i think "oh, right" and remember that this is my pattern. a repeating, predictable pattern.<br />
<br />
it's something like this- i start to think about what i want to happen on my birthday and then i immediately dash all hope because these plans are in the hands of others to shower me with ridiculously delirious amounts of love and stuff. now i have had really great birthdays, but every year i start to worry that this will be the year that everyone suddenly deems me unworthy of any type of consideration other than requests for clean laundry or popsicles.<br />
<br />
then there's that very teeny-tiny voice of small, wise girl that whispers that maybe i should just consider letting the day unfold and see what treasures show up. <br />
<br />
whatever.<br />
<br />
that's my middle school bitch that lives right under the skin. she uses a lighter to melt her eyeliner and aquanet on teased bangs. she wears short tight skirts and black suede boots. she rolls her eyes like bowling balls- fast and dangerous. <br />
<br />
perhaps my gray film is actually the result of these two gals fighting it out somewhere in my spleen or gallbladder or other obscure organ. maybe the small girl purrs and the middle school bitch hisses and i build brick walls around the scuffle so i don't have to pick sides. and of course, by not picking sides i am pickings sides. as my dad likes to say, the first option is always not to do anything. which is still doing something. <br />
<br />
i love the doing nothing option.<br />
<br />
i do nothing until the morning of my birthday and the bitch is in the lead. she is throwing darts of criticism faster than someone who throws darts really fast...sorry it's too early for a meaningful metaphor here. the point being, that it really looks like m.s.b. is gonna win the day until slowly i start to pick sides. what switched me from indifference to defender? i dunno. i spoon warm honey milk to small, wise girl and she perks right up.<br />
<br />
off we go into the day. i get lunch at my favorite place in Atown, and we walk to thrift stores where i find nothing especially fabulous and that's ok. we kill time until the last thrift store opens and i get dropped off to dive into the crowd. i barely make it out of there with red preschooler shoes and green shirt because there's just too many eager treasure hunters which means there's no easy browsing and story-sharing...it's all about the hunt and the long wait in line.<br />
<br />
i wait on the curb for the fam to pick me up, i sip my water. the water is stale and smells like it's been in a metal water bottle for a few days in a warm car. which it has. out of the thrift store comes a woman in her fifties who is coughing. the cough is that annoying cough of "i swallowed wrong" and nothing super dangerous, but she keeps coughing. she has short kinky hair with bright sunglasses and cocoa skin. <br />
<br />
i wonder briefly what it's like for her to be in this white-washed town as i step up and offer her my stale water. i'm secretly hoping she doesn't take it because it's not cold and sweet the water is meant to be, but it is water and i am offering it. she politely declines and says something about how if someone is coughing they are ok, and then she chats about the dog there and this and that with me. her smile is genuine and her hands flit about as she talks. out the door comes an elderly woman using a walker and the woman, no longer coughing, comments to her "Girl, you're just getting out everywhere today."<br />
<br />
this reminds me how much i miss living in a place where i hear women call each other girl with big smiles. it reminds me how much i miss living in a place where i see and hear many different types of bodies and voices and movement. i suppose this might be some type of racism, that i seek people out who are not like me - white. just like i pick out books to read based on the last name of the authors, going straight to the ones i cannot pronounce.<br />
<br />
in any case, the sun is out and i'm chatting with this....girl....and she tells me, "my name is carlotta. what's yours?" and i tell her my name. i repeat it and she repeats it. we shake hands.<br />
<br />
then she says....she actually says, "well, nancylee aren't you just the sweetest thing? we are lucky to have you on this earth."<br />
<br />
i smile shyly and say thank you. i cross the street. i am overwhelmed. my eyes tear up and i'm curious at the power strangers - how strangers all over the world show love to each other in simple words that rock worlds. truly, i have heard words like this from people i love and not been as moved as hearing Carlotta say them to me.<br />
<br />
and at first the small girl feels like this gift was for her. because of course, everyone loves the small, wise girl. <br />
<br />
she is the sweetest thing, after all. <br />
<br />
the more i think about it, it was for the middle school bitch. that part of me that feels not welcomed and unseen. because she is the same part of me that has dragged my ass to this point through particular parts of hell too much for small girl to doing anything more than nap through.<br />
<br />
folks may like small, wise girl - i know i do. but i just gotta say to my middle school bitch, "damn girl, we are <i>lucky</i> to have you on this earth."<br />
<br />
<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-503789540448378142012-07-13T09:04:00.001-07:002012-07-13T10:38:21.910-07:00meltedi watched the mail van creep its ways down the sidestreet, it swerving in closer to rural boxes to deliver paper and packages. white with blue and red stripes. dip and glide. dip and glide.<br />
<br />
"guess what's coming in the mail today?!" i called back to the boys hunkered behind me in the new truck, also known as the Duchess of Wow. i'm thinking of a documentary about a certain band my kid has recently fallen in love with.<br />
<br />
DOM DA DOM DA DA DOM DOM, i sing out.... the first notes of Seven Nation Army - the 3 year old can sing it by now. and he does.<br />
<br />
"the tickets?" replies my gleeful almost 10 year old boy who will headed to this concert with me in August for our birthday concert. i'm confused by this for a nanosecond because we already got the tickets and i showed him where i hid them...<br />
<br />
"THE TICKETS!" i holler. confusion in the back seat. "THE TICKETS WERE IN THE OLD FRIDGE!" and yes, the old fridge died last week. it was hauled away.<br />
<br />
never to be seen again.<br />
<br />
see, on friday night i get home from work and when i open the fridge to put away the groceries my hand slips into tempid air. in the freezer the popsicles are sagging, ice cubes reverting to water state, the plastic bag with the two $60 tickets calmly sitting in the door, next to the bag of sweet corn.<br />
<br />
at some point in my life - i have yet to figure out when - i was taught/told/decided that the freezer was the safest place to store valuable papers. i believe the reasoning was something like if the house burns down the stuff in the fridge won't burn. because the only thing lamer than your home becoming a mountain o' ashes is not being able to go see the Red Hots, PJ and yes, Nirvana. of course, who knows if a freezer would hold these sacred slips safe? typically this didn't mean i put cash or birth certificates in the freezer, just tickets - concert tickets. priorities people.<br />
<br />
the 10 year old begins to break down in his own controlled rage/sadness way. he grips his head with his hands, mangled hair peeking out of grubby hands, and i can feel his heart sinking into his flame converse. i say something incredibly consoling and kind like, "don't just sit there, let's go look for them!" this might even be a nicer version of what i said. i am not a saint.<br />
<br />
inside we check the usual places- the new fridge. the freezer in the pantry. then we get crazy and start checking my desk and the recycling bin. the boy calls the dad and leaves heartbreaking voicemail. i call the dad and get a slightly abrupt "no i haven't seen them" reply. my dad, who is visiting from california, is equally ignorant of ticket's whereabouts and my habit of putting things in the freezer for safe keeping. maybe you can never really know a person.<br />
<br />
around this time my best friend shows up with her teenage daughter en route to birch bay. it's her 41st birthday and i was planning a nice time of visiting with her while eating ice cream. instead she has walked into melt down central - no cone required. while seren shifts disgarded receipts and bills, i decide to call the appliance store where we bought the new fridge, where the old fridge went.<br />
<br />
donnie - maybe the one from NKOTB - hides his confusion/mockery well. he goes and looks for our old fridge and reports that it is not on the premises. the trailer full of old appliances has been picked up. i ask if there's any chance someone in the warehouse opened up the freezer, saw the tickets and did the happy dance. he tell me, very seriously, that they typically do not open up old refrigerators because they "smell pretty bad." never thought about that.<br />
<br />
he does take my name and number. good kid. glad he had fame and riches once upon a time.<br />
<br />
continue frantic search. i start doing the mom thing where i look everywhere my kid has already looked and my kid goes and hides in his room. in the dark. under his desk. he wants ice cream. but i cannot let him eat it alone in the dark. i know that song too well.<br />
<br />
meanwhile, my friend has offered up her two tickets and her daughter loves up the cats. my dad returns from the tire store. the 3 year old wants more ice cream.<br />
<br />
seemingly random tangent, like a commercial, but with important back story:<br />
<br />
<i>i often wonder if the years of television watching has provided me with inappropriate role models. like macguyver. at moments in my life i have actually seen images of him in my head when i need to go into desparate fix-it mode. like when i dropped the keys out of the truck into a trench and used the dog leash and paper clip to retrieve them. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>however, since i read every word i could get my eyes on, i also have a host of literary characters to personify as well. nancy drew, for example. if having the same name wasn't enough, she was also blonde and...nothing like me at all. now and then, i get this secret-agent tingly feeling and i solve the case, mo fo.</i><br />
<br />
with the case of the thawed-out tickets, i decide to do some more tracking. i call back the appliance store and ask for details about who/when the old appliances were picked up. confusion ensues, but then i'm given a number. i call that number and repeat the same story i told Donnie earlier. This guy, does not hide his confusion/mockery, but also shows some compassion and give me another number to call.<br />
<br />
i call that number. by this time the child has come out of cave of discontent, and is lurking nearby to hear if anyone knows anything. the third appliance guy sounds like a grandpa. i add more details because i have a slight worry that the tickets will wind up on craigslist and maybe if i get enough pity this won't happen. i explain how this was a birthday present for my son, how devastated he is, how yes- i know it is weird to store tickets in a freezer. and this guy totally gets it. he unleashes the hounds on to the cemetary of dead appliances. if those tickets are there- he is gonna find them.<br />
<br />
my friend and her kid leave. my kid feels better because he knows that he is going to see Jack White, no matter what. Yes, that is who all this is for - Jack White, formerly of the White Stripes. This is the apple of my kid's eye. Possibly for mad guitar skills combined with screeching rocking lyrics, most definitely some style points too. Jack White who writes songs that someday my kid will "get" and ask, incrediously "you let me listen to this?" in my defense, i suppose all i will be able to offer up is that he wanted to listen to it. but in truth, it's because the music transports him to a place where all things are bright and brilliant and intense. it's the music of his emotional landscape. last year it was the avett brothers. this year, more distortion. bring on sixteen saltines.<br />
<br />
now that it's just family i know it's time to dive into the garbage. luckily (?) we haven't made a dump run since the fridge died. yay! all the old rotting food-stuffs is outside in the deep bins of refuse. the good news is that it isn't raining and we have chickens. remember- chickens eat anything. i begin pulling out garbage. i realize we aren't really doing a good job of recycling. i contemplate whether it's true that this doesn't matter because "they" sort it all out anyway. i also realize my kids are being fed crap food while i'm at work. i also realize i'm not sure if i could sift through a stranger's garbage. eww. i bet nancy drew would do it, if she had gloves.<br />
<br />
i pull a book out of the box that had been under the house (in musky city) for month and thus had decomposed into cardboard shreds.<br />
<br />
"hey!" i shout. my son jumps up with excitement and yells "you found 'em?!"<br />
<br />
"no. but here's that library book we lost." the one we paid $20 to replace. the one on budgies. the one - i later will learn - the library has not replaced yet but will not issue a refund either. no, we will not be returning this book. we gots budgies.<br />
<br />
i send the boy into the house to search through more paper recycling. and i reach the final bag of garbage. it contains all the things in the freezer i didn't even try to save- the ground turkey my mom gave us, the pork stew that needed more work, the....i don't even remember what that is...container. the chickens gather with glee, pecking at a speed not seen since the maggot-munch. everything is covered in a rancid slime.<br />
<br />
i should have worn gloves, i think.<br />
<br />
if it was raining it would stink less, i think.<br />
<br />
i have found the tickets, i think.<br />
<br />
yes, amidst the plastic bags of disgust shines a white pristine envelope with two tickets to the August 14th show of Jack White at the WaMu Theater in Seattle. Hot damn.<br />
<br />
i call for seren and race up the stairs. he is sitting on the floor contemplating each piece of paper before putting it back in the box when i say "i found 'em" and hold them in front of him, slime slick still. his eyes light up and his face radiates into a smile that would stop a parade. he runs to me and hugs me with this strength of love and release of anger and complete bliss.<br />
<br />
even if it was probably me that tossed them out in the first place (never clean out a fridge after working all day and needing sleep) i feel like macguyver and nancy drew with a dash of Jem (truly, truly, truly outrageous) and She-Ra (princess of power).<br />
<br />
cuz that's what it takes to be a mama. no sainthood required.<br />
<br />
<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-8836698532025536622012-06-16T08:40:00.000-07:002012-06-16T08:40:19.583-07:00gluei am a fixer. if i had a tool belt of my life's work around my waist it would hold a pen, paper, and glue. maybe some toast. and a warm drink. yes, those things can make just about anything right again with enough time and good intention. good attention.<br />
<br />
these days i notice friends struggling. more than one. people i love dearly. gals i consider sisters even if i only know one paragraph of their life story.<br />
<br />
and i want to make it better for them. i want to glue their chipped feelings together and soothe their frazzled hearts. i want to somehow reach inside them and hold the hand of their small ego with her pink finger nails until she is ready to laugh and jump rope again.<br />
<br />
but i know i have to wait it out.<br />
<br />
this is how i know.<br />
<br />
a long time ago i found myself not feeling safe in my home. not because another person wished me harm, but because my own rage was beyond containing and i worried that i would spontaneously combust if i stayed one minute longer burning down everything and everyone around me. leaving was my anger management. it was also a way to set boundaries. and a way to get a good night's sleep.<br />
<br />
on my friends couch.<br />
<br />
i'd show up with small child in tow and rest. it seems like i did this often. more often than i would have liked. at various times of the day and night. with toothbrush or not. with pajamas or not. with words or not.<br />
<br />
and my friend would look at me with her green eyes aching, her lips twitching to ask, no doubt her curiosity as peaked as a mountain top- but she never asked me why or how or what. she never once told me what i should do or what i shouldn't do.<br />
<br />
she just was there. with her guitar. with her cats. with her single wide mobile next to railroad track at the base of small mountains where harley's like to drive like wild animals.<br />
<br />
and that's what friends do. because before you can glue something back together you have to wait for all the pieces to land, then gather them, puzzle them around a bit. and that all takes some time. but when we are ready to give it a go, it's nice to have someone there with glue at the ready. and a cup of tea, some toast. maybe even a few tissues.<br />
<br />
<br />
cuz fixin is messy work.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-33503442454387976192012-05-10T10:31:00.000-07:002012-05-10T10:31:31.644-07:00cleansuddenly i needed a clean bath tub. i cannot pick the exact motivation behind this need, but there were several contributing factors:<br />
1. it was disgusting.<br />
2. my back was in a constant pain spasm.<br />
3. pending visit from my favorite aunt.<br />
4. it was disgusting.<br />
<br />
more about the bath tub. it is the original tub when the house was built in the fifties. thankfully it is not pink, yellow or blue. it is white. or it was white. probably. any glossy sheen it once had has been worn away like freckles from a summer vacation- slowly disappearing over time. without that protection glimmer the stains of the day sink right into the pores. where they stay for a very, very long time.<br />
<br />
i wasn't always so neglectful of my tub. probably there was a phase in my life when i regularly scoured porcelin. i vaguely remember loving a tub- the one in the top floor of a triplex where the window was eye level as you soaked and birds often gathered in the birdplace out on the roof. a person could soak and witness cedar wax wings flicking diamonds of water on their creamy gray plumes. most likely that bath tub was regularly cleaned.<br />
<br />
no tub in this house gets that kind of lve. this house always housing me as a mother, i have found washing the tub to be continually on the downward spiral on my to-do list. if i ever actually wrote one of those. i place dirty children in there and they come out cleaner. i keep my eyes closed when i take a bath, fan on to mask any whining, essential oils to paint prettier any odors and i shower immediately afterwards.<br />
<br />
problem? i don't have a problem.<br />
<br />
but then there's sunday morning and suddenly motivation hits me with a tinge of shame, perhaps, and i decide i will make my tub into something different than what it is. something clean and white and glimmering. so i gather supplies from under the bathroom sink. well, i sort stuff first to get to the bon ami powder and green scrubby and then go in search of gloves. this is when i spy the bottle of "soft scrub with bleach" in the kitchen. i did not buy this. i would not buy this for so many reasons and yet here it sits. i decide it's my mother. in her ever-good-intending mode she has brought this contraband into my world. perhaps in a moment of do-gooding she has forgotten that i am Green. i work at a co-op. i shop at thrift stores. i feed my children tahini dressing on organic greens. surely she has forgotten that i don't want to use toxin cleaners that taint the ground water and kill fishes. she has forgotten that chlorine produces the most lethal of all byproducts: dioxins, mega mutant killers. she has forgotten this all in the blissful moment of believeing soft scrub with bleach will make my tub scrubbing easier.<br />
<br />
and i forget all this too and grab the bottle.<br />
<br />
sometimes my brain splits and i can watch me do stuff while the other part of my brain says "holy hell- what are you doing?!" but then the third part of my brain replies "shhhh- let's just see what she does. it's kinda boring around here anyway." maybe if i had cable this wouldn't happen...<br />
<br />
there's me in flip flops with yellow rubber gloves in the bathroom ready to transform the tub into the shangrala of sudsing. i squirt with abandon. even as the fumes hit me and my eyes squint, i kneel and begin to furiously work the green rectangle back and forth along the black foot prints and dark smudges. and even as part of me still screams "stop!" this other part of me is sayin "wow, this stuff really does clean stuff up quick."<br />
<br />
i'm in awe of how fast grey turns white, at the same time being offended that i want it to be transformed just so. i've made my own scouring powder, i've boiled water, i've bruised my knees and sweated my brow in the process of cleaning the tub. if one doesn't mind the burning nostril feeling, this bleach stuff isn't so bad.<br />
<br />
i open the window, turn on the fan and yell into the house "don't come into the chlorine cloud!"<br />
<br />
with the sides nearest me, i start to work on the far sides, and then decide to actually step into the tub to get better leverage. all three parts of my brain agree that standing in the frothy foam is a bad idea so i leave my flip flops on. when i bend down to work at the ring of scuzz i almost pass out from the fumes. while most sane people would leave at this point, i am far too into the fantasy of white bath to stop now. besides- a half clean bath tub is worse than a completely dirty one. it's the contrast that gets you.<br />
<br />
i decide to use my ample leg muscles. the green scrubby is about the same length of my foot, so i step onto it and work it back and forth and back and forth in small, fast movements. i hold onto the wall for support. i scream "don't let him in here!" frantically as the toddler tries to investigate. i switch feet. and then switch again.<br />
<br />
most of the tub is gleaming. true, there still is no shine and no doubt won't be until i fork over $300 to have more toxins repainted on the tub. but the tub is far more inviting. except for the large yellow stain where it looks like a dead body was left to rot. the stain that is never removed no matter how long i soak things in it or scrub at it. the stain that only once showed any signs of dimming after a $18 bottle of white cranberry cleanser was spilt on it, leaving a clean streak like a river through it. and yes, that worried me. and no, i never bought another bottle of that.<br />
<br />
<br />nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-28533710790655056242012-02-26T00:30:00.000-08:002012-02-26T00:30:34.045-08:00bloody valentinei woke up on valentine's day to my naked three year old begging to go shoot arrows outside. i'm not making this up. he managed to get the bow out of the closet and did not rest until i gave him an arrow..."NOT THAT ONE!"...that was up to his high, and completely secret, standards. he then walked around the house with these in hand, his round belly and small butt, putting to shame every cupid you have ever seen.<br />
<br />
no, i did not take a picture.<br />
<br />
i did, however, put out the small bags of the very small candies i had cautiously picked out at work the night before on the dining room table (the only table we have actually, so we do a lot more there then just dine). upon waking, my fully-clothed nine year old sees these and asks incredulously "is it valentine's day?!" i nod. because he is kind, and trying to avoid the preschooler with the weapons, he disappears to cut out a red heart and write on it "happy valentine's day mama. i love you." he hands this to me with a hug and turns to the goodies.<br />
<br />
they are gone in seconds.<br />
<br />
the naked cupid boy abandons his bow and arrow now that there is sugar involved and begins to whine for the lone bag on the table even though it is clearly labeled in crayons and markers that it is for his dad, not for him. all attempts to explain this to him is interrupted with a wailing noise that my neighbors probably no longer question but most likely caused eyebrows to raise initially. <br />
<br />
at first, i try the reasoning approach:<br />
<i>you already had yours.</i><br />
<i>that one is for papa.</i><br />
<br />
more wailing ensues.<br />
<br />
i try distraction:<br />
<i>let's make muffins!</i><br />
<i>help mama feed the kitties.</i><br />
<br />
tears, wailing and some anger. <br />
<br />
switch to physically comforting while acknowledging his emotions:<br />
<i>let mama hold you.</i><br />
<i>i can see that you are really upset.</i><br />
<br />
fiercely determined, fists of rage, clenched jaw, screaming "I WANT IT!" over and over.<br />
<br />
i resort to:<br />
no.<br />
No.<br />
NOOOO.<br />
<br />
and then i put it on top of the fridge and silently berate myself for giving into the lure of purple foil and chocolate hearts and marshmallow gooey things. i mentally kick myself for somehow forgetting, despite having gone through this before, that my child cannot tolerate any amount of sugar without melting down into a puddle of discontent and woe. wailing woe. <br />
<br />
he punctuates my thoughts with more tantrum while i contemplate going back to bed. <br />
<br />
after several more rounds of no-scream-no, he gives up (or maybe begins to develop his plan b) and we move onto the next thing. for me this means the dishes. for him, he goes back to his bow and arrow- including a few attempts to go outside naked to shoot it. bigger brother has found a lego cruiser in need of restructuring.<br />
<br />
suddenly, although this happens so often it is only sudden to visitors who don't have kids, the air is ripped apart and my knees tingle as the i-am-in-pain-squeal bounces off the ceiling. the naked three year old is sitting in the hall, cradling his foot as a red circle of blood grows on the creamy pink skin of his tender sole. a slight touch and another squeal reveals a shard of glass embedded in his foot. he yells for me not to touch it even as he cries that it hurts.<br />
<br />
and this is the lesson of the bloody valentine. so pay attention.<br />
<br />
i sit him on my lap and instruct bigger son to get the tweezers and cotton ball which he retrieves quickly and then holds the crying cupid's hand for support. i attempt to gently pull out the shard, but of course, any touch - no matter how well intentioned - hurts and is not tolerated. he squeals and pleads with me. i try again but the tweezers slip off the small exposed edge of the glass sliver. he jerks away from me and begs with tears crashing down his face. the seconds stretch into years as i am aware of two things: 1) my child is hurting and 2) i will have to hurt him to make the hurting stop.<br />
<br />
of course, he doesn't understand the part about trying to make the pain stop. he only knows that i insist on hurting him. i try to explain that i need to get the glass out, but like all of us, his main concern is to avoid pain. even when someone we love and normally trust is causing the pain. maybe more so because it's unexpected and confusing. especially after the chocolates.<br />
<br />
i bolster up my resolve to get this damn glass out. i ask big brother to help and reposition the crying child so his view is not so clear of what i am doing. i firmly hold his foot and grasp the slippery sliver and somehow manage to shut out the noise and emotions pounded on my ears and heart. the sensation of metal gripping glass travels up my arm and i slowly pull at the shard- it slides out. it is so small. tiny speck of pain in my palm. he pays no mind as i try to explain how i made it all better by taking it out. his face is still red with anguish.<br />
<br />
i am grateful that he still nurses. and i wrap his naked body in a blanket while i rock him back and forth a little bit. his breathing slows. big brother stands by quietly. <br />
<br />
it is not even ten in the morning and my day is already epic and packed full of too many lessons, too many emotions, too many red things like crooked hearts and spilled blood and deep anger at not getting enough and sad, sad shock at getting hurt by people we love. just another februrary 14th.<br />
<br />
or any other day of the year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-41238153468027229982012-01-22T21:23:00.000-08:002012-01-22T21:23:09.031-08:00resurrectionfor two months i have not written here, and i'm embarrassed. it's like the couple who doesn't have sex for so long they are shy getting out of the shower while the other one brushes teeth. hypothetically speaking.<br />
<br />
several times i have had moment when i had words bouncing around in my brain with such fierceness i could have filled pages, but rather than sit to type i folding laundry while listening to the soft rock love song station. even as i did this i would think "why am i doing this?!" yes, a chicago song can be an interesting walk down memory lane with ralph machio as your escort. however, if a person listens to that kind of ear noise everyday strange things happen. like you stop writing in your blog.<br />
<br />
until you read another mama's blog and feel that little panicky pang of jealousy/inspiration. <br />
<br />
then you find yourself boldly pressing "new post" with very little to actually write about. i don't have a story to tell. i can't even remember anything witty my boys have said to me recently. my brain is in the white wash zone of nothingness- that place when you wake up and aren't sure where you are for a split second as your brain recreates the last conscious moments, trying to remember if you are on the couch or in your toddler's bed.<br />
<br />
it's like that- a nothingness is here now, but i know it will fade and a somethingness will be there. i think when my eyes adjust and my fingers warm up i will have something worthwhile to write about, so please stay tuned.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-53385074520788145012011-11-15T00:44:00.000-08:002011-11-15T00:44:05.262-08:00perspectivethere are infinite ways to look at something. so many ways that you, with your two eyes, will never -not once- see the same thing twice. blink and the scene has shifted. don't blink- and still...change.<br />
<br />
it is this reality that equally fuels me and deflates me. because i am bored easily- so easily- i want nothing to be as it is, as it was, as it might be. and yet, the very idea that something, or someone, i enjoy as is will be different- or merely look differently to me- is distressing.<br />
<br />
i think i only like change when it is changing something i don't like much.<br />
<br />
boredom haunts me. as a mom- it is my worst enemy. and the worst enemy of my children. not that they are ever bored. they aren't. they find inspiration in chicken poop. however, my boredom causes them harm- they just don't know that's what is doing it.<br />
<br />
they know that mom freaks out, her eyes turn red and she suddenly cannot handle small injustices like lost library books, hidden hats, neglected chores. they don't understand that underneath all that ridiculous rage is a very bored woman madly trying to drum up some excitement amidst the repetitive aspects of motherhood: the cleaning, the cooking, the shopping, the dropping off to sleep at 9 pm because....what the hell is there to do?<br />
<br />
honestly- this is not something "they" do a good job of warning would-be mothers about....how boring it can be. or maybe i just never read that article. or even that magazine. maybe i was too busy having fun being spontaneous and fancy-free. you don't really expect to be bored if you have never been bored.<br />
<br />
just when i am almost bored to the point that i forget what it is like not to be bored- a birthday party invitation arrives. and not a party for my child or for any child. a party for not children. children are not invited at all. while children will not be there, all the necessary ingredients for a good time will be: live music and dance floor. there are other potential perks mentioned, namely some fun friends, bonfire, desert pot luck. but really- i'm attending the party in order to dance.<br />
<br />
of course, before dancing starts most people have to get drunk. not me. i get drunk by dancing, not in order to. but i understand that some folks need/want to drink before dancing- so i chat it up and wait. i sample deviled eggs and pumpkin chiffon cake and whiskey. i'm not bored. but i'm not dancing either. i'm not idle, but i'm not airborne yet. i'm taxi-ing on the runway though.<br />
<br />
the band gets going and then going more. they've got stand up bass, drum kit, horn, keyboard, voice. many songs inspire dirty twist dancing moves. i comply. the small dance floor with the throw-rug-foot-grabbers are limiting at first until we roll those bastards up and flail about some so that the neighboring dancers get wary and give room. some small distracting thoughts pop up in my head- reminiscent of middle school- possibly brought on by small clusters of pretty girls dancing at each other and giggling. <br />
<br />
but honestly, i'm so bored of my thoughts too.<br />
<br />
i ignore them by focusing on my feet, in red shoes, and how they feel moving about without tripping over a toddle or a supposedly barn cat yowling at me for more food. how my knees respond to the message from my tired soles and how my wide hips follow suit, my spine stretching and curving, my chest opening, arms raising up, mouth parted for warm air to escape from and return to.<br />
<br />
there are moments then when i am fully in body- so much that my ego finally gives up her relentless cries and jibes- and this soaring sensation takes over. this feeling of freedom and unlimited possibilities when i am so much larger than "i" am and i feel like i am everywhere and no where at once.<br />
<br />
later, much later after i drive home around 3 am and nurse my son back to sleep- i would dream about dancing. i would dream about dancing with these same friends, complete with top hat and mohawk, and when they tried to convince me to leave the dance, i would crumple and confess to them that i've never in my life danced to the point of exhaustion- that i have never danced so fully and so much that i was ready to stop. i always wanted more. even as i dreamed this i felt how beautiful and sad this thought was. that i had something that would never be extinguished and that i had not ever found the end of it - and that the passion had been largely unexplored.<br />
<br />
but it would be hours until i had that dream that still haunts me days later with it's clarity and confusion, so i continued dancing. until the songs became too slow or the room too hot. or the wind called me outside to stumble on bumpy grass and swirl in the gusts of rain-splattering wind with my friend's laughter and smile shining in the dark.<br />
<br />
at some point in the night, either before, during or after the dancing, i stood next to a fox and looked up into the cloudy sky just as the wind blew away the coverage and exposed the moon. she was graceful and aloof with a rainbow shining around her like a collar of pearl around a queen. and the november wind blew the clouds continuously and steady until it looked as if the moon was flying up, ever faster, toward the center of the sky and never reaching it.<br />
<br />
it looked as if she was moving swiftly toward something, with her eyes piercing the place she wished to land, fully believing she would land there soon. <br />
<br />
it looked as if she was swimming upstream past salmon, stones and stars to an open ocean and waves ready to wash her clean.<br />
<br />
it looked as if she were leading a flock of swans over mountain ranges and over sky scrapers to land in warm muddy puddles of delight.<br />
<br />
it looked as if it were all real and possible and completely perfectly right, just as one should expect from the moon.<br />
<br />
and she didn't look boring at all.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-54070094984953212482011-09-25T08:17:00.000-07:002011-09-25T08:17:55.736-07:00obstaclesthis one if for my brother. about my brother. possibly in honor, to honor, my brother.<br />
<br />
the brother who is older, bigger, taller, a whole lot more wild than i am. the brother who lived crazy for a long time while i watched, horrified mostly- sometimes amused, and just prayed that he'd live long enough for a child to call him uncle.<br />
<br />
the brother who taught me to roller skate on the sidewalk of west one-seventy street, to fight mean and sneaky when you are out-sized (note: he didn't directly teach me this, as he did with roller skating, rather this was a skill i developed to combat his girth and slight tendency to be entertained by annoying me in his bear-like affectionate manner), and who also demonstrated a slew of slightly less useful, more destructive behaviors that i, for the most part, chose to steer clear of as i grew older and was supervised less often.<br />
<br />
the brother who tells me stories that pop back up in my mind just as i need them. like this one.<br />
<br />
on a recent morning, after not getting enough sleep, i walked into the backyard to release the chickens. despite their charm- i was not moved from my place of grump. i topped the porch stairs and took a moment to smell morning and take stock. i had no real reason to be in a sour mood. no doctor diagnosis, no pending repossession, no phone calls i was avoiding. the small bits of irritation that chaffed under my skin were just that small- and yet- lack of sleep makes my skin thin and sensitive to unwashed dishes and cats that want to sleep on my head.<br />
<br />
the view from the back porch is peaceful. the neighbors old fence dips down gradually with lush land and in that green shallow a few horses often graze. the sun sparks up the sky, the wind blows clouds ever northward and the small mountains hug the horizon with their solid arms of rock, trees, deep roots.<br />
<br />
here i stand- talking myself down, or up, and just waiting for grace. i do this often. i get to this place in my mind- always in my mind- where i simply realize that i need some grace, a blessing, a sign, a anchor, a kite string, a token, an open door that leads me back to where i really am- which is not in my mind. slowly the elements worked away on my crust, i could feel the wind blowing a bit deeper through me. a whispering to my soul that i didn't even need to strain to hear.<br />
<br />
the chickens began to look charming again.<br />
<br />
and then, here comes the squirrel. we used to have several squirrels about us- but since the hazelnut tree was dug up and mulched up, the furry rodents have found other nuts to steal, other car hoods to hide under, other kids to charm. this squirrel was simply passing through, nose to ground she scampered south- no doubt heading to the mecca garden of our neighbors. her black eyes glance up at the assorted hens pecking away at various plants and bugs, and the squirrel pauses.<br />
<br />
whenever i see a squirrel i think of my brother. he is nothing like a squirrel in his physical stature. he is all bear. even his mannerism are not squirrelly. my association comes from this dream he had and shared with me. <br />
<br />
no, i normally wouldn't share a dream- but this is a good lesson for us all. and my brother is a firm believer in The Teacher.<br />
<br />
in the dream, a squirrel was running all of over his body and he couldn't quite catch it, couldn't quite get it off him. on arms, legs, head, torso- seemingly everywhere at once. you've seen squirrels circle around on a tree- their small velcro claws, their twitchy tails- speedy lil bastards. and imagine if one was determined to be on you. not attacking you- just wanted to be on you. no matter where you twisted or how fast you grabbed- and even if you managed to fling it off- there it was right back on your back. <br />
<br />
no doubt he didn't sleep well that night- and later mentioned his dream to a co-worker who gave the sage advice: "some believe everything, everyone we dream about is a manifestation of ourselves." this got my brother to thinking about what this spastic little squirrel represented to him. after some thought- he settled on the part of his personality that is very impulsive. the part that sparks him to say mildly offensive comments, drive really fast without the use of a either the right or the left indicator, and jump into various pots of hot water. that part of him that at times really irritated him, the part he wanted to cast off.<br />
<br />
now, if it was only the dream this wouldn't necessarily be anything worth remembering. it would just be another strange animal dream, another brief glimpse into the psyche. time to move on, time to watch some tv.<br />
<br />
which is what he did later that evening. i can see my brother on his couch- sprawled out, his eyes slightly unfocused, brow a bit heavy from working all day. flipping through channels- rather quickly perhaps- and stopping on the news. local stuff. small pieces of lives snipped down into thirty second segments: storms, reunions, money found, fires raging. <br />
<br />
a brief clip of a news report of a fire- a building ablaze. i can imagine him watching this a bit detached until attention was brought to the roof. the place where so many wind up during a fire- trying to escape the heat, the smoke, the flame. yet, once you get there you don't have so many options. the lone inhabitant of the roof was facing that reality. there was a squirrel, trapped on the roof a burning building. if my brother has glanced to his left, he would have seen The Teacher next to him.<br />
<br />
my brother sat up at this sight- as if the football was steps away from touchdown in a tied game with seconds left on the clock.<br />
<br />
as i remember the telling, the squirrel was frantically searching for escape from it's inferno in the sky- but there was only one solution: jump. maybe he knew he could make it or maybe he thought he wouldn't. maybe the risk was small or great- most likely he didn't calculate it at all. he acted on impulse- or maybe it should be called INpulse as in something in our blood that screams "GO!" when we need it to most. the squirrel ran across the building stretching his body long with each stride, gaining speed and launched himself into the sky like a bullet aimed on the closest target- and landed safely on the roof of the adjoining building. <br />
<br />
i can see my brother's eyes go wide with awe and hear him saying "no way!" in astonishment. i can hear the "click" of his dream snapping into place, like the sound of a door clicking shut behind The Teacher leaving, confident that you got it this time. i can see him gaining respect for his own "inner squirrel" and the many, many it has saved his ass through the years. then i hear him laughing- with his eyes all squinting; his chest erupting with bursts of pure joy.<br />
<br />
and each time he told that story, to our dad, co-workers, folks at a meeting, i wish i had been there to hear it. to capture that moment when that fortune cookie cliche "everything happens as it should" rings loud and true.<br />
<br />
i stood out on my back porch and thought of all of this as i watched my own squirrel. i noticed that a squirrel is like water in that she sees no obstacles, just alters her course. this squirrel, deciding not risk chicken confrontation, left the grass behind and went up the play structure instead. from the cedar beams she jumped onto the red maple branch- and from there to shed roof, fence, and gone from threat of chicken- back to grass, thistle, dandelion jungle.<br />
<br />
i recognize this trait in my brother. the things he has accomplished- it's like he sees no obstacles. or rather- he does see them- and manages to find an alternative course. it hasn't always been easy for him, i know. sometimes maybe he even imagined some obstacles or maybe the course he took ended up far more difficult. but the point is, the point was- is that he kept going. he listened to "GO!" and we share some of that dna.<br />
<br />
i turned around and walked back into the house of Things-To-Do. in that few minutes of respite the only thing that changed was my perspective- now a bit lighter, a bit more risky, a bit more interested in overcoming the challenge of an obstacle rather than sitting there starting at it and bitching.<br />
<br />
a bit more squirrelly all the way around- another lesson from my brother. come to think of it- squirrels and bear do kind of look alike. especially around the ears.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-79475637714971483542011-09-19T00:14:00.000-07:002011-09-19T00:14:42.428-07:00the plani am a planner. well, more of a dreamer. i come up with schemes and plots and adventures continually. most likely this is a survival skill i developed at a young age when i fully realized that most real people in my life were somewhat....inconsistent in their behavior. that's a nice way to say crazy. ok, maybe they aren't crazy. they are probably just as crazy as anyone else- maybe they were even boring- and that's why i started making up stories, plans, escape routes.<br />
<br />
in any case, i still do this.<br />
<br />
a small gesture- like stirring honey into a cup of tea- blooms into an old woman living her last days in a nursing home, desperate for a cup of tea fixed to her liking, but alas she can no longer talk and no one pays any mind to her grunting until one day a soft-hearted visitors takes notes and....well, it goes on from there. ending with lots of money being given to this kind person.<br />
<br />
i like those kind of endings. bright red bows on the conclusion. neat and trim. no messy crap like real life- where nothing ever really ends...until we do. and stories that end with lots of money are fun to imagine sometimes.<br />
<br />
because i sometimes like to wonder what it would feel like to just do stuff- like buy 4 tickets to a seattle play, kidnap friends or strangers and go. or to send a thousand bucks to the food bank. or to go to an art festival and actually be able to spend $39 on a pair of earrings made out of acorns and rock shards. doesn't that sound fun?<br />
<br />
hell. yes. it. does.<br />
<br />
so how do i get there? plans, i got mad plans.<br />
<br />
this one starts with garbage. see, for some unclear reason we don't have the garbage picked up curbside. once a month or so, we load it into the back of our 1987 Ford F150 and drive it to the dump. and when i say "we" what i mean is "not me." i like garbage to disappear- it's part of my american heritage. i like to put nasty stuff in a big black bin and pretend it had disappeared. leaving no trace.<br />
<br />
except on monday- not long after the mustard on the back porch incident- as i flipped open the lid and started to haul 13 gallon tall kitchen garbage bag over the lip of the bin into oblivion i see wriggling, white traces of last week's dump excursion. stop reading now if you are eating chinese food or are squeamish.<br />
<br />
maggots. hundreds of maggot all doing their nasty maggoty dance. squirming blindly about on the lid, down the insides, at the bottom. it's like the remains of a serious fly orgy- and it's fucking disgusting. i do the "maggot repulsion dance"- that ancient move of flapping arms, goose bumps on flesh, shaking head in a quick whip- while i try to figure out what deity i have pissed off to deserve this kind of monday. and then go right into problem solving mode of how to deal with these maggots.<br />
<br />
because it is hard to get rid of maggots. first, you don't want to touch them. or look at them. or think about them. or write about them (unless you are me- and if have hung in here this long i really do appreciate it- cuz i know you are going to have to shower soon). but what to do with them? especially when they are already in the garbage where they are going to hatch into flies and have more orgies in your garbage and create the next 239 generations of larvae!<br />
<br />
it's a conundrum. you can't vacuum them up- cuz then they are in there. you can't flush them down the toilet cuz then there are down there- and oh my- you would never sit there again! even if you pour some toxic sludge on them you still have to deal with their corpses. so it's a big problem to contemplate on a monday morning with less than 4 hour of sleep and a toddler who still refuses attempts at cleaning or clothing and a big brother who is supposed to be at a ukulele lesson in less than 2 hours.<br />
<br />
and then the dark clouds of my mind were cleared away as the solution appeared- all five of them. cue disney music...<br />
<br />
chickens. my lovely ladies: opal lemondrop, freckles la fluff, speedy cleo, matanewie, and amelia "jesus" one dot.<br />
<br />
i flipped the lid shut and wheeled the garbage can into the yard. the girls gathered round. i lay it on it's back and opened the lid with a dramatic thud- revealing to the hens the hovering hoards all over- yes, this makes me itch to write- the garbage can.<br />
<br />
they twitched their heads sideways and stepped closer- their claws clicking on the black plastic. they plucked cautiously at the first maggot- and then, holy hannah- it was like the had won the protein lottery! they couldn't gobble those grubs up fast enough. peck. peck. heck- yes! peck.<br />
<br />
i stood transfixed. it was disgusting and awesome at the same time. i didn't want to watch but i couldn't believe it was happening so i needed the visual proof. maggots truly disappearing right before my eyes! maggot gone. over and over. and happy chickens to boot. chickens that were giving me eggs as a thank you for letting them eat those lil' wormy bastards. in less than 6 minutes there was not one maggot in sight.<br />
<br />
i'll take that over christmas anyday.<br />
<br />
and then- that's when the plan hit me.<br />
<br />
people rent out their goats to munch blackberries. and their sheep to chomp pastoral lawns. and their pigs to root up...whatever pigs root up. you see where i'm going with this?<br />
<br />
maggot patrol chickens.<br />
<br />
got maggots? get chickens. my chickens. my girls show up and eat up your maggots like they are powdered sugar from the donuts in heaven. chickens give me eggs that i use to cook up french toast. you give me money that i use to buy maple syrup to pour over my french toast.<br />
<br />
genius, right?nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-80814492375531469772011-09-15T04:37:00.000-07:002011-09-15T04:37:25.727-07:00monday morni don't always sleep as i should. meaning, i should sleep solidly, for long stretches of time without interruption from any other living thing. i should sleep until my body eases awake with stretches and yawns. i should sleep until i am done sleeping.<br />
<br />
this stopped happening over 10 years ago now.<br />
<br />
i wake up for strange unknown reasons. i wake up for obvious annoying reasons. i wake up when children wake up or when i think they wake up. i wake up to make sure they are sleeping. i wake up. i wake up. i wake up.<br />
<br />
but they don't. they sleep like logs fallen into a mossy green bed of lush fairy dust. they sleep like a boat on calm waves. they sleep like the biggest concern they had in the past 12 hours was that their mother didn't let them eat ketchup for dinner. they sleep like they are sandwiched between the two biggest, strongest hearts they know. they sleep until they wake up.<br />
<br />
most of the time their sleeping and my sleeping are mostly in sync. sometimes they are a few hours off- i get up at 6 am. or i go to sleep at 10 pm. they nap while i blog. i nap while they....what are they doing while i nap?<br />
<br />
and that's the thing. who knows what they do while i sleep and they do not. because this does happen sometimes. sometimes the sleep patterns are so crazy confused because i am up taking care of them and their fevers, their nightmares, their bed wetting, their mindless demands to nurse at 2:48 am....that by the time they are fully awake i am dead asleep.<br />
<br />
case in point: monday morn.<br />
<br />
papa is leaving town at 5:15 am on monday morn, so the big son decides he must sleep in the bedroom. two boys in bed with two grown ups has proven to be tortuous- so he pulls in the futon chair cushion- dragging it along the unfinished oak floors- dusting a path through legos, laundry and cat hair- and plops it at the end of the bed. small son decides immediately this is his bed and refuses to let big son do anything to this bed. all pillows and blankets are banished. it's 10 pm and i am repeating my mantra "it's time to go to sleep" as i myself drift toward drooling.<br />
<br />
however, small son took an epic nap and all his cells are screaming "disco!" everyone else is asleep- well, i am as asleep as a mama can be whose 3 year old is not yet asleep, and small son is collecting books on the small bed- as big son rests right where he wants to be, next to departing papa.<br />
<br />
several times, the light that i am not allowed to turn off is eclipsed by a large head and a soft voice saying "mama" while he thrusts something toward me. i mumble. i turn over. i try very hard to ignore him. but even as i begin to dream i hear him commenting on the book he is studying "dat bug gots big claws. he'll pinch you. he's eyes are big. he's scary."<br />
<br />
i'm surprised i didn't dream kafka.<br />
<br />
at 4 am papa awakes. and so do i. i sit on the couch like a mushroom, swollen and slow. he talks at me- i cannot comprehend. i have wild fantasies of making muffins to send him to the airport with but i don't even have the energy to imagine this. and then suddenly big son is awake. then papa is leaving, whisked away by a co-workers car and it's piercing headlines cutting through our dark kitchen. then big son is crying- that irrational and untouchable fear we get when parents leave. then small son awakes on the floor- frightened by the view of eye level rocking chair and the deep, dark, depths of the belly of the bed. it's not even 7 am yet.<br />
<br />
by 7 am- i am back in bed. small son joins me at some point- his small chilled body curls into mine- and even tho i worry big son is looking up lego wars on youtube, i fall asleep.<br />
<br />
strange words filter into my dreams but i push them away. i dream that i wake up as a big wind blows through the bedroom and presses the boys against the southern wall. but the wind is cooling and spirited so we all just laugh at her.<br />
<br />
from a corner of the my mind comes a repetitive "hey!" it's from the left corner of my mind to be exact. from the left corner of the house- i realize as i wake more fully. somewhere near the back porch. the "hey!" is not hurried or worried, but persistent. a bit annoyed.<br />
<br />
like i was, stumbling out of bed at 7:28. i walk less than 10 steps from the bed to the sun room- the back room of our home that faces east that is often flooded with morning sun- to find small son on the back porch. he is wearing a green striped t-shirt and nothing else. well, there is strange yellow smears on various parts of his chub. i stumble forward 10 more steps to the sliding glass door that separates him from me to find it locked.<br />
<br />
from the inside- because that's the only way this slider can be locked.<br />
<br />
i unlatch it clumsily and am greeted by a cheery kid holding a bright yellow bottle of mustard sans lid. his finger tips are also bright yellow i notice as he says "hi mom!" like it's nothing new to be locked out on the back porch, half naked with a bottle of mustard.<br />
<br />
big son is below the deck in the yard, looking up at me sheepishly.<br />
<br />
"did you lock him out here?" i croak out in my morning pre-coffee voice.<br />
<br />
he replies with his eyes looking up at me "yeah. he was trying to hit me with a hammer."<br />
<br />
and my parting thought as i trudge toward the bathroom, not at all surprised by the morning's sense of humor- although completely still sleep-deprived and mostly numb is "how come i never can find the hammer when i need it?"nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-58713697227294863362011-09-06T16:21:00.001-07:002011-09-06T16:21:41.249-07:00skirtingon sunday i wore a long skirt to work. it fanned out like the flower petals, cloud feathers, whip cream. whenever i wear skirts or dresses like this i suddenly feel taller, expansive, grounded- despite cloud reference. i think it's because my feet are mostly hidden and my legs glide underneath folds of fabrics like a mythical animal. the swooshing of air with each step- like jelly fish i glide.<br />
<br />
when i wear skirts like this i feel more connected to other women- women i have never met, from photos 100 years old or from parts of the world where they wear garments like this everyday- but choice or by force.<br />
<br />
when i wear skirts like this i feel more protected, but not because i fear attack. like i am cherishing the trunk of my own tree of life. this miraculous womb. because if i can create life- i sometimes fear i can also take it. like kali- mad and wild. i hide strength under my skirt. <br />
<br />
when i wear skirts like this i can pee standing up with anyone knowing. ok, eventually i could do this. with practice. without underwear.<br />
<br />
i can herd children with the fence of fabric stretched from my hip to my hands.<br />
<br />
i can smell the scent of the earth stirred up by my own rustlings- the musk of mold, the spice weeds, wet grass, dust, dirt, earth.<br />
<br />
i sweep the ground with air created by my own strong legs.<br />
<br />
the shade of my skirt tents the ground. <br />
<br />
when i wear skirts like this- long, full skirts made out of fabric made out of plant made of the earth- i sway in a way that is all me. and more than me too.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-27448639473007287042011-08-29T18:03:00.000-07:002011-08-29T18:03:12.696-07:00shiftin an unexpected turn of events- i am now driving a 1990 vw jetta. mostly. the minivan is still an option. the white minivan, that seats seven, has a storage bullet on top, automatic windows and locks, adjustable gas peddle, and all the other gizmos Ford thought to put in a minivan made for american families right around y2k. it is reliable and sensible and totally awesome in so many ways. and makes me feel like a 37 year old mother of two.<br />
<br />
ingrid- the jetta- was new in the year i turned 16. she is now 21 years old. her spirit is wild, although her body is showing her age. she has a sun roof that begs to frame the bright stars at night for anyone interested in tipping back and looking up. <br />
<br />
do you imagine doing this? what's in your hand while you do this? beer, cigarette, joint...this car begs to be owned by a rebel. this is why i like her. ingrid is somewhat of a temptress. she dares you to drive faster than you should, have music louder than you should and be gone longer than you should. <br />
<br />
also have a roomy trunk for trips to goodwill.<br />
<br />
and ingrid has a stick shift. along with that- a clutch. i learned to drive a stick shift in my early twenties on basheeba loop-loop. an elephant disguised as an Isuzu Trooper- circa 87?- she was a lovely beast. A trip to the store felt like a jungle sarafi adventure, and getting her in gear was not always easy.<br />
<br />
same goes for ingrid but the difference is that she is not about safari. as i mentioned already- she's more about cruising, speed, sharp turns and seeing if you really can go 140 mph- because that's how far the speedometer reads. with loud music. and slightly frightened children in the backseat.<br />
<br />
i like the business of shifting that requires engagement with the task of driving. i have to decide when and how. how loud do i want to rev it? how quick do i want to pass that motor home? i am Driver. i like third gear the best.<br />
<br />
actually- i just like shifting in general.<br />
<br />
except when typing. the keyboard i mostly use for typing no longer sports the shift key on the left. i think cyrus ate it. well, he probably didn't eat it...but he most certainly flipped it off. and the little rubber circle is gone too. as he did to the arrow keys and the comma and the N...and the other key that i don't really know what it is anymore....except that it sends me to the next line when i touch it, but it's not return key. so i don't touch it often. but all those keys have the little rubber circle which still does what i want when i touch it. not the shift key on the left- it does nothing when i touch it. even if i whisper at it first. <br />
<br />
when the shift key went missing i stopped capitalizing the letter i because i type that with my right hand and it's too awkward to hit the shift key with my pinkie and the i key with my pointer. try it. not smooth at all.<br />
<br />
so "screw it" i thought. why do i need to be I? i can just be i, right? little i is the same as big I. i. I. you get the idea either way. now and then i started a sentence with "in" or "instead" or "ice berg." ok- maybe not ice berg, but whatever i-word it was it was not I-word. it was just i-word. and i started to like it. so i started to stop capitalizing completely.<br />
<br />
e.e. cummings, for example. if i ever had a reason to write that name before now i don't remember doing so. but it looks so much nicer than E. E. Cummings. doesn't it?<br />
<br />
my name: nancylee bouscher has a better form than Nancy Lee Bouscher. Although that L is looking lean and proud, i notice. but the second option requires much too much shifting. nancylee bouscher. i can type that really, really fast.<br />
<br />
not capitalizing wasn't about denying my ego or wanting to look different or anything other than lazy fingers. and a missing shift key. it's to the point now that when i type of computers with left shift keys- i completely ignore them. even if they whisper at me.<br />
<br />
and now i get the added benefit or having another way to add Emphasis to a word. like in winnie-the-pooh, how milne would capitalize very Important Ideas now and then. ideas that adults really liked mostly, if i remember right- and often i don't. so feel free to look that claim up.<br />
<br />
besides both being called shifting, i'm not sure what these two acts- going from first to second gear and capitalizing letters- has much to do with me, except that i am currently doing and not doing a lot of them. and i'm in control of doing or not doing them.<br />
<br />
and in a world where a small child can come and flip off letters from a mama writer's keyboard- well, hell, it's important to exercise those Shifting Abilities.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-54259446134560135202011-08-19T10:34:00.000-07:002011-08-19T10:34:29.349-07:00junk in the trunksometimes it's hard to know where The Teacher is going to pop up. sometimes i go somewhere thinking The Teacher will be there and She's not. most of the time this really bothers me. like a junky, i get irritated and itchy because i was soooo ready to learn, to evolve, to grow, to open, to bloom. but The Teacher wasn't there. fuck it, i don't want to learn anyway.<br />
<br />
and then She shows up in these moments so subtly that i'm not even sure if it is Her at first. like, really? in this drunken scrawl on the metal door of a bathroom stall? this is where i transcend. The Teacher picks her classroom. even after years of experiencing this- i still am caught off guard easily.<br />
<br />
She knows how to get my attention though.<br />
<br />
this lesson starts with a car. a 1990, not a 91, jetta that needs to be sold on the fly because people essentially didn't do what they said they would. the car that was supposed to wind up in tucson sat in anacortes instead. the owner sits in tucson excited to start a new job- fretful because she's got no wheels to get to the rez school where she'll oversee lost teeth, belly aches and give pills to children for all the reasons adults have for doing such a thing. the important thing to know here- is that the car is not in "selling" condition. none the less, we buy it.<br />
<br />
we didn't really need a car, exactly. we have a truck and a van- both with big old straws that suck up a lot of gasoline. and both with more than 200k miles on 'em. we have a plan for this jetta and it gives us some cushion if The Teacher decides to mess with that plan too.<br />
<br />
first, we got to clean out the trunk. and when i say "we" i really mean "me." somehow everyone falls asleep before me one night and the trunk calls to me from the darkness of our driveway. this trunk is completely packed, by the way. when you open it you mostly see plastic garbage bags stuffed full with bits of fabric waving at you, rigid corners of forgotten bill envelopes, a seductive curve of a mug handle...and there's smell too. trunks always have a smell.<br />
<br />
i also should add that the owner feels really badly about this. she offers to pay me to drive to the dump and just throw everything away- a chore i never could do for several reasons. first, there's the mystery. i love a good mystery. ever since my first nancy drew book i've been hoping for this kind of opportunity. second, there's the fact that i can't throw out anything that has a use. for good or bad. (except for legos left on the floor- i have no problem chucking out those feet killers). maybe you've already heard about the king size futon mattress i deconstructed on the back porch to avoid taking it to the dump? well, it was extreme...far more so than pulling in one of those garbage bags into my living room at about 10 pm one night last week.<br />
<br />
which is exactly what i did...<br />
<br />
if i had known The Teacher was going to be there, stuffed between old work files, swimsuits and a barbie tin of glitter nail polish- i would have taken notes. i would have slowed down into a meditative state and really paid attention to every moment. but as it often is- i just thought i was doing a chore. so i plodded forward, head down, hands busy.<br />
<br />
it became very clear that i need a couple of bags to sort into. there was the trash- into it went candy wrappers, napkins, and the like. the paper recycling- the largest of the bags- where all the receipts, science class notes, birthday cards and more were deposited. then there was the pile of cool stuff that i didn't want...or stuff i had no idea what it actually was- small black t-shirts, a dinner plate with a country apple painted on it, a handmade ceramic jar full of green pennies and 1 small agate, and this large black plastic thingy my son tells me is a paintball gun loader. and the pile of stuff i thought was cool and wanted to keep- more about this later.<br />
<br />
as i sorted through this stuff The Teacher began to circle the room, her eyebrow arched, leather shoes softly touching the ground in a steady rhythm of observation:<br />
<br />
"see?" she said, "life gives everyone a lot of stuff to deal with."<br />
<br />
"notice," she mentioned, "that sometimes things we care about get lost."<br />
<br />
"imagine," she whispered, "what it would be like to have stranger's hands on your forgotten things."<br />
<br />
and that's what i did. i imagined what it would be like if suddenly my trunk was open for all to examine. if my junk, from closets, old suitcases, under the bed, beneath the house was all laid out for someone else to sort through. <br />
<br />
what would that feel like?<br />
<br />
what would they learn about me?<br />
<br />
most of the things i pulled from the trunk confirmed my impressive of the owner of the car- who i had only ever met once before, and had talked to a handful of times on the phone since then. she's passionate in a way that causes her to forget all else. she is drawn to bold colors and watery sparkles like a bird from a desert. she has good taste in music. she loves her children. she yearns for something and then goes to it. she reminds me of myself in many ways.<br />
<br />
and she likes red shoes.<br />
<br />
cuz missing shoes means someone hopping around, i think. because pairs go together. but i am so used, after the second hour of sorting, of finding only one shoe of each pair- i am not excited at first when i see the tip of red dansko clog.<br />
<br />
i am shocked though. it is candy apple red- with only a little scuffing on the toe, a wad of old grass clinging to the sole, the black piping bold. i used to own these shoes. i bought myself a pair so long ago i don't know when. i remember the store and ordering them. i bought them as a birthday present for myself and it was the most money i had spent on shoes in a very long time. i don't think i have spend that much since. i wore these shoes raw. i loved everything about these clogs- and i could the strut my stuff in them like i never had a care in the world- until one day, i was over them.<br />
<br />
one day, i pulled them out of my closet and they were too old, too worn, too used. they flopped on my feet with their skin faded to a dark, dirty brownish red. rather than seeing everywhere they had been- i just saw everywhere they would never take me. so i got rid of them.<br />
<br />
i do this. i get rid of things i treasure. most of the time i completely forget about them until i see a picture of them or stumble into a memory of their importance or until i find an exact replica in an old trunk.<br />
<br />
i was excited. i scrambled through the bag, casting aside fleece gloves, blue tank top, purple binder, searching for the mate. you know what i was thinking? i hope they fit me. i wanted a pair of red clogs. i remember recently when getting dressed i yearned for a pair of red clogs- my old clogs- and now here was a pair! yes, a pair!<br />
<br />
two red clogs and me.<br />
<br />
i put them on and stood. like cinderella, i so much wanting to be just like cinderella. they are a size 39, euro. and while this works good in some brands, in dansko i need a 40. but i didn't want to believe it. why would the universe put a beautiful pair of red clogs in the trunk of a car i bought for no damn good reason and then not have them fit me?<br />
<br />
i walked around the house trying to calculate how long i could wear them before my left big toe would complain? a few hours...maybe. if i went to a movie- sure, of course- no one could see them, but i could do it. wear them to work- never make it to my first break. dancing? nope- never happen.<br />
<br />
as excited as i to find these clogs- i was now equally distraught. because those red clogs reminded me so much about myself- and i wanted to be able to wear that knowledge around a bit longer.<br />
<br />
then The Teacher, She smiles, and asks- the best teachers ask the best questions- "well, nancylee, whose clogs are these?"<br />
<br />
i picture the gal who sold me this car. no doubt she misses these clogs and what they remind her about herself. maybe she doesn't even know they are missing. maybe she's going to wear her long black skirt today and is hunting around for them as i type. or maybe they aren't even her clogs at all but a girlfriend's or a lover's or her mother's or her daughter's.<br />
<br />
but the point is- these are not my clogs.<br />
<br />
and then The Teacher, walks real close to me so that i can smell her fragrance and know that she is so much more than a teacher- and she says with firm love, "you need to get your own clogs."<br />
<br />
saturday is payday.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-70774828905308570422011-08-11T05:25:00.000-07:002011-08-11T05:28:36.741-07:00picture thisthe thing about a blog without pictures is that you have to create one with words. i envy picture blogs sometimes- a photo of child with chicken and a catchy caption. how long does that take exactly? especially if your phone takes pictures, with cool retro effects, and you just email off to your blog site as you wait at a red light somewhere between here and there.<br />
<br />
and i love those blogs.<br />
<br />
but this blog has more struggle to it- that's my way, i guess. like now- i've been up since 3 am and even before that i didn't sleep well. i went to bed by 9 with a stabbing pain in my back. woke up at 11:34 because my left was suddenly weepy and stinging- only to find that my eldest was still awake, despite my very clear instruction to all that it was to be an early night. and then at 2:48 the toddler waddles in the bedroom, determined to nurse me out of any chance of sleep.<br />
<br />
whereas years before i would have sipped tea, read a book or written in a journal- i go to check me email, do a few quick errands via this wooden chair and the keyboard, and then decide to write in the blog. a fairly egocentric affair, i feel at times. what makes me think i've got anything worth while to say? at least when you write in a journal you don't need to really say anything. hell, you don't even ever have to read it again!<br />
<br />
but since i'm here- and so are you. i'm gonna do my bestest to make this worth our while.<br />
<br />
when i woke up at 3 am- my brain is not a happy place- that's why i'm awake. in that fuzzy space my head does this fucked up mind trip where all is wrong. it's like eeyore, without his tail, his house blown down, on his birthday with no thistles to eat....times five thousand. the list i start to make could be titled "why everything i have ever done was a clausal mistake." it is ridiculous. but at 3 am, laying in bed with sore back and weepy eye ("well, maybe if you took better care of yourself...." says my brain) it's hard to pull myself out of it. until i just pull myself out of bed.<br />
<br />
the bad mood lingers- i critiqued everything i see. it's grouchy. if it were a color it would be puke green. it is were a smell it would be puke green. but it's in my head- and harder to get rid of than puke- of any color.<br />
<br />
until...<br />
<br />
there's this tiny laugh somewhere between my ears. it's kinda like the laugh of yoda or the dalai lama (as if those are two separate entities). i ignore this giggle at first. i throw some puke green thoughts at it. this makes it laugh even harder. the chuckles turn the green less pukey. i shrug, roll my eyes- like a teenager determined to be pissed long after i even remember what the hell made me so angry.<br />
<br />
this causes more laughing. i cringe. more laughing. i smile. more laughing. until this laughter says to me: none of that matters. i try a few more...what about THIS green puke thought?<br />
<br />
nope. doesn't matter. giggle.<br />
<br />
how about when this smelly funked out shit happened?<br />
<br />
sorry. irrelevant. snort.<br />
<br />
ummm, ok- well, remember how i still haven't done XYZ?<br />
<br />
(wheezing sound of breathless laughter with subtle thuds of fist banging on wooden floor).<br />
<br />
and then, my tail is back on, my house is rebuilt, i'm singing happy birthday to myself, and a patch of thistles sprouts at my feet. because it doesn't really matter that i have no idea where find clean clothes to wear to work tomorrow, or that my son stayed up too late and will be a lumpy mess of complaints when i wake him up, or that i didn't drink enough water yesterday, or that i forgot to pay the dentist....again, or that i don't know how to properly train a parakeet.<br />
<br />
all that matters is that i am here. whatever "i" means anyway. all that matters is that i am still on this journey. that i am awake is a gift a thousand people didn't open this morning. all that matters is that i can feel puke green or zesty orange or beige. i can feel beige, damnit. that's something to celebrate...in a beige sort of way.<br />
<br />
all that really matters is that i can hear that laugh. over all the other noise- i can still hear the giggle of redemption- some call it amazing grace.<br />
<br />
and even though there are a lot of great photos in the world, on blogs, tucked inside greeting cards, tattooed over the scars of battles fought and lost or won or never taken on- there's no way i could have shown you that laugh without these words.nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-61434438044865489022011-08-03T07:24:00.001-07:002011-08-03T07:31:21.271-07:00Crossing the RoadOn the evening of my 37th birthday, after eating grilled salmon in the backyard- not in the least bit worried about the thistles and the morning glory- the family decided to go for a walk. Well, Seren rode his bike- a light blue, lower rider style- complete with those low swooping gorilla handlebars, and I pushed Cyrus in his stroller.<br />
<br />
Our route is predictable- an L shaped street, about 1/4 mile each length and the back again. This road dissects two much busier county roads and is dotted with homes on large lots along with an organic farm, raspberry and potato fields, and a horse ranch. The sky stretches huge over the green plants- this big sky- one of the gifts of living in farm land. When we go to the forest Seren disappears into the fern and moss- and will later express heartfelt desire to live in the trees. I get that. But the open sky is hard to leave behind.<br />
<br />
We walk westward- into the setting sun. It is the first hot summer evening of the year- and no one is outside. Or maybe there are outside elsewhere, but it is uncommonly quite on our walk. There are no dogs on leashes, moms with strollers, people in pairs- just the four of us, chatting or not, as we settle into that fine feeling of contentment.<br />
<br />
Seren is up ahead- and has rounded the corner of the L- now headed south. There used to be two old horses in that field. One blind- the other sway back and skiddish, but I haven't seen them in a while. Maybe they've moved on. The new horse stables have been built by the mysterious millionaires who buy up land like they are starting a compound. Maybe they are. We look at the stables from our living room window- the horses small wild animals dancing about the grass. They are young and strong- one has a white crescent moon on his forehead and he is not skiddish at all.<br />
<br />
When we round the curve, Seren's bike is propped on the drunken cedar fence, held together by rusty barbed wire and he is crouched down staring at the asphalt- chasing frogs. His eyes are lit with wonder- a glow I will never grow tired of seeing. His sneakers can't carry him fast enough to us where he reveals his delicate treasure in cupped hands- the smallest frog (or maybe a toad), smaller than a nickle with a tiny tail still poking out of his backside. <br />
<br />
As we scan the road- they are everywhere. Each baby wildly chaotically hoping and hopping in a chorus to cross the road- from one thick of grass to another. The gray bodies of a few fallen frogs lay and bake in the sun while a murder of crows call from the trees overhead. So we hunch to pick up frogs and deliver them safely to the over side- some we just shoo a bit. I laugh at the bliss of being a frog crossing guard- and am thankful no cars come traveling along- for there is no frog-free space to drive through. In a minute though- they are all safely hidden in tall grass- and you can hear them rustling through the leaves- toward some pond I have never seen.<br />
<br />
It's trite to say the best presents don't come with a bow. But I'll say it anyways. Because when you get to see an exodus like and be the first, and maybe only, human to hold a frog- and to watch your boys give small kisses on their heads before they lay them gently down- something clicks in your heart. Something clicked in mine- more than just the beauty of nature- it was the reassurance that we all need help, we all can give help, and we all can witness. Everyday we can witness.<br />
<br />
-- <br />
blessings,<br />
nancylee<br />
<br />
"seems like everywhere i go, the more i see the less i know..." michael frantinancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2266667216167813882.post-22454609617410281452011-07-02T08:14:00.000-07:002011-07-02T08:14:49.347-07:00reptiliansthat last deep breath a person takes before they rise out of bed- as they stretch out their belly, backs and pull their minds out of dreams. i hear this sound through the yellow walls. i hear this sound atop the scurrying of kitten paws and underneath the bird song.<br />
<br />
it is a sound that warns of interaction.<br />
<br />
too soon.<br />
<br />
too late in life i realize that my mind requires long stretches of silence. my heart needs deep feeling. my fingers ache for stormy messes of art projects left on the kitchen table for 3 days. forget eating. certainly forget cleaning away the paper scraps for some one's milk cup or coffee mug. just create without any end in sight.<br />
<br />
i adapted and coped my way through life because, well, that's what you do. expect for folks who don't do this. the reptile people who amaze and frighten me- how they plan their life, how they know themselves essentially and are able to guard and create a life that serves them.<br />
<br />
i suppose these reptile folks were born like this- knowing their scale and knowing that digging into the cool sand at noon was the only way to stand the heat. but maybe not. maybe they learned this. maybe they stayed out in the high sun and watched their body wither to the point of dry cracking twigs- and then they whispered, their throats parched, <i>oh shit. oh shit- this is me. i cannot do this again.</i><br />
<br />
so they listened to that. the went deeply and learned and listened and carved out a life around those needs. the body needs, the soul needs. the recognized the parts of them that they could not change- and then changed their behavior, the surroundings to protect- or even to nurture- those strong, stubborn parts.<br />
<br />
yeah, so i clearly missed that phase of self-awareness.<br />
<br />
i went from classroom to classroom listening to people tell me all kinds of things about the world, the brain, the words, the colors. my mind was awash in Information. i mostly stayed safe. i mostly followed the rules. i mostly was numb.<br />
<br />
(of course, there were moments when i was none of these things- but right now i am fully living in shadow of this memory. bare with me.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">*** </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>now i straddle a life of bursting, bustling boys. they never stop. they wake up and begin to talk to me. expect contemplation- or at least eye contact from their mother. from the homebase. from me. <br />
<br />
it is a hard, painful place to be. this place of clinging to a lifeline- the quiet space on the porch where i can sit in the sun and be cat-like where thoughts swim through my mind, inspiring me- and being pulled out of that space by sometime so precious as my own children.<br />
<br />
there's a metaphor somewhere here. something about gardens and hummingbirds and unexpected rain storms. but i haven't been able to sort it out yet. my mind doesn't have the depth for metaphors right now. right now my mind is wondering if i can finish this post before someone wants orange juice or for me to wipe their butt. but i want to know the metaphor! i want to to write it down here. i'm struggling to find it, <i>damn it. </i><br />
<br />
i struggle. i earn. i want. i want.<br />
<br />
and i need.<br />
<br />
i really need to be able to somehow balance this. to balance the part of me that needs to be fed with the part of me that feeds others. maybe most curious, is to do this with grace. clear, rather than the cloudy thoughts coming out as mumbling excuses. sweet, rather than the....<br />
<br />
"hi mom."<br />
<br />
time for breakfast...nancyleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365745803679913530noreply@blogger.com0