Month: February 2014

Discovering One’s Shadow

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When I first read the prompt, “discovering one’s shadow” I immediately thought of Peter Pan. Then I thought of the Vashta Nerada. Logically, next of course, was Green Day’s Boulevard of Broken Dreams. And finally, I remembered that I  once wrote a poem for my high school yearbook about spies hiding in the shadows. It was inspired by Roger Moore’s James Bond, an inside joke about a teacher we disliked, and them coupled with the new style of story music videos from Duran Duran – their Hungry Like the Wolf, Save A Prayer, New Moon on Monday, Nightboat – all different from the usual rock and roll guitar solo videos of live concerts that we were used to at that time. But shadows have both the reputation for being both scary and enlightening. You can’t have a shadow without a light source, can you? We hide ourselves in our shadows, waiting for the right opportunity to glide out quietly as if we’d always been in the light or we can jump out and surprise (or scare) whoever hadn’t noticed us near.

I continued to glance at my inbox at this prompt and never having anything to say, I moved on. Now that it’s the last day of February and I need to begin work on my monthly review, I thought I didn’t want to leave this prompt in the basket. Grasping onto one of my hidden agendas, stealthy goals is not so much to stop procrastinating on my writing, but to motivate, motivate, motivate or not only won’t anything ever get done, but nothing worth doing should wait.

I began to see visions of shadow; not the scary, hidden demons down the alley, but the shadows of things past, the shadows of things not yet done, the shadows of things I’m afraid of doing, and that maybe I shouldn’t run from the shadows, but embrace them as part of who I am; who I want to be.

This year has started out pretty badly. Some of that will be covered in my monthly review scheduled for later, but between getting sick, not really getting better, losing a friend, misplacing another  (or was I the one misplaced), not feeling as loved as I might want to be, misunderstanding more than I’ve been understanding, I’ve noticed the shadows closing in.

When I look directly at them, they mist away. They know that if I ever dared to confront them head on, they’re just not that scary. And the reality is that they were scary, but now, they are merely roadblocks. They are the future; my future.

I see the outline of who I want to be, and if I can breathe out and billow at the wisps until they swirl, it is much like a relief painting. The colors are hidden below the black paint, and you use the stylus to chip away at the blackness to reveal the picture beneath. Much like carving an ebony statue until what you have left is the masterpiece that you’ve been looking for.

That is discovering one’s shadow.

Discovering what lies beneath the darkness; the mind-space that is swirling just below the surface. You can feel what it should be, what it will become, but it’s not quite there yet and it is only upon discovering yourself that you see the shape of the shadow, and now can mold it in little places, shoring up where the mists try to waft and float away. The parts that essentially do slip away were the parts you didn’t need anymore; the shattered shards of a mirror. Look at your past in the broken bits and look for your future in the rest of it; carving out your niche, your belonging place, your you-ness that is inside, slowing becoming more real and less shadow like, expanding, broadening, extending, solidifying. More.

More you.

Flowers

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This is a rock from Dolwyddelan Castle and a leaf from Colonial Williamsburg.

My favorite flower is the Daffodil. I don’t have it so much anymore, but my living room used to be decorated with all kinds of daffodils, pictures, paintings, live flowers in the spring. When we moved, it turned out that we decorated with pictures of our kids. Now that I’m typing it out, maybe I can add some of those pictures.

In four weeks is one of my annual ‘pilgrimages’. We have a garden and flower show. I try to take the Friday as my day and spend it at the flower show. Friday is usually the least crowded of the days, although they’ve started having some school groups visit on Friday. The admission benefits a local developmental disability organization for kids.

There’s always a theme and I usually post pictures afterwards, sometimes from my phone in the bleachers of the show. They’ve had themes of fairy tales, Harry Potter, water, English garden, and different landscape businesses show off their talents. It’s a good way for them to get some added business; gardeners get some ideas for their home gardens. They have workshops to help the amateur gardener get their house and gardens summer ready. In recent years, the Cornell Cooperative Extension has had cooking demonstrations using freshly grown vegetables and fruits. It’s all about the gardens.

I usually wander through the vendor area, picking up freebies, trying jams and dips, sauces and oils, getting ideas for cooking. I try to avoid buying anything because other than admission and lunch if I don’t bring it, I try to have a no/low-cost day.

After my time through the vendor area, I take my first look at the flower displays. It is always cool in the gym and all of the flowers’ scents blend to create this wonderful outdoorsy feeling. I take a few pictures and take a quick look through, and then I climb into the bleachers with a drink and a snack and write.

I journal, I do prompts, I make lists. Sometimes, I make a couple of phone calls if I want to share my day with people, but more likely I enjoy my quiet time and plan out other writing assignments. This year, the show falls right in the middle of Lent, so I won’t be able to have my favorite Diet Coke. I’ll try to manage on water. It’s also Friday, so McDonald’s cheeseburgers will be out of the question. That’s okay. There’s a little café at the show, and they sell salads. I imagine that I’ll be thinking a lot on my upcoming sacraments. Pretty sure the weekend is almost exactly halfway between my Rite of the Elect and the Easter Vigil. I do plan on writing a bit more about faith and my faith journey in particular. I’ve been asked to write a guest piece for my church’s blog about my studies on the way to becoming Catholic. And really nothing helps a faith journey like a visit to nature, even if it’s manufactured in the gym of the community college.

There is a feeling of otherworldliness and faith in nature, even in this display of climate controlled nature. The sights and the smells are the same and when you close your eyes, the coolness of the circulating air is a breeze through the leaves and when they flutter down, they are magic until they land on the damp, dewy ground and if you pick it up, you can take a little bit of that magic with you.

I Remember – First Plane Ride

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I have a vivid memory, but I’m still not sure how much of it isn’t fantasy. I’m holding Dad’s hand and we’re boarding an airplane. We are standing in the aisle looking for our seats and I picture myself perfectly. White patent leather shoes to match my little purse, carefully placed Jackie O style on my arm. My jacket is all white and buttoned up to my neck, the collar properly turned down. I don’t think I had a hat. Although my hair is neat, as neat as a five year old’s can be anyway, but still sticking out over my ears, a little more than it does now. I’m not wearing the gold pin of pilot’s wings, but I must be clutching it in my small hand. I kept that for a long time after, but haven’t seen it in decades. I did get a replacement provided by my friend, but now you have to ask for your wings. They don’t think they let you visit the cockpit anymore either, although I don’t recall visiting the cockpit on this flight. We were on our way to see family in Toronto, Canada, and since we always drove and my mother and siblings weren’t with us, I can only imagine that it was for some kind of big event like a funeral. We always stopped in the duty-free shop when we drove, so I can only imagine that we did on this visit as well, although Dad could have only gotten half the normal allowance of whiskey and cigarettes, a staple of ours on our return trip to the United States. My parents didn’t drink, but this was a time when you kept alcohol in your house for guests; just in case. These little snippets of memory pop out at the least provocation. Sometimes, they don’t seem so far away.

Three Things

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The coordinator stated the day’s free write prompt: Three things that you look forward to during the blizzard in your own backyard.

Me: And if there’s nothing?

Coordinator: Try fiction?

 

Seriously, though, the snow is pretty. Last week, looking out of the windows, I thought I was on the inside of a snow globe. It wasn’t terribly windy, but the flakes were swirling and spinning and while the snow was piling higher on the grass and the driveway, I didn’t actually see any of it fall. On those days when the kids are already snuggled at school, and the car is parked for the day, I like to sit in my corner office with a hot cup of tea. The recent favorite is Twining’s Honeybush, Mandarin and Orange with just a little bit of sugar – barely two teaspoons. The scent is decidedly citrus, but it’s not overpowering. It slides down my throat with the illusion of honey – smooth and silky and warm.

I only drink my tea out of one or two cups. The first is our Corningware set. It’s white with little yellow vines and flowers, the Kobe pattern. It’s Corelle, which most of us remember from childhood, but these mugs are still breakable. The other is a large mug from Silvergraphics, one of the school’s fundraisers and really the only one worth doing. I hate to pick favorites, but my son’s vase of flowers is my favorite. The other mugs are too small or not the right shape – wide mouths or tiny handles, too light or too heavy. I also cannot drink from a cup with someone else’s name on it; or horoscope. There is something very wrong there. I may not know who I am, but I am certainly not you.

Three things? Really? Lets’ see: the pretty white blanket that covers the ground and gives the pines that Christmas card look. Hot tea in a quiet office of my own. And enough snow to make my excuses to not go out seem plausible, but not so much that the kids are home more than two days in a row. Or have a snow day before a vacation. Too much stir crazy going on then.

One.

Two.

Three.

There!

I managed it and it’s not even fiction.

An (Extra) Ordinary Wednesday

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I thought today’hts Mass was going to be a typical, ordinary Wednesday Mass.

I was surprised and when it began it was clear that it was going to be anything but ordinary.

There is a routine to each daily Mass. Everything follows along its familiar path, although each day brings with it a new reading, a new Gospel, and a new chance to experience a reenactment of the Resurrection through the Eucharist. (Note: I don’t participate in this yet, but I will after my baptism.) It doesn’t exactly run by clockwork, but there is a sameness that is the ritual of the Mass. However, that sameness doesn’t diminish from the traditions and the priest’s interpretations. I will often find guidance and solace as many of my morning’s questions are answered through those readings and interpretations.

Usually my mind is full, but calm as I wait to see which readings are prepared in the Missal and how much they will relate to my life.

For anyone not familiar with Catholic Mass, it begins with the Sign of the Cross, penance for our sins, opening prayer and then the readings and Gospel followed by the Homily and the Eucharist and a closing prayer and dismissal blessing.

The words change daily, the sins change, it’s all different and yet it is that sameness that we find comfortable and comforting.

Most days after the sign of the cross, there is a kind of preview. We’re told who the dead are that we are remembering at this Mass, if there are any crosses to be returned to families (on the anniversary of a family member’s death), any special visitors or what I like to call housekeeping (if there are schedule changes, an occasional weather report, etc.)

I try to fill my mind with what I’m looking for in the Mass, what I need for that day, and about whom I’ll be praying for. We pray as a community. The priest lists who we’re praying for and we ask G-d to hear our prayer. For me, I add my own, not always silently, but quietly:  for the religious community, I add L, A, and F. For the sick, I think of who is ill in my life and whisper their names. For the dead, I’ve been adding my church friend, and I always add Brittany. I don’t know when I began to add Brittany, it’s been a long time, but I think of her every day when I pray. For the military, I add C and M. Sometimes, I’ll include C’s wife and family depending on if I think they need extra prayers. During the silence of our hearts, where we pray individually, I always include A and add anyone else who seems to be going through a rough time.

This morning before we thought on our own sins and ask for G-d’s forgiveness, Father J said that we had two special men in our midst and they would receive a special blessing today. They were Sal F and Tom S and they were two of the three local people who were Marines, members of the battalion that took Iwo Jima sixty-nine years ago today.

In looking around, we found them easily enough. They appeared older than anyone else at our Mass, and that’s saying something since at forty-seven, I’m one of the youngest people there. Both were bent over, unsteady on their feet, slow, even with the help of canes, and one of the men was wearing his red Marines baseball cap. From the back, he looked a bit like Winston Churchill.

When it was time for the special blessing, we all extended our hands to be part of the blessing over them. It was moving. And when it was over, as they walked back to their seats, we all stood up and applauded.

They were swamped by parishioners when Mass was over, everyone wanting to shake their hands and say hello. One person even took a photo.

I thought I’d want to say hello, but I felt funny approaching them. I went to my car, and when I saw that they were late in leaving, I decided to go over to where they were parked. This was a big deal for me; very much out of character. I never know what to say to people, but the more I thought about it, the more I steeled myself to ignore my anxiety and do it. If I hadn’t, I would have regretted it.

I waited and when they arrived at their cars, I got out of mine, and walked over to them. It had begun to snow a little harder and we were getting pelted with a wet hard rain-like snow.

I introduced myself and put out my hand to shake theirs. I said I wanted to say hello and thank them for everything they had done. Sal, who was closest to me, asked for a hug. We hugged tightly, and he thanked me and said G-d Bless you, and then I repeated it with Tom, who also wanted to hug me.

It was one of the most moving moments I think I’ve ever experienced. I would have continued to stand there even in the snow if that was what they wanted.

They both wanted to thank me. I remember Tom’s words: “Thank you so much, dear. It was a long time ago. Thank you.”

Thank me?!

I hadn’t done anything; certainly nothing to warrant a thank you from two Marines.

It’s amazing how things happen in our lives with people we meet and how they affect our lives. People we might not have ever met if not for those circumstances. A crazy, random circumstance often initiated by someone else and it seems insignificant to us; until it’s not.

I’ve since had the opportunity to read about them. As it turned out, they were both on the cover of Our Hometowne, a local penny-saver newspaper, which was sitting on my side table. I saw it when it came, but didn’t pay it much mind, and then remembered it this afternoon.

When they enlisted, Sal was 18 and Tom was 20. They were not lifelong friends. They were part of two separate battalions that were joined at Saipan. They served together, but I don’t know if they had ever met on the island. Sal was wounded and according to the accompanying story, he was rescued by a tank driving over him and opening a trap door to pull him in. The trap door was coincidentally repaired by Tom. They both survived, received Purple Hearts among other decorations, and eventually met in the local Walmart years and years later.

Once again, my visit to Mass has given me more than I could have expected when I set out this morning.

Info on the Memorial: http://wwiimemorial.com/

 

Friendship Appreciation

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“What can you do today to express the appreciation you have for those who are important to you and who you might take for granted in your life?”

This was today’s question from the priest during his homily this morning and it could not have been timed more perfectly. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this very thought.

I’ve spent much of the last year reading and working on the daily pages of a motivational book: Achieve Anything in Just One Year by Jason Harvey. I would read each day’s quotation and do the exercise, but sometimes the activity is just too hard mentally to do and I would put the book down for an extended period.

Most recently, I left off at Day 127. The quotation for Day 127 was: “True friendship is like sound health, the value of it is seldom known until it be lost” by Charles Caleb Colton. On this day they are asking about friends and friendships, their importance and how to keep them. One thing that I was very wary about was the phrasing of the first line after the quotation:

“How many friends do you have?”

I have never liked this kind of question. I think it comes mostly from the influx of social media being our barometer for modern friendship. For me personally, I don’t like counting friends. I also really dislike it when outernet friends and family differentiate between Facebook and ‘real’ friends or ‘internet friends’ and ‘real’ friends. These kinds of designations have continually made me feel awkward. It feels as if they’re saying that some of my friends are ‘lesser than’ and in my heart they’re not and have never been.

I think the expectation is that at my age (and boy do I hate that phrase), I’m expected to live in the past. Friends from high school and college are surprised at the level in which I’ve embraced modern social media meeting places and introductions to friends who will be lifelong friends. My friends range in age from 19 – 85, some closer than others, but that is always the way of friendships.

We connect on different levels with different people. People with kids, parents from school, church groups, book clubs, the cashier at the supermarket that we see weekly or sometimes daily; that friend of a friend who liked that thing on your Facebook or that reblogger on Tumblr who you discover is the same age, has kids like you and understands completely the joy and benefits that is fandom. I wish I had Tumblr twenty years ago, although I suppose that if Tumblr was around twenty years ago, there’d be a new one that we’d all have to learn anyway.

My friends give me great joy. Watching them do happy, watching them create, arguing about this fandom thing or that political thing, debates, discussions, philosophy, religion and whatever else; you name it, it is there and it is glorious to see and hear so many differing opinions and respectfully disagree.

I have high school and college friends, Scadians and Daydians and now the Posse, but those distinctions are a shorthand for the commonality of who we are to each other, how we met and how we played, and many of them overlap. There are friends and close friends and a best friend. There are friends who communicate every day, either by text or phone. There are friends who communicate once a month or less. There are call backs I should make more frequently and slack I should give more often, but in all of the mistakes I make, these are the people who are ceaselessly there when it truly counts. And knowing that, having that faith in the friendships I’ve found, being lucky enough to be a part of is one of the most special and important things in my life.

But that’s what makes these exercises so hard. “Write about your friendships.”

How am I supposed to do that?!

I can’t possibly put down on paper how much my friends mean in my life. There aren’t enough adjectives to describe the family of friends that I have.

I’ve never looked for more friends as this exercise suggests I should be doing. I’m happy with the friends I’ve found. We’ve passed by the millions of random chances that threw us onto each other’s paths and we wandered into the others’ lives precisely when they were supposed to and became the support for one another.  And over time, those friendships change. They deepen. The trust grows and the comfort of a text message or a voice on the other end of a phone call is a deep soul thing and to have the privilege of that with more than one person is truly a blessing. It is unbelievable to think of the randomness and the beauty in the finding of each of them.

There are ups and downs and misunderstandings and disagreements and laughter and hugs and forgiveness and I’ve found it all with the most eclectic group.

I often think that friendship is deeper than any other kind of relationship. We choose our friends and they choose us. Think about wedding vows and relate them to your closest friendships: honor and keep, sickness and health, richer and poorer. They are there through all of it, helping us in the big ones and all of the little ones. They are comfort and joy and support through the sadness and trouble that inevitably stop by in every life, but they are also the best of life. Without them, we truly are nothing.

Alone can be good for short spurts. Time to think and contemplate and find your inner places, your belonging places. But the best parts are the places with friends; when you fit. It fit in so few places that when I fit, I can feel it. It’s only happened two or three times in the last few years and the calm it’s brought me is palpable. The laughter over the stupidest things you’d never laugh about without these wonderful people. It’s the McDonald’s drive thru, sleeping on shoulders, long hugs, wiped tears, supportive whispers and autocorrected texts and so much more.

So, back to the priest’s question of the day:

“What can you do today to express the appreciation you have for those who are important to you and who you might take for granted in your life?”

I think we all do the best we can with what we have. That’s not always the best there is, but it’s all we can do. I try to appreciate my friends in a public way. I think they know in their hearts how much I appreciate their presence in my life and their friendship.  I’m extraordinarily grateful to my friends, having them, their friendship, their being always by my side; I just have a terrible time expressing that out loud. I can thank acts pretty well, but thanking people simply for being themselves seems funny to me.  Some people I can express it to, but my personality is to stay quiet, draw no attention, and if I’ve been quiet and unemotional with someone all my life (my siblings for example), I still have a hard time expressing what I feel. I find it easier with newer friends because we’ve started out in that candid, more emotionally honest place.

When my friends are hurting, I’m hurting and I want to help. I offer even though they know that I’m there to help with anything. And they have helped me, more than I ever could have expected from someone. With anything. And everything. From moral support to financial support and everything in between.

When parents die and couples divorce; when kids grow up and move away; when we retire and travel the world or just visit the library or get a part time job, our friends are always there; constantly with us and for us and we are there for them and that is the most brilliant thing I can think of in a friendship.

Tea

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Tea has been a part of my life since I was a child. My family used to go to a Chinese restaurant on Horace Harding Blvd. in Queens, NY. They always gave everyone a glass of water and in the middle of the table was a bowl of crunchy noodles, a metal tea pot, duck sauce and hot mustard. My parents mixed the hot mustard with the duck sauce, which we kids didn’t like. We always drank the tea in those little tea cups that had no handles. I poured in way more sugar than it probably needed. I don’t think I liked tea as much then as I do now, but tea was part of the Chinese restaurant ritual. The owner knew us by name; I think we must have gone there weekly.

That tea was always too hot, steam rising as it was poured out into the small white cups. It sat for a bit, steam rising, too hot to pick up, but when it was lukewarm it was perfect, at least to my elementary school self it was. Chinese tea had a very distinctive taste, and it wasn’t until last year that I discovered that taste again.

I know I’ve talked about the teas that I tried and wrote about in memory of a friend, a victim of domestic violence, and after those were completed, my friend had sent me a variety of loose teas that he enjoyed and wanted to share with me. My favorites were Lady Londonderry and Moroccan Mint. His Moroccan Mint was a black leaf variety; I had only been able to find a green tea, which I did not like as well.

I discovered a local tea shop and started trying new teas and sharing them with friends. The one that my friend really enjoyed is Mexican Chocolate. This is lovely with milk and a tiny bit of sugar if any, and I found it especially wonderful to drink during Christmas time.

It was during these experimentations and tastings that I found Pai Mu Tan. This was the one that when I tried and tasted it I was transported back to the end of the Chinese dinners of my childhood.

British comedies sent me on a path of no return of putting milk in my tea. It was usually Lipton’s or Tetley or very occasionally Red Rose. My regular go-to tea now is none of those; it is a black leaf tea with ginger. It was a chance visit to a Job Lots where I discovered Stash’s Ginger Black Breakfast Tea; the first ginger tea that I had found that was a black tea and not a tisane. This became my daily drink with milk and sugar. When that one box ran out, I ordered a case. Even sharing it still took quite awhile to run out.

While I visiting friends in Denver a few years ago, I was treated to proper British tea. PG Tips with milk and sugar made by an authentic Brit. There was nothing quite like waking up to a beautiful, hot, blissful cup of tea. It was perfect. Every time.

I also went through a Star Trek phase and only drank Earl Grey, hot.

I’m not a fan of green tea, but last Lent when I gave up Diet Coke, it was recommended that I drink green tea with jasmine. This tea tasted good and it would counter the negative effects of always drinking soda. This was my daily drink during Lent with sugar, no milk. It made me feel good. I don’t know if that was the tea itself or if it was its relation to the spirituality of my Lenten habit.

My current favorite is from Twining’s: Honeybush, Mandarin and Orange. I add a bit of sugar, although I think honey would work as well. There is the warm soothing taste and the citrusy kick as it slides across my tongue. Since I’ve been so sick, I also pretend that it has enough vitamin C to keep me healthy.

When I go to therapy, I am asked if I want coffee, tea or water. I don’t drink coffee, so I always say water, although most days I’d rather have the tea. Unfortunately, my personality won’t ask for tea because it’s too much bother and for an hour long session, it would be too hot to drink immediately and then once I started talking, it would be too cold to enjoy. My anxieties are a complicated lot.

Tea, however, is not complicated at all. Tea is comfort. It is that cozy friend who sits in your lap and holds your hand. It’s medicinal. Tea makes all things better. It listens to the beat of your soul. Tea understands even when you don’t.