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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.

A Perfect Cup of Tea

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I arrived at my friend’s house bright and early Tuesday morning. We had about four or so hours to begin preparations for his party the next day and he had to work an afternoon shift at his new job. I hadn’t had breakfast and I don’t think he had either, but we were very excited to see each other and after showing me his mother’s horses and meeting the dogs, he showed me the gardens: his containers of vegetables and herbs clustered around the front. I met his mother and I think she asked if he was going to feed me; I think he promised he would. I noticed the fences he’d complained about putting up and repairing last month and the rose bushes that had been planted or replanted, I can’t remember which.

When we got up to his apartment, he showed me around and we dropped my stuff off in the dining room. He told me his plans for the morning and offered me his boxes and boxes of teas to choose one. I looked through them all and after finally deciding on a loose mango tea, he told me I had to pick something in a bag because he didn’t have a tea strainer.

I may have rolled my eyes out of his line of sight.

He showed me how to use the electric kettle – a pretty neat contraption and I set out once again to find an appropriate tea. Something different, something I didn’t have at home, but after looking through three boxes twice I decided on what was right in front of me: PG Tips.

The little tea bag that looks kind of like a hackeysack. I dropped it in the mug and poured the boiled water over the tea bag. Immediately the water turned a very dark brown. I watched it steep for a few more seconds, still darkening, and then asked about milk and sugar.

Oh, that was all downstairs in the main kitchen; his parents’ kitchen. We’d be cooking in there anyway, so down we went. He suggested that I ditch the tea bag; it was looking very strong, and while I usually don’t really care for very strong tea for some reason I wanted this one to be nearly black.

I poured the milk in. I think it was an almond milk, something I’d never had before, and it did its swirly thing like a whirlpool in a bathtub. In the tea to be honest I didn’t taste anything odd or different using the almond milk. I added my usual two teaspoons of sugar, realizing too late that I hadn’t taken a teaspoon from the drawer but a grapefruit spoon.

A spoon’s a spoon, and it stirred just fine.

I took a sip and tasted it.

The tea was perfect.

Dark and strong, very tea-like with the tiny bit of airiness that the milk gave it in little spirals turning the liquid into a tanned-golden color. I sipped and I felt the warmth slide down my neck and stop briefly in my chest before it continued the journey.

And then I did it again.

Tiny sips, savoring every swallow until it was the wonderful tepid temperature that lets you drink it a little bit faster and think about a second cup.

It was then that I realized how much I’d missed black tea. I hadn’t noticed not drinking it until this cup was nearly gone.

For Lent, way back in February, I gave up Diet Coke and I read somewhere that to counter the effects of the aspartame, I should drink green tea. So every morning for Lent, I drank a cup of green tea with jasmine. I enjoyed it very much and after Lent continued with my new morning drink.

It was only in this moment, with this second to last sip that I realized that this was the first cup of black tea I’d had since Lent began. It was the middle of May; how could I have gone so long without my beloved black tea?

It was like an old friend come to call, and as I watched my friend slice the apples as I peeled the others, it was a perfect cup of tea in the perfect place.

That doesn’t happen very often. In fact, it doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should.

Your Work in Me

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“Jesus, I welcome your work in me this coming year. I want this year to be a time of growth in my journey with you.”

I’ve been attending church services for almost one year now. I started the actual Masses during Holy Week. There was never any intention to join the church. I just needed a place to sit quietly and think. I knew that I would talk to G-d. I hesitate to call it prayer; it was a simple conversation. True, it would be a one-sided conversation: I’d do all of the talking and hope that Someone was listening. It was the one place I could say, or think, anything and there was no judgment, no scorn, no bad things.

Whenever anyone came into the church while I was there alone, they left me alone. On occasion someone would ask if I needed anything, if I was waiting for anyone, I’d get a wave or a smile, but no one ever asked why I was there. No one ever asked me to leave. To be honest, that was the primary reason I chose a church for my thinking: I would be welcome.

The first time I spoke to G-d here, He answered with the church bells. It was perfect, and all of the scared things, all of the hurt, all of the anger just went away, and I cried.

There were so many more moments like that, and every time I was ready to lose faith, another sign, another answer came to me, and I went on for a few more days, finding comfort in the stability, the steadiness of the daily Mass.

I wasn’t quite alone any more.

Things would happen at home or I would be upset and certain that this was my last day, and the Gospel would be read, and it was the exact answer that I needed for my exact problem.

There was a ray of light hitting a pew, an extra strong scent of incense while I was reading a passage, the smell of the candle wax melting. Sitting in my ‘usual’ pew, I glanced up, not anything special, just a slight lift of my head, and I would have sworn that I could see Wales. Upon closer inspection, through that one particular window that you could only see from my seat at just my height was the trunk of a tree and green leaves hanging heavy, dripping water with bright sunlight coming from behind it through the spaces where the trunk split. I took a deep breath and my lips curled up.

It was Wales.

So I stayed.

The quotation above is something that I didn’t know I was looking for. I’ve heard people talk about Jesus, and the moments when they felt the pull. I’m cynical but open minded and I’ve never really been a believer in that sort of spiritual stuff. I do believe in ghosts, but Jesus, Son of G-d, that’s a bit much.

When I was called, when I knew, it just happened. It wasn’t getting hit by lightning, but it was profound and I could feel it. Once I decided that I would be baptized, I wouldn’t wait; I needed to speak with the Father immediately, as soon as possible. I knew that it would be a difficult concept for my family, and most of them still don’t know, but I have the support of my best friend and my church family (and all of them would have supported me either way – no one ever asked me about conversion; they just enjoyed what I was getting out of the Masses).

When I read that quotation, it is exactly what I’ve been looking for.

I’ve been much more spiritual; much more calm and thoughtful, and forgiving. I feel G-d on my shoulder and I do pray now – actual prayer in addition to the conversations I still have with G-d.

I will keep that quotation in my notebook, and remind myself of how far I’ve come, not just in other parts of my life, but in the spiritual part, the faithful part. It makes me stronger, it makes me more confident, it makes me smile because I feel it so deeply; I feel the love and the support and it centers me and reminds me to take those moments to think; to think and then do in all parts of my life.

I look forward to the upcoming year. I’ve looked forward to observing Lent, and missing out on my Diet Coke reminds me of the other things in my life that I should be thinking about. I’m writing more, which was one of my intentions for my Lenten Pilgrimage. I am feeling my faith and living my faith and after becoming nearly a completely different person in the last two years, this faith, and my journey with Jesus Christ is like putting on a comfortable sweater, tucking into a cup of tea and a good book or a friendly voice on the phone.

Crosses

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I bought my first religious ornament this past Christmas.

Mother and Child.

It doesn’t say or imply Mary and Jesus, but really? A Christmas ornament called Mother and Child? It’s not even trying to be subtle.
I wanted it for that reason and because being a mother (a Mommy) is so much of my identity.
It’s not always in the same order or in order of priority but it is always

Mother
Friend
Writer.

Not sure which order, in fact, the order changes importance on a daily basis, so really it’s all the permutations. They’re all important, and on some days, one comes before the other two.
And then they trade places.

I also started wearing a cross on my charm bracelet. I’ve never worn a cross before. I know a lot of people do, even in a non-religious way. They appear on a lot of clothes and accessories, journals, posters, etc. They’re everywhere, but I’ve always felt uncomfortable wearing them.

Once I made the decision to be baptized (in another year or so), I kind of started looking for a cross, not intending to wear it though; just thinking about it.

I’ve always loved Celtic crosses, but avoided them. I do have Celtic jewelry, but never any crosses.

When I was looking for a rosary for a friend of mine at Christmas, I was trying to find something for him that I would have liked. I dismissed this as one of those gifts you get for someone else, but hope they have so they give it back and you can keep it. 😉

(Seriously, don’t give it back.)

I did get that out of my head. It was really only in passing anyway. At the time, I wasn’t interested in getting myself a cross or any kind of religious jewelry.

While I was looking for charms for my daughter, however, I did look for crosses. Most of the ones I found were a bit much: large, heavy metal, very black, skulls, not quite my style.

Not until I found this one. The four ends look like a triquetra and they’re all wound and braided together from one piece forming a very simple, very lovely, Celtic looking cross.

It blends my new Catholicism with the Celts of old-the Cistercians I enjoyed reading so much about during the time of Llywelyn Fawr. He was a generous patron of those White Monks of his time.

I will probably get another after I’m baptized, or ask someone to get me a special one, but for now I have this reminder of what is still to come in this new year and beyond.

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Faery Snow

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I love snowflakes. Pictures of snowflakes. Books. Those paper cutouts of snowflakes. Sponge painted snowflakes on blue construction paper. My kingdom in the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) is Concordia of the Snows with a snowflake badge.

However, I hate snow.

The anxiety that comes with the first snow is about the same as getting on an airplane and to get me on one of those takes half a Xanax and a talisman. The cold; the ice; the wet; the slip sliding around the streets. I think I stopped driving after the first snow since around 2004.

I used to walk to school in the snow. Really. I student taught in in a little town in upstate New York, and lived too close to drive. It would have really been absurd to drive, so I walked the rural roads, crossed the bridge over the kill and for a few weeks I was Abraham Lincoln.

I drove back to college from student teaching in blinding and drifting and blowing snow to see a boyfriend. Love, and an old car, makes one stupid.

Fire drills at 2am in the snow. Who pulls a fire alarm at 2am in the snow? Freshman, obviously. Freshmen with a death wish.

The only snow I remember with fondness was the faery snow in Edinburgh, Scotland. It was the worst snow in more than a decade. Started out locked in the hostel at York, hours upon hours of train delays, flights cancelled, but Edinburgh snow in January………brilliant.

Light.

Fluffy.

Shiny.

Sparkly.

Faery snow.

I spent the evening with Peter. He had never seen snow being from Australia and it was the best thing. People who’ve never experienced the bad of an upstate winter like ice storms and Red Cross Shelters – they all love the snow.

Especially if they’ve never seen it.

He had the bright eyes of a four year old, almost twinkling as much as the falling flakes under the lampposts below the castle. Everything is better with a four year old. Or a twenty year old who’s never seen snow.

This snow feels different.

It tastes different.

It grabs the soles of your feet and slides you down the street. You don’t really slip – faery snow’s not there to hurt you, only to enthrall, entangle, entwine you with the web of the faerie’s call.

Sometimes It Takes a Lifetime to Find Your Voice

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(Note: This was originally written for my family who had begun to complain on Facebook about my ‘political’ postings and opinion pieces. I re-read it and kind of still liked it, so I’ve included it here even though I’m working on a newer version as I continue to find myself.)

For someone so quiet it may seem strange – my posts, my links, my commentary. I’ve always been quiet; listening silently, agreeing or not, but remaining silent and mostly following. Even though I felt this starting in education and parenting because of my kids, I’ve been online for almost four years, and it’s created an even greater voice I didn’t know I could have. That’s probably why I go kicking and screaming to each new social media, but I still go, looking for the one that fits; the one that will give a meaningful platform to my words.

I don’t know how someone goes from silently watching and taking notes hoping for change other than speaking out; for something, whatever that something is to being an actual activist. That was always a word I was afraid of, but the reality is that is what I feel like. The old cliche of “if I don’t, who will” has never felt more true.

As I said, it started by questioning teachers and administrators, and school nurses when I felt my kids were not being treated in the way that I thought they should be treated. My excuse was that I was old and cranky, and people would laugh, but it’s laughable that I needed some kind of excuse to do what was best for my kids.

I came very naturally to It Gets Better and The Trevor Project. Children should not be killing themselves. They should be playing and going to the mall and fighting with their parents about their computers, Xboxes and cell phones.

The Human Rights Campaign and Marriage Equality and Transgender Remembrance happened for me when I saw something first-hand and knew it was wrong, but didn’t know how to fix it. For me and for others, a lightbulb goes off and it’s always been there in front of you, but you’re too afraid to see it or too afraid to speak up or you remember times you’ve made mistakes from not understanding and then you do understand; some of it anyway. Besides a personal story that is not mine to share (more than one actually), I’ve also realized that my ‘tolerance’ was validation for someone else’s life, and the people living the life don’t need my validation or approval; just my love and support.

I started speaking out against domestic violence and abuse in all its forms when my closest friend was shot and his roommate, who would have been my friend eventually was murdered.

I’m starting to talk about and link to the topics of mental illness. Just the phrase ‘mental illness’ has negative connotations and everyone shudders and hugs and finds the pill to make it go away. But mental illness isn’t always illness and it isn’t always negative; sometimes it’s just different.

I’m also starting to post about Autism. My interest began with my own children and looking for warning signs, and reading about vaccines and other causes, but knowing more people and interacting with them and seeing different sides of a word opens it up to talking about it.

These things, whatever you want to call them – causes, projects, undertakings – they’ve come to me naturally and speaking out is hard; it’s the hardest thing I’ve done. I don’t want to embarrass myself or my husband and kids by either saying the wrong thing or speaking too loud. I still care what people think of me. I still don’t like a spotlight on me. I really don’t like the center of attention, especially if it’s extremely positive or extremely negative, but as hard as it is, it is still easier than what the people I link to are going through.

It may look a bit like follow the leader, but if I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t do it or talk about it. The one thing I found from this summer was that I was in my element with mapping and media lists and urgent cares and updating the website. I’d like to do it for something that’s not a grieving process, where I won’t feel guilty for enjoying the parts that are enjoyable; where I can help people and still do it for me, too.

And I want to write about it. There’s an essay coming about college and careers and writing and a long talk in a far away place, but for now this is what I want; what I need. And this is who I am.

At 45, I expected less change, but as physically lazy as I can be, all I see ahead are continuing changes and reaching out and touching the edge with my fingertips and pulling up and moving slowly forward, but never back; and then writing about it.

It scares me.

Activism. Living my life. Writing. Something.

Christmas Eve Mass

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I’ll start with the end first. When I was leaving the Mass, I saw the church lights shining through the stained glass on the front of the building; the Virgin Mary. I posted the photo after the service. Sitting in the car, I suddenly remembered driving past this church last Christmas Eve and seeing the same stained glass window, lit up, bright and colorful, shining in the dark. It was a surprise in the night sky and I hadn’t realized that there was a Mass going on; all I could see was the Virgin Mary, brightening one of my dark days.

I drove past the church all year since then, paying attention at night to recreate that scene from Christmas Eve, to find that feeling again, and every night I was disappointed. Until Christmas Eve. The first time, I’d only been in that church once before. I bought a Mass card for Brittany and in May attended that service when they said the special remembrance for her. Over the course of time in 2011, I would come back on occasion, when the need arose, and just sit in my car, staring at the big green tree, so much in the traditional shape of the Tree of Life, watch the branches blow in the breeze, and cry. And then I would go home, still not being able to explain to my family (or myself) why Brittany’s death affected me so much.
Christmas Eve went away. The stained glass window went away. The Tree, my special Brittany memorial tree, went away. Brittany never did, though.

I had been depressed, alone and lost. Sometime in the weeks before Holy Week, I would come to the Church and sit in the pew several times while there were no services. I don’t know what sent me there; I just knew when to go, and I would sit alone. Just me and G-d. He listened. And I listened to Him. And boy, did He have a lot to say! Lights and smells and sounds and Scriptures that read my mind. Friends He sent me with messages and songs and love. I’ve never known anyone to talk so much without saying a word.

I started going to Mass that Tuesday of Holy Week.

In the weeks that followed Easter, I went to the nine o’clock Mass three times a week unless I had a prior commitment or an appointment. I was the youngest one in the church. These were the people who had been going their whole lives; pious, the true believers, the devout.

In April, the Deacon let me take the Missal with me to my mother in law’s, so I could read on the days that I wouldn’t be able to attend Mass. A couple of weeks later, C. directs me to take the free book, The Word Among Us. It has all of the liturgies for the entire month. It has the Gospels. It has the daily responsorials. It has the meditations. When I asked the Deacon to borrow the book, I began to cry.

I carry the book with me, and I hide it. No one would understand this. I read it every morning that I don’t attend Mass.

The priest returns from Rome and his first Mass back is May 7th. Today is the first anniversary of Brittany’s murder, and I want the closure of a Mass. I am upset. Where is my priest? I don’t even belong to this church and I’ve become possessive about which priest is going to do the homily. He begins to speak and after talking about Rome, which is so much like my Wales, he speaks a bit about the Holy Spirit, and something he says reminds me of Brittany and why I am here in the first place. I begin to cry. Again. I’m also glad he’s back from Rome. I’m going to like him.

His homilies are soft spoken and humorous – he is very humorous and good natured – but they are also firm. He doesn’t need to tell you what to do with your life, your vote, your heart; he tells you what Jesus did, and then you do what you do with that in your mind and you can feel what he’s trying to say. He’s not beating you over the head with any kind of should and must, but continuing to welcome warmly with a “let me tell you what I believe; what do you think?”

In July, I meet with him. I have a stupid question, and I say that to him. “I have a stupid question.” After he hears it, he agrees with me; it is a stupid question. He doesn’t quite call it that, but we laugh and he gives me twenty minutes, letting me babble, asking me questions about myself and my family and why I’ve come here and not anywhere else. He’s a nice man. I tell him he’s not what I expect of a priest and he laughs at that also. He is not insulted. He is a cross between Father Mulcahy and Sheldon Cooper. I don’t tell him this.

I never paid attention to Jesus as a child or really up until the point that Job sent me to the church to meditate on one or two desperations. I pay attention now. There is a life size Jesus nailed to a wooden Cross in the chapel. I’ve never gone up to it, so I really don’t know, but I think He’s life-sized. Sometimes, I will have a thought of agreement or a question about my own faith and I can feel him looking at me.

I look back, but He hasn’t moved.

So many things between then and now that stand out in my mind.

A few weeks ago, the priest, Father J. came over to me in the parking lot, put his arm around me, and asked, “Are you Catholic yet?” I laughed and I think he thought he made me uncomfortable, but the only reason I may have seemed uncomfortable with the question is because I’ve become more comfortable with Jesus. I could never say his name in prayers at all, and if I spoke about him in passing through my life or as a topic of conversation, I’d cast my eyes downward as if I weren’t supposed to talk about Him; to keep Him hidden from my life.

The question hit a little too close to home, but of course, he couldn’t have known that. I’ve never expressed a desire to convert.

I have been thinking about it, though. I’ve only barely mentioned it to one person, and I’m still trying to have a conversation about it. To my logical mind, it seems the next natural step.

I mean why am I still going to church? What does it mean to me? Was it just a place to hang out while I waited for me to piece my life back together? Why the church and not the temple? That question is actually easy.

I knew they would welcome me.

And if not overtly welcome me at the beginning, I knew that they would not turn me away. I know that I can speak to the priest as a convert, as a non-religious person or as a Jewish person. He would see me, and he would support me, and I know this, not because he said it, but because I just know it.

Most of my life I’ve had that simplistic view. The very literal, whatever will be, will be. I worry. I angst. I get terrified and I fret. But I always fall back on everything will be alright.

And overall, that is Father J’s message. Every sermon. Here is what Jesus did. Here is a story from my childhood or someone I know. Here is what they did. Here is what I’d recommend. Now, go forward, and with Jesus’ help, everything will be alright.

You don’t have to believe it. You don’t have to say it out loud. But it will be alright, and I’m here to help.
Back to Christmas Eve.

The church was packed. Every seat filled. Every space for standing filled. I’m given a program and I greet the Father. He is surprised and happy to see me. He takes my hand and squeezes it. I think this is the most intimate thing that can be shared with someone not your lover. It’s only the second time I feel this surge of love from someone, agape love. He leaves his greeting space and finds an usher, telling him that I must have a seat. I insist that I do not need a seat, and I greet the usher. The look on his face says what I am already thinking, has the priest even looked into the sanctuary?

I put my hand in front of me in a stop sign motion so the Father can’t see and I tell the usher, no, it’s fine, there are others who need to sit. The usher laughs and puts an arm around me, thanking me for understanding reality. A second usher has missed this exchange and has convinced a man to give me one of his saved seats.

I am in the very last pew. The church is dim. Lights are off, but there is a light over the altar. There is a nativity scene that I can’t really see. All the altar cloths are now white, changed from yesterday’s purple. There is a large Christmas tree covered in white lights above the choir, who are singing one carol after another. There are wreaths with white bows filling every empty space on the walls that don’t have statuary. There is such a sensation of true Christmas and I feel the emotions surge up from my soul.

The procession began, and the choir began to sing Silent Night. The churchgoers joined in, as did I. This is the first time I’ve sung this song in its entirety, including Jesus’ name in the song about his birth.

This is a very musical service, and I love it. I’m very busy looking around, pleased that I know the Mass well enough that I don’t have to wait for the others to give me my cues. I know when to stand, and am thankful when the Father tells everyone that because of the numbers, we are to remain standing rather than kneel (which I still do not do).

Many people leave after Communion, although the church is still quite full. When the Mass is ended, I approach the Deacon, shake his hand and wish him a Merry Christmas.

I wait patiently behind an older man to speak to the Father, just to briefly wish him a Merry Christmas. I am happy here. I am surprised by my level of comfort. I reach out to shake his hand, and he doesn’t hesitate, he puts his arm around me and pulls me into a hug. I inhale deeply of the feelings this brings on, and I almost burst into tears from the emotion of it all.

I’ve decided to meet with him after Christmas.

This is such a difficult decision; I don’t even know if it is actually a decision as much as an exploration and I hate how much like a politician that sounds like. I feel as though all of these spiritual feelings are a betrayal of many. How will my family react? As it is, it’s causing marital issues. My parents are gone, but I still feel them. I wonder if I’d be so adrift is they were still here to guide me.

I’ve been trying to talk about so many of these feelings with someone, someone who can talk me through it, to be my soundboard, to be my advisor, to hold my hand, the only one I can actually speak to about this.

But this desperation, this loneliness doesn’t matter as much as Christmas Eve Mass, which was magnificent on so many levels, not the least of which was spiritual. It was the first time I celebrated a Christmas Mass; the Mass of Jesus’ birth; the beginning of his life on Earth. It’s so profound; so big; I almost can’t fit it all in my heart.

Unrequited Love

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The only unfulfilled love I’m willing to talk about openly is writing. And the realization that the love affair will never be reciprocated hurts just as much as that first time someone came out and said, “I like you. I just don’t like-like you.”

Writing will never like-like me. I’m too old, and it’s not that I’m too old as much as born at the wrong time – the non-generation. I’m not a baby boomer. I’m not a Me. I’m too old to be a Gen-Xer. Or Y and Z for that matter. I missed the computer age – I didn’t even have a computer until I got married and I was forty-one before I actually owned my own – a laptop, which took me a year to finally use with any kind of regularity. My kids know the VCR as the machine next to the TV that has never worked.

I read Julie Andrews autobiography recently. She grew up in the fifties, and I was sad to discover that her voice is my voice. That’s how I write. Very formally, describing how the leaves rest on the rooftop, narrative on top of narrative with very little emotion unless it’s purple prose. I write like someone who grew up in the fifties, only I have no story to tell. My parents weren’t alcoholics, I did not overcome drug abuse, I wasn’t abused or molested. My parents sent me to college. I lived at home until I got married.

This non-generation of girls was expected to grow up, be prim and proper, but still know everything, go to school, college and be anything you wanted, anything boys could be even President of the United States. At least until you got married and had kids and in that order. And when the kids were in high school you could go back to work because women were independent now.

You can’t be a writer. A writer is impractical. And they drink. They don’t have two nickels to rub together either.

Get a degree and then you can write.

Get married. You can write later.

You’re still young. You can’t wait to have kids. Writing will always be there.

Well, guess what?

Writing didn’t wait for me. Writing found someone else. Writing computerized. Modernized. Writing grew up, and changed with the times where it needed to. More do it yourself. More travel. More health care and fitness. New writers came along. Younger and prettier and having seen people like me get left behind knew just what to do to keep up.

Writing won’t ever come back for me, and I just can’t catch up. My writing is tired and old; timid. Like me.

My best friend, like any good friend, pushes me towards the love that got away, prods, challenges, shames, but he can only push so far. I keep my hand on the ledge. I don’t know what’s down there. I lean over, but I can’t see very far, and what I can see is dizzying.

What if I fall?

What if I catch up to writing and I’m just not good enough? Staying back and wondering is better than being rejected again, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

Sandy Hook

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I’ve had the television off all weekend. I heard about Sandy Hook in Newtown, CT on Twitter and then got on my smartphone and started googling. I got my information during the weekend from USA Today and Tumblr on my Kindle. The television stayed off.

On Sunday, I had to tell my kids about what happened. Surely, someone would mention it in school on Monday, and I wanted them to know that they would be safe even if I wasn’t sure I believed it.

I told my middle son first – he’s older and more fretful. He would have the most questions and the most logical solutions. I was afraid that his logic would take him to staying home. He was okay, and for a short while, so was I. And then my daughter sat down with us. I looked at her and started to speak; to explain to her what I had just told my son, and I don’t know why I didn’t realize it on Friday, how these things happen, we hear them and we immediately dismiss them into our multi-tasking minds of so much nonsense.

I looked at my daughter as if I had only seen her for the first time at that very moment.

She’s in first grade. FIRST GRADE. The same age as Charlotte, Olivia, Ana, Dylan, Madeleine, Catherine, Jesse, James, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Avielle, Benjamin and Allison. Three quarters of the children killed are my daughter’s age and grade, and I didn’t realize it until Sunday night.

I couldn’t’ speak. I almost couldn’t breathe.

I sent them to bed intending to watch the news for the first time, but I didn’t. I kept the television off. I kept the computer off. I sat in the quiet, not doing anything really, numb and thinking back on the violence that I’ve been on the periphery on; violence that’s affected my life recently. I should say indirectly, but while I haven’t been physically assaulted, I do feel that I’ve been directly affected; emotionally definitely, becoming proactive in some ways and withdrawn in others.

Within the last two years, I’ve received a phone call that my best friend was shot, his roommates murdered. There were 3AM phone calls and a move for him. In several things that I recall and write about, I’m a little surprised at how many begin with ‘my friend who was shot last spring.’

In July, I spent an intense morning in back-and-forth-have-you-heard-from-is-everyone-okay phone calls and text messages after the Aurora, Colorado movie theatre shooting and had to keep that from my son, the Batman enthusiast. That weekend we still went to see Brave. I couldn’t help but to look around at the exits, knowing the best way to get out of the theatre, scrutinizing my fellow moviegoers in a sad is this what our society has come to way.

On Friday, December 14th, while my children were in their school, where I think the security is lax but am often chided for being overprotective and paranoid, I had to wait quietly for them to come home as the families in Newtown waited to hear about which of their children were murdered.

Twenty children.

And I think it could never happen here.

I thought that about September 11th.

And May 7th.

And now December 14th.

These are no longer just dates on a calendar. These are moments when my life was touched by violent death.

How many more are like me?

I worry about my friend in Israel and our friend, the State Trooper but now I need to worry when my kids go to the mall or the movies; or to school?

Last week, there was a shooting in a mall in Portland, Oregon. My first thought? Do we know anyone in Portland? Who should we call?

There’s a sigh of relief. No. No one we know. And it’s already gone. We’ve moved onto the next one.

No one will be moving on from Newtown.

Sandy Hook is September 11th for those families. And for the rest of us, it is something that we can, and should not, ever forget.

Next week is Christmas.

I can’t wrap my head around it.

My daughter is in first grade just like all of the murdered children.

We have to make 2013 safer for our kids, for our friends, for our families.

It won’t just bebetter; we need to make it better.

Starting now.

Fire

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Fire is all powerful, building up and destroying at the same time. Fire rises, sweeps through. Unlike water which washes everything away in an instant, fire stays awhile. It spreads, sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, but out and up, higher and higher and even when it has no place to go it still reaches out and grows, larger, looming, consuming.

Staring at fire is much like clouds in a blue sky.

There’s a bunny. And a soccer ball. But fire is not fluffy. You can’t help but to jump at each spark, wondering why there are no bunnies in the charred remains.

Fire is powerful and… weak is the wrong word. Fire can be subdued. Water, salt, even certain chemicals. I think it’s why we feel so much for fire fighters. They are like magicians in the night, taking the fire away, bringing back the calm.