as a reflection of hope {self portrait challenge}

This is how I want to be.
For you.
For me.
A reflection of hope.

Yesterday, a dear friend and I were talking about the idea of why we come to these online journals open for all the world to see and then we write our stories. And for both of us, one real reason is that by coming to this page and writing the truth of our lives, we hope that someone out there reading might realize they are not alone.

This has such power for me.

But sometimes I forget that this means I am not alone too.

Last night, I had one of those "fuck. my grandmother is totally dead and i can never talk to her again for real. this just sucks so much. i hate it. i am so pissed at her for dying like that. and i am pissed at the universe that this is what life hands us. and that it will keep handing it to me whenever it wants" moments. Triggered by one little line in a Kenny Rogers' song I was listening to at midnight as I worked away on this huge editing project that has been keeping me glued to my laptop for 12 or more hours a day lately. The line, "If I close my eyes, it doesn't hurt quite so bad. 'Cause tonight I just lost the best friend I ever had." If only I would have paused to take a drink of tea during the next song, "on a warm summer's eve, on a train..." well, you know the rest.

And in that moment...the house quiet...the darkness caved in for a moment. So alone.

A little while later, I stopped my work and downloaded the self portraits I had taken earlier.

I saw this woman's reflection. A spark of something in her eye. A peaceful look on her face. She seems wise. As though she lives on her path and walks in her life. As though she knows.

As I soaked in these images, Deb Talen's words, ones I had been listening to on repeat for a while before Kenny dropped by, echoed in my head "you are a phoenix with your feathers still a little wet...the ashes just look pretty on your eyes...dry your wings in the sun, you have only begun to understand."

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Hope...

I am beginning to understand. I am finding my way. And I am not alone. Even in the loneliest darkness, I have me.

(Little does Thea realize that she actually inspired this post for another reason. On Sunday night, I took another break from editing world, and I dipped into the archives of her blog and found this post which prompted me to buy Deb Talen's CD on iTunes. Thank you friend. Thank you.)

all that stuff, all that baggage {sunday scribblings}

I have caught a glimpse of her at different moments of my life. I think it began when I was about three or so; I would be walking and suddenly she would be there. I remember seeing her skipping down a sidewalk, arms waving in the air as she sang to a song in her head. On another day, when I was about five or so, she was sitting up in a tree with a little lunchbox balancing next to her and she was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I must have been about nine the first time I saw her with more than just that lunchbox. She was carrying a huge tote bag that seemed to be filled with lots of stuff and was much bigger than her little shoulders could hold. She still smiled and waved though.

A few years later, I came across her in the middle of a rainstorm. She didn’t have on a raincoat and stood on a street corner shivering. She was wearing a backpack and carrying that tote. Before I could ask her if she needed any help, she hopped on a bus and was off once again.

For a while, I kept looking for her, hoping she was fine and that maybe the bus had taken her someplace that felt like home. And one day my question was answered. There she was, standing on the shores of a lake, smiling. She was wearing the backpack still and carrying the tote bag. And she had a little suitcase next to her. But she looked happy and content.

About 10 years ago, I remember seeing her in the middle of an airport. She had a trunk, two suitcases, a backpack, and a basket on her head. She was carrying at least six of those tote bags and a huge purse. I just stood there watching her pull it all through the terminal. “How were they ever going to let her get on that plane?” ran through my head over and over for weeks after that. At the time, I didn’t even think about how odd it was that she didn’t use one of those carts or ask someone to help her.

A few years ago, she was sitting on the trunk with four suitcases, about eight tote bags, and two backpacks surrounding her, her face buried in her hands. The little lunchbox was tumbled over to one side. My heart ached for her, but I was too shy to comfort her. I wish I could have told her that it would be okay and that if she wanted, she could just get up and leave it all there, taking only what she needed. Taking only what she wanted to bring along to that next minute, day, year, lifetime. I wish I could have told her that she could just walk away from it all.

About a year later, I thought I saw her out of the corner of my eye getting ready to climb up on a merry-go-round. But by the time I turned my head, she was gone.

And last year, well, last year was different. I stumbled across her in the middle of a spring day. She was sitting on a rock along the sea. All she had with her was the little lunchbox and her backpack. She was clutching them both to her and sobbing. Not wanting to disturb her, even though I knew I might actually be able to talk to her this time, I tiptoed away quietly.

Well, lately, we have been running into each other quite a bit. Sometimes she just waves as she sits amidst wildflowers watching hummingbirds zoom over her head. Other days, over her shoulder she carries a curly willow branch with a bandana tied around the end. “Must be full of the important things,” I think to myself when I see that indigo blue bandana. There are some days when she has that backpack again and a suitcase or two at her side. And when I catch her eye, she just looks at me and shrugs her shoulders with a “doing the best I can” look on her face. Then she wheels the suitcases away.

It’s kind of nice knowing she is out there somewhere figuring it all out as she goes.
(to read about more baggage, click over to sunday scribblings)

another secret love

It all started in June of 2001, on my birthday to be exact. Well, it might have started before then, when I saw Bridget Jones’s Diary earlier that year, but I didn’t really meet him until June of 2001.
Mr. Darcy.
Over a week, I spent six glorious hours with him. And I ate up every minute. From his brooding, egotistical moments to his white, wet shirt to his professions of love. Yes. Yummy. I fell in love with him.
At the time, I was convinced I had fallen in love with Colin Firth. I mean, how could you not? And soon after finishing all six hours of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, there was a nice, large photo of Mr. Firth in a magazine I was reading. So, his beautiful face became a fixture on my fridge. Yes. He became my secret boyfriend. Well, I often referred to him as such, so I guess he really became my not-so-secret boyfriend.

Though at some point, with no discussion, we began to grow apart.

But then, June of 2006 arrived. The new version of Pride & Prejudice appeared in the mailbox via netflix. I had been adamant that I was not going to watch it. Ever. I mean there was only one Mr. Darcy for me. But after reading some positive reviews over the months (especially by fellow bloggers), I agreed (with myself) to give it a try. However, I was going to watch it and work at the same time. I didn’t plan to really pay much attention to it. Even though I had loved Matthew Macfadyen on MI-5, my mind was already made up before I watched it.

But then something unbelievable happened. I realized I wasn’t in love with Colin Firth. No. Actually, I am quite in love with Mr. Darcy. He had me from the very first moment once again. My heart went pitter patter as he looked at Elizabeth, as he confessed his love with such arrogance. Yes. He is such a stubborn, proud, rude, brooding man. And I love him.
I watched the movie again before sending it back. And to be honest, I think I could probably watch it every week. Though, not sure my heart could handle it.
After this, I caught Bridget Jones’s Diary on TV and relished in the way Mark Darcy is Mr. Darcy (even though Bridget is not so much Elizabeth). Don't get me wrong, I adore her in this movie.
As that movie ended, I added the second Bridget Jones movie to my netflix queue (though I hadn’t really planned to see it either. Didn’t love book number two like I loved the first book, and I didn’t really want to deal with Bridget and her drama. But Mr. Darcy had me under his spell). I did laugh during it and had a smile on my face every single time Mark Darcy walked onto the screen even though his face was often frowning.
Then, during the last week in June, I curled up on the couch and I watched the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice again. In one day.

Oh yes. Mr. Darcy. I love you.

Now, I have decided that I must read the book. I know some say it is thick, and I can hear Meg Ryan's character in You've Got Mail talking about getting lost in the language, but I am going to give it a try. Of course, I have to buy the book first.

By the way, Mr. Darcy probably wouldn’t have come in to my life if it hadn’t been for my husband. We had been dating for about six weeks when my 25th birthday came along. And he gave me BBC’s Pride and Prejudice. Little did he know that even though we made out at the end of every single episode of that mini-series, and I was deeply falling in love with him, I was falling in love with Mr. Darcy.

Don't worry, I know which one of them is my true love.

a little laughter...but also grief (again) {poetry thursday}

Reading the posts of Poetry Thursday participants last week...well...my heart felt so full. The community, the sharing, the discussion, the words, the poems, the introductions to favorite poets...all of this. Yes. Thank you. I am doing a little happy dance as I think about how much this project has grown in the last few months. A happy dance.

This week, I am sharing the poem I was working on last week. (It is still a bit in progress, and I welcome gentle suggestions via email if any spring to mind.)

A vacation interrupted

Last Tuesday,
with the temperature at 92 degrees,
I began to stick to myself.
Thoughts of rainbow sherbet,
icy raspberry, orange, and lime,
sent me on a holiday from
the hell of the living room.
As I snuck away,
I did not anticipate a memory
ripping off the bandage
I use to hold my heart together,
when at noon the next day,
I lifted the plastic lid, inhaled,
and traveled to the humidity
of another kitchen.

A teaspoon scooping
rainbow sherbert, she watched
as I pressed two scoops
into the little pink bowl with
scalloped edges, then she said,
“Are you going to eat all that?”
Later, after a commercial
break, with Gramps and I
sucked into a story about
teenage mothers on 20/20,
she would sneak to the kitchen
for seconds. The suction
of the shutting freezer door
became the invitation
to echo her words.

Lacking manners and
sneaking up from behind,
the eager claws of grief
clutched at my center
when her laughter
rang out inside my head.
Untangling, I opened
the cupboard, reached for
a small purple glass,
took out a teaspoon
from the drawer, and
began to scoop up
the ribbons of color,
pressing each spoonful
closer together.

*********

Inspired by The Writer's Almanac link I posted last week, my husband has invited me to share a new evening ritual with him. We sit together on the couch and listen to Garrison Keillor's daily post. A nightly date with my husband and poetry. What more could a girl want really?

some of my favorite things in all the world (this week)

earlier this week, in one of the comment discussions that takes place at sprigs, i mentioned that i just might makes a list of my favorite things in all the world. well, here it is (at least for this week).

watching lynn’s hamster, tater, eat. tater is so cute as she stuffs her cheeks. and watching her little paws hold a raisin, well, I haven’t seen anything that cute in a long time.

entourage. this. show. cracks. me. up. sunday night i caught up on the last several episodes. kevin dillon makes me laugh. out. loud. love it.

the way my husband does his best to keep the sky from falling onto my head on days when it threatens to do so.

this poem by david whyte. erica introduced me to david whyte a few months ago on her blog. and i have been looking for a book of his poems ever since. over the weekend, in a little bookstore on bainbridge island, i found one. and i have been reading this poem before i go to sleep this week.

the movie the constant gardener. i know it has been out for a while, so i am just getting on board here. if you haven't seen it yet, i hope you will. it may not uplift you but it invites you to think. the acting is incredible. kind of want to be rachel weisz this week.

my dear friend melissa. she has known me for 15 years, and she is still my friend. our friendship becomes deeper every year, every day and this is a blessing. her sense of humor invites me to giggle and laugh and guffaw at times. we encourage one another to live in our lives authentically, even when this seems impossible. and i appreciate the way she holds me in her heart even though we are miles apart.

do you know the book bitter with baggage seeks same? well, i don’t own it, and part of the reason is because i love to rediscover it in bookstores and gift shops and open it and stand there reading it until tears of laughter roll down my face. not kidding. and in trying to explain this to lynn, i discovered that there IS A WEBSITE. please click on over to it, right now, and click to “extracts.” then come back here and tell me which one made you laugh out loud. (oh and if it is not your thing, no worries. surprised the hell out of me when I stood there laughing in urban outfitters a few years ago. i am more of a touchy-feely person as you might have known. but this book, well, it cracks me up.)

dancing. i have sucked jonny into dancing to marc broussard’s song “home” as millie watches us wondering what is happening.

the movie you’ve got mail. if you feel a bit bruised or overwhelmed (like I do this afternoon), and you need to catch your breath, watch this movie (you should own it so you can do this whenever you need it). escape to the lighthearted world this little movie gives you and enjoy the soundtrack. delightful. and now that i have seen pride and prejudice so many times lately (see the next one on this list), i enjoy all the references to this book (that i need to read, i know i do!) and the ways the characters parallel elizabeth and mr. darcy. you should know that i have seen you’ve got mail so many times that i can recite the lines along with the actors. and i still crack up at all the same jokes. every time. i love this movie. and today, i relate to meg ryan’s character kathleen even more than usual as she is trying to find her place in the world. she says, “i lead a small life, valuable but small. and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? so much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around?” yes. this is a feeling i know.

mr. darcy. yes. the mr. darcy. he is one of my favorite things in all the world this week and every week. and this summer, we have spent quite a bit of time together. this is a bit of a teaser because i plan to tell you all about this in another post soon.

a website i came across today. if you haven’t already done so, go find out where the hell matt is. watch the video; you will be glad you did.

the song Virginia woolf by the indigo girls. yes, i am still listening to it over and over. so much so that when i am listening to an iTunes playlist that includes it, i expect to hear the opening bars of virginia woolf when it finishes, even though james taylor insists on singing instead. this song heals my heart a tiny bit more every single time i hear it.

and one thing that is my least favorite this week: when people invite you to take on emotional guilt. hate that.

me as...{self portrait challenge}

Me as a happy apple.
Yes.
A happy apple.

Earlier this year, self portrait tuesday's challenge was "all of me," and in one post that month, I shared that my left eye has Duanes Retraction Syndrome. I also shared that my parents taught me to turn my head using a fisher price red apple. I haven't really spoken much about my eye over the years, but writing this and sharing my story here has invited me to think about it a bit more. And to think about the red apple and how it may have saved me in some ways.

On Saturday, Jon and I spent the day with Lynn and her husband. That evening, we had dinner at their home. And when I walked in to Lynn's kitchen, what did I spy?

I spied the red apple. The Happy Apple.
Serendipity.

It seems that Lynn bought the Happy Apple when she worked in an antique store. And it decorates her kitchen now.

So she let me borrow it for a bit, to rekindle my relationship with it. When you pick it up, it makes a delightful sound, kind of like chimes, kind of like a music box. I had forgotten this. But as I have listened over these last few days, my memories have begun to twirl around in my head. And I have created the Happy Apple Dance. A little yoga meets belly dancing meets ballet.
I love the way your life can go in a certain direction sometimes, and then one little shift in the path intersects your journey with someone else's. It is pure delight.

my love {sunday scribblings}

For a long time, I have been having a love affair. And when I visit him, I have the opportunity to stay at some of my favorite hotels. Places where my comfort is a priority. Places where the soaps bear his likeness, where chocolates adorn my pillow at night, where he wakes me up every morning with his voice on the other end of the phone. Sometimes at the end of the day, I retire to a hotel that evokes the great lodges of the national parks of the west. Other visits, I am dropped off right inside a futuristic building of sorts that has a restaurant where my love and I sometimes eat breakfast together. And on one visit, my bedroom looked right onto a savannah complete with giraffes that would visit me, standing about 20 feet away. My love always thinks of every tiny detail.

When the town car he has sent for me, pulls right in front of these hotels, my anticipation usually fills up my body in such a way that I feel like a five year old on Christmas morning. So many adventures ahead of me. I am always greeted by a bellman ready to take care of my every need. However, my favorite moment is when I walk into the lobby of these hotels. I am transported to another place, another time, another world. And every time there is this little part of me that thinks, "I am home." When the host or hostess gives me the key to my room, I want to twirl around because I know all that awaits me. But first, I stand in the middle of the lobby and take a breath. Breathing in everything. Remembering it all since my last visit, noticing new details. Yes. And knowing as I stand there that it has only just begun. After this moment, I quickly take off toward my room.

As I walk down the halls, I notice funny little hidden images of my sweet. When you come here to visit, you have to keep your eyes open for these little things that can add joy to the seemingly mundane moments. Every time, when I find my room, I seem to be pleasantly delighted to see that he put me right where I wanted to be. Then the moment of truth. I use the key, open the door, close my eyes, step in, take a breath, and open. Home. Yes. Home. This will be my home during my stay with my darling. I walk directly to the balcony. On some visits, he has put me in a special room where I can see the nightly fireworks display that always seems in honor of our affection (though, I must admit I know he sets them off even when I am not here. I am learning to share him with the others who vie for his attention).

After the bellman comes, I quickly unpack. One of my favorite things about the hotels I stay in when I spend time with my love is that there is always enough drawer space. Critical really for a several day stay. Then I change into something more appropriate for the atmosphere, fix my hair a bit, dab on a little make-up, and set off to find my love.

Oh. And my husband comes along too, because he has to take the pictures of the two of us together. Me and The Mouse.

(to read other hotel experiences, click on over to sunday scribblings)

grief and patience {poetry thursday}

grief. over the last year and a half, this has become a theme of my life. the deep, wide, gut-wrenching reality that grief invites. and one of the ways i am healing (also known as "holding it all together except when i am not and am instead knocked over only to realize i am not alone on this path") is reading poetry (and writing a little as well).

one of the poets who has spoken to me in the midst of this journey into poetry as i travel through grief is marge piercy. earlier this year, i checked out her book Colors Passing Through Us. in this collection, she has a few poems that whisper about her experience of her mother's death. this line, from "The day my mother died" stopped me right where i was and i recall sucking in my breath as i read it out loud:

That day opened like any
ordinary can of tomatoes.

so much said in these words. with this line, she evokes a kinship with people who have lost someone. yes, an ordinary day. that suddenly becomes something else entirely.

visit this page from The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor to read the all of "The day my mother died." (OH! and please note, this page loads in an odd way. the top of the page is basically gray and blank, but don't dispair, just scroll down to find the poem.) if you click on "Listen" under the date on this page, you can also hear Keillor read this poem (just keep listening, he does read it, but it is toward the end). as jon and i listened to this tonight, i turned to him and said, "i kind of want to curl up inside his voice and take a nap." i love listening to him read. and now that i know you can hear him read all these poems he posts at this site, i am going to try to listen to one a day.

i will visit this week's Poetry Thursday prompt at some point in the future. just not in this post. i am learning the valuable lesson that even though you want to finish a poem, it might want to sit a bit longer and unveil itself to you over time. so the poem i planned to share is doing that right now. we are both learning patience.