sueeeus

Isn’t it something how a passing expression or comment can turn an upside-down day right-side-up?

An invitation for a hike put a spring in my step for a few days last year.  It was a hike for parents and children, and we ultimately declined, but the delivery of the invitation itself, although benign, spawned a fun diversion in my imagination, where I supposed that I was (much) younger and single, and this was an invitation for a date.  All these imaginings set me all a twitter and a flutter.  It was fun to think that somebody was interested in me.  It was so exciting!  Possibly because I dated very little in my lifetime.  I never got the hang of it, and when there was a window of opportunity, I was so terrified of men and their expectations that I simply closed the window.  Sigh.  I wish I had learned how to date, rather than get deeply entwined with the beau du jour, wasting away so many years of my life.

A recent comment, with regard to my work.  “I think you’re fantastic.”  Now that made my day.  I knew better than to fabricate anything fanciful in my imagination over that comment.  It packed enough punch on its own, and I am grateful to have received it.

Most recently, though, is my chiropractic experience.  The chiropractor is an Indian man, possibly around my age.  He seems always to be blushing or flushed.  It could be that he runs laps around the block in between appointments to maintain the level of fitness his profession espouses.  It could be that I’ve daunted  him with my belligerent questions (seeking to uncover whether there is truth or quackery –aha!– in chiropractics).  Or, it could be that he secretly has a crush on me, what with me being so gorgeous, smart, and sassy, and he can’t help but flush and turn rosy when in my presence.  And no, I have not been eating (much) garlic.

It’s much more fun to think there’s a secret crush.  Because that reminds me of a crush I had many years ago; a crush on an Indian guy, which was, oh, so thrilling (at the time).  It was unrequited (for the most part) because he was my boyfriend’s best friend.  I should have just been born with a scarlet letter emblazoned across my forehead and be done with it.  That was a thrilling, albeit confusing time.  I felt as though I was stuck with the boyfriend, what with the words of my mother and grandmother before her, “You’ve made your bed, now sleep in it.”  (He was my first, and Catholic guilt dictated that he therefore be my only, and I had not yet unyoked myself from the Catholic upbringing.)  He was cold and distant, and I needed warmth and emotional interest.  His friend, bless his heart, was rich in both.  Summer lovin’,  had me a bla-ast, summer lovin’, happened so fa-ast…  Well, there was nothing more than some stolen kisses, but how sweet they were.  How thrilling; how delicious.  To this day, I think that ranks as the all-time best kissing experienced in this lifetime.  Ah, but the summer ended, we returned to our respective universities, and closed that ever-so-brief chapter.

So, when I see le chiropractor du jour, I am briefly transported to a sweet memory of days gone by.

Yesterday, all flushed, he remarked that I look just like his cousin.  Now how’s that for confusing my memory transport.  I asked if she was of mixed race, since my distinctive features have something to do with my own mixed heritage (or so I assume).  No, she’s fully Indian.  Oh, I wonder if anthropologically there is some similarity in the peoples of Asia and India, I posed.  No, Indians are actually more closely caucasian, and he went on to explain something about the peoples of Europe and parts of the Middle East, and something else about differences in peoples from Northern vs. Southern parts of India.  And so the conversation ended.  (I still think that it’s entirely plausible for people of Indian descent to have Asian characteristics, what with plate tectonics and all.  And, ummmm, I’m no geography expert, but isn’t India sort of located in the southern reaches of the Asian continent?  I’ve met people from one of the ‘Stans (Kazakhstan) who were very Asian in feature.  Don’t the ‘Stans share European and Asian geography?  I think I’m going to hold my ground here –ignorant as it may be– !!)  Anyway.  I do so like it when he blushes, because then I can pretend I have some power over him.  And then I can easily flash forward the memories of those clandestine kisses that summer, so many years ago.  And how much fun is that, to remember what it felt like to be all a twitter and a flutter.

Music is a powerful thing. The soft hint of a melody awakens emotions, bringing them to the forefront of my heart and mind, so that I am transported to that place and time, as though it were here and now, and the experience is new.

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love
Can the child within my heart rise above
Can I sail thru the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life

I see a little girl, four years old, microphone in hand, swaying to the music. I hear the sweet sound of her little voice, off key, singing her heart out. I see her mother, her belly in full bloom, round with my nephew, due any day. She is flanked by my nieces, teenage girls with basketballs stuffed under their shirts. The trio has taken the stage and are singing their song. I see my niece again, this time in her daddy’s arms, out on the lake in a boat, waving the orange flag. Swimmers in the water!

Happy memories of happy times.

And you ask me what I want this year
And I try to make this kind and clear
Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days
‘Cause I don’t need boxes wrapped in strings
And desire and love and empty things
Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days

So take these words
And sing out loud
‘Cause everyone is forgiven now
‘Cause tonight’s the night the world begins again

I see my brother’s lifeless body, cold and hard, laid out on a gurney at the mortuary. I’ve signed a waiver to release the mortuary of any responsibility for emotional damages or trauma I might experience. We all have. They are not comfortable that we are there. They have cleaned him well and put him back together nicely. He looks peaceful. His hair is soft. We look at him. We speak to him. We hold his hand. We whisper to him. We hug each other. We cry. We look at the bullet hole in his temple. We ask him why. We tell him that we love him, that we have always loved him. We cry. We cry more. The mortuary staff are pacing and restless. They have an appointment and want us to leave. We don’t want to go. But we have to. We look at him one more time. We tell him goodbye. We mourn. We grieve.

Too late, my time has come
Sends shivers down my spine
Body’s aching all the time
Goodbye everybody, I’ve got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth
Mama, oooh ohhoo oooh (any way the wind blows)
I don’t want to die
I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all

A year ago today, he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Grief has sent us spinning, spiralling through so many thoughts, questions, and emotions. Much is written about the stages of grief, be there five, six, or a dozen. It doesn’t matter. There’s no easy way to come through it. There are no answers.

I recently read The Five People You Meet in Heaven. If Heaven were like that, I wonder if I’d meet my brother. If he would show me the ripples I started that had an impact on him. Good or bad.

I’ve read that Guilt is one of the stages, and I find that it best describes where I am and have been. It’s the unanswered question, “Why ” Why did this happen Could I have stopped it Did I do something, somehow, that contributed to this

I don’t know how to get past these questions.

We were close, as children. He was my buddy. I was his refuge. He trusted me. I was there for him. I was his strength. There were times that I let him down. Not many, but Guilt, Guilt brings these moments into full focus and distracts my attention from everything else, from the many many good times in which we were buddies and we laughed and smiled and enjoyed being who we were –siblings, friends. It is Guilt that reminds me of my own selfishness, that tells me that I should have been paying attention to more of my surroundings. It is Guilt that shatters my confidence in any earlier understanding that all was well, that I had been forgiven for the ripples that I had caused in our youth. It is Guilt that shouts at me, “COWARD.” Coward for not wanting to face him as adults, to see him, to speak to him. Coward for not understanding him, who he was, the person he had become. Coward for being afraid to reach out. It is Guilt that yells at me, “ACCUSER.” Accuser for thinking that he might be involved with drugs. It is Guilt that screams at me, “TRAITOR.” Traitor for wanting but not being able to trust him or believe him. Traitor for not giving him the help he asked for, when I thought it was counter-productive to his health and safety. Traitor for not believing him. For not giving him the benefit of the doubt. It is Guilt that sneers at me, “WEAKLING.” Weakling, for not wanting him to be angry with me. Weakling for not being his strength when he needed strength. “COWARD!” Coward for not going to him, for not helping him. Coward. For being afraid for him. Coward. For being afraid of him.

Guilt is a demon.

There were so many dynamics in the past few years. So many things going on. So many tangles. I can’t make heads or tails of it all. I did what I could, within the confines of the weakness of being who I am. Of being human.

I am no stranger to depression, yet the inability to understand how one can reach that place where the only solution is out, and having to face the fact that that was where he was, wrenches the very fibres of my being and sends me spinning all over again.
He knew I loved him, and that I have always loved him. I think that he always loved me too, and I hope that he has forgiven me for anything and everything that needed forgiving. Today I spread dried petals from year old roses around the box that holds his remains. Today I am home alone, to honor his memory, to work through my grief, to mourn. I am so sorry. And I miss him.

Guilt remains. Guilt reigns. Beyond the guilt, there is solace in knowing that he is free, and that he is at peace.

I pray for my family. That they might be comforted from their grief and find peace in their hearts. That they find healthy ways to address their sorrows. That they be free from the demons of guilt and torment.  That they forgive each other for their own ripples.  That their hearts be bathed in love.  I pray these things for myself, as well.

In my mind and in my heart I know that Guilt can be banished with the sword of Forgiveness. I just can’t seem to garner the strength to wield that sword. But that is what faith is for, after all. I don’t have to do this alone.

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Fragments from Stockton Gala Days and Gold Rush Brides waft through my mind as I find myself distracted by the yearning for simplicity, for self-sufficiency, for joying in the fruits of my labor; a more meaningful existence.

that summer fields grew high
with foxglove stalks and ivy
wild apple blossoms everywhere

From whence, such yearnings To dine from the bounty of my garden. To work with my hands. To craft. To be an artisan of any kind. To live off the fat of the land.

who were the homestead wives
who were the gold rush brides
does anybody know
do their works survive their yellow fever lives in the pages they wrote

Such a dreamer. I have yet to grow a garden. The smallest attempts I’ve made have been discouraging. Aphids and slugs. How does one grow luscious foods, sans pests I am storing inspirational links and tips on my sidebar, for future reference.

Methinks such ramblings begin in part with a troublesome commute. When the sky opens up and the rains return, though welcome, the yang to the yin is the reaction of everyday people out there, congesting the roads, trying to wield their superiority over the elements, thinking that somehow they don’t need to adjust their speed or maneuvering techniques to compensate for the weather. Times like these I long to remain home. To make my living by staying put. Let the busy world pass on by. I want to slow down. Pioneer heritage stirs within me, past generations of yankee ingenuity pull at my heartstrings, urging me to follow, to return home.

come back to me with all your heart
don’t let fear keep us apart
trees do bend, though straight and tall
so must we to others call

long have I waited for your
coming home to me
and living, deeply, our new life

the wilderness will lead you
to your heart, where I will speak
integrity and justice, with tenderness
you shall know

you shall sleep, secure with peace
faithfulness will be your joy

And then I understand. Melodies that captured my heart, from the earliest and finest memories of days gone by. These are words that formed me, that knit together with my heart and soul to form the fabric of my being. Who I am.

credits: Hosea, Come Back To Me, Gregory Norbet, OSB (Order of Saint Benedict); Stockton Gala Days, Gold Rush Brides, from Our Time in Eden, 10,000 Maniacs

Twenty years ago today, I was a fresh young grad, barely 21, beginning her first professional job out in the wide wide world.  I had no intention of having a career.  I would have none of that, thank you very much.  I hadn’t known what I wanted to be, when I grew up.  I just knew that I would need to work, and I assumed that I would need to have an education in order to find good paying work.  I never questioned whether or not I would go to college.  It was a given.  I’m not sure why I was certain of that, but I was.  In retrospect, I should have considered other schools, besides the local university, but it didn’t occur to me.  My dad was a professor at another local university, across the state line, and it never occurred to me that I might go to that university.  I’ve never been one for much imagination.  But I do get things done. 

I was interested in architecture.  And education.  Those would have been my first choices.  I already knew teachers were paid a pittance for their life’s work, which was, and is, a travesty.  I hoped to put some distance between myself and poverty, so I decided against that path.

I was very daunted by the whole concept of university.  I had graduated from a very small, rural high school that boasted 42 students in its record high graduating class, four of which were exchange students from exotic places, far and anon.  I assumed I had received a laughable education, as I was able to finish all my ‘homework’ between classes, either racing through it as soon as it was assigned and before class was finished, or during the first part of the next class, when all is chaos, before the teacher has gained control.  I only remember doing one report at home, in the entire four years.  That, and assigned reading.  But nothing else.  I assumed that I didn’t know anything, and that university classes would be different.  They would be the real thing.  I psyched myself out, convincing myself it would be harder, and so much different.

I was 17 and laden with preconceived notions of inadequacy.  I met my RA, Resident Advisor, that first day in the dorm, and asked about her major.  She was older.  Mature.  She was the  RA, after all.  Architecture.  Oh, I said, quite interested.  How do you like it   It’s very hard, she said.  She didn’t recommend it.  How funny it is, how a fragment of conversation can change the course of one’s life.  It was that advice, from one who knows, that dissuaded me from that path.  I think back to that moment and wonder how I could have put so much faith in a struggling student, and so little faith in myself.  In retrospect, I know it wouldn’t have been that hard for me.  I think I would have done quite well, out there in the world of architects.

Instead, I went to the job placement center, and scanned the statistics for the best prospects of employment upon completion.  The engineering disciplines were at the top.  Chemical was first, followed by Electrical and Mechanical.  Having had no chemistry background whatsoever, I opted for electrical.  And there it was.  My decision.

Obviously, I didn’t know anything about anything.  Else how could I assume architecture would be too hard, because someone else said so, yet electrical engineering would be just fine.  I amaze myself, how much of an idiot I can be sometimes.

I did it.  I graduated.  I made it through.  I did well enough.  It was stressful, and I could have done much better, had I not psyched myself out.  It turns out that I did have the relative ability and intelligence needed to learn that field, after all.  Imagine that.  It also turned out that my small university actually had a very good engineering department.  Our graduates were placing in the top 10 percentile, nationally, I vaguely recall.  So.  I got a decent education after all.  For a bargain, at that.

Job placement was tough, that year.  Only half of my fellow classmates got jobs, upon graduation.  I had several offers.  I might boast, but I ought to consider that perhaps I was a good catch from the perspective of EEO quotas.  There weren’t many female engineers at the time.  I fit a double minority, being half Korean, and all.  Even so, I was relieved and proud to be joining the ranks of the professional employed.

I knew little of the company.  I chose it because it was the closest to home, even though it was hundreds of miles from home.  In a city.  A big city.  A big city full of traffic.  It was terrifying.

Twenty years ago today, I stepped through the gate, into a new life.  I was confident I would stay only a few years, get some experience under my belt, and move on to a place more vogue.  Groom myself for management.  Because that’s where it’s at, baby.  Management.  The measure of success.  A few years turned into two decades in the blink of an eye.  Management is the farthest thing from my mind.  Coworkers have become friends who are all part of my family now.  I love these people who I’ve shared the last twenty years of my life with.  This company has been good to me. 

I’m many many years from retirement, and wonder how long I will remain here.  I’d like to stay for some time, if I can work it all out.  I have hopes for my life, for my family, for my child(ren)’s upbringing.  I would like for it all to work out.  For now, it’s one day at a time, one week at a time, one month at a time, one year at a time, until I formulate a more definitive plan.

Inspired by PeaSoup’s recent post, I am compelled to post something about my beautiful and beloved greyhounds.   I’ve never been much of a pet person, and I’m conveniently allergic to cats and dogs (and, alas, a whole slew of other things).  However.  One day.  A few years ago.  While my biological timeclock was ticking.  Loudly.  Booming, in fact.  I happened upon a greyhound adoption awareness expo.  And fell. In.  Love.

I’d never seen such docile and beautiful creatures.  They resembled little deer with those fawny coats, big soulful eyes, and long slender legs.  I learned that people with allergies can often tolerate greyhounds, because they are not like other dogs.  They are short haired dogs and they don’t have the same oiliness that other dogs have, hence, they don’t smell like other dogs, don’t have the same kind of dander as other dogs, and don’t shed like other dogs.  These are all marketing points, and might be somewhat exaggerated.  In truth, they don’t smell bad (except, errr, the flatulence…) and they aren’t oily (I think perhaps that oil is what contributes to the dog smell, but I’m no expert), but they do shed.  Lots.  But who cares   When you’re smitten, you’re smitten, and these things don’t matter so much. 

I gathered all the info, set up my home and yard for greyhound safety (there are many requirements to meet, in order to be approved for adoption) and having passed the inspection and been deemed worthy of becoming a greyhound parent, I anxiously awaited my new family member’s arrival.

My first beautiful boy.  He was so scared, and cried all night.  I didn’t sleep the first night.  He was an ex-racer, and had never known life beyond the track and kennel.  A home was entirely new.  I had to teach him about windows and stairs and furniture.  I taught him to use the potty place (designated place out back).  He learned fast!  He was such a good boy.   (Until my Bugaboo arrived, at which time, there were a few behavioral incidents involving indoor urination…) 

He never learned to stay by my side.  How he loved to run free, but off-leash was out of the question.  He would bolt, and he wasn’t streetwise.  He didn’t understand roads or traffic, and he could run SO FAST and so far that by the time he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to find his way back.  This is one of the issues that one might encounter with an ex-racer. 

I fell so deeply in love that I became a foster mom, and took in new recruits and helped them transition from the track to the home, prior to going to their forever homes.  It was a tough job!  Like having a newborn (that is, until I had a newborn, at which time I learned that it wasn’t quite the same after all).  I fell in love with all my fosters, but I couldn’t bear to part with this little beauty. 

She was the sweetest thing.  She was a rescue, retrieved from a home in which she was not at all well cared for, and her previous mom was blacklisted, for good reason, and not allowed to adopt again.  My sweet girl.  She flunked out of racing before she even began, so she never actually raced.  She wasn’t so inclined to the singleminded chase, as her brother (who raced a full career, with a handful of wins, even!).  She did quite well off leash, and would return to my side when called.

We let her run free at the ocean, and it was exhilarating to behold!  The unbridled joy of a greyhound running at full bore, charging through the waves!  I will treasure the memories forever.  Even now, I can’t help but smile.

We briefly allowed her brother off leash, but it was a disaster and we nearly lost him.  We were able to retrieve him, thank God, but knew from that moment he absolutely must remain on leash, for his own safety.  My beautiful boy.  How I wanted to let him run free.

These hounds taught me much.  They readied my heart and my mind for motherhood.  I’m convinced of it.  There is a compassion that one learns when one cares for another.  Patience, tolerance, love, responsibility.  All these things are heightened.  Unconditional love.  They live it.  To experience it is an amazing and beautiful thing.  Yes, they taught me much.

I do believe that loving and caring for these creatures helped prepare me for motherhood, in more ways than one.  Given the fertility stumblingblocks I wrestled with, perhaps the experience of opening up, loving, and nurturing helped to allay some of the stress and havoc in my mind.  Stress can have such an impact to the delicate hormonal balance that determines whether or not an egg might be released.  I’m convinced of that.  (Of course, I don’t claim to have any medical basis for this.  I just believe it.  That is all.)

The weight of the actual responsibility that comes with the birth of a child is tremendous beyond expression.  I thought I was ready.  Completely prepared.  I’d waited my entire life for this.  Yet, when it happened, I realized that I knew nothing!  It was the most terrifying thing, the first few days of motherhood.  And in those days, I felt unable to care properly for my beautiful hounds, and a baby was new to them, and they both had a particularly strong prey drive.  (Prey drive can be an issue with greyhounds, so one must be vigilant in training and exposure to potential prey.  It’s the responsible thing.  Never take for granted that training will overcome instinct.)  The baby outprioritized the hounds, and I couldn’t give them the attention and care that they needed and deserved.  I decided to let them go.  Many tears were shed, but the good news is that both of them were re-adopted to fine homes that very day.  Within hours, even!  Neither one had to spend a night in a kennel.  For this, I am very thankful, and pleased.  And their new families received loads and loads of toys, bedding, and clothes.  (I had very well dressed hounds!)

Links:

http://www.greyhounds.org/

http://www.adopt-a-greyhound.org/

http://www.greyhoundlist.org/

http://forum.greytalk.com/index.php act=home

If I were a better daughter, I’d put a card in the mail.  I thought about it, and thought about what I’d say.  I’m always careful to get the blank write-your-own-note kind, or the kind that wishes well without undue emotion.  It would be laughable to send something that said “World’s Greatest Dad.”

Usually I do send something.  I write a brief note comprised of small talk, and enclose a picture of his grandson, in the off chance that he might think, “Oh lookie here.  What a fine lad.  Now isn’t that nice ”  As if that would ever happen.  Ever.

Sometimes I call.  It’s not usually unpleasant, but there’s not much warmth or genuine interest, on his part.  Or mine, if I’m to be completely honest.

“You will RESPECT me!  Because I’m your father!”  I can still hear those words, thundered at me, so many years ago.  And my impassioned reply, “Respect is EARNED!  It. Doesn’t. Happen. Automatically.”  (I quite possibly may have shrieked that retort.)

Teenagers.  The things they say.

I recently learned that he doesn’t trust me.  It came as quite a surprise.  He thinks that I am in “cahoots with my mother”.  I’m not sure what designs she has, but apparently, I share them.

I do love him.  Because he’s my dad.  I admire him, even, for many things.  Intellectual accomplishments and pursuits.  Sense of style.  Culinary finesse.  I just wish that he knew how to be impartial in loving his children.  I wish that he had been kind.  To all of us.  Not just the fair-headed ones. 

They don’t quite understand.  (The fair-headed ones.)  They resent(ed) him too, for showing favoritism.  Even as small children they could recognize the blatancy.  They hated the unfairness and despised the doting.  Even so, they didn’t (and don’t) really know what it’s like to be one of the others.  One of the unfavored ones.  Like me.  Like my departed brother.  Like most of my brothers.

Some might say that I was a favored one.  Mom’s favorite one.  I admit that there was a time when I tried, valiantly, to befriend her.  I gave it my best effort.  In my idealistic and impassioned youth, aforementioned, I arrived at the thought that it was important for parents to know their kids, and finding it an impossibility with my dad, I tried with my mom.  I don’t think anybody else tried, and if, for that, I’m considered a favorite…  …Then perhaps I am.  Or was.  I don’t think so, though.  She was heroic in her efforts to run damage control over my dad’s blatant favoritism.  She tried so hard to make things as fair as she could, as fair as she knew how.  I admire her for that, and for other things as well.  Creative accomplishments and pursuits.  Ability to make ends meet that couldn’t possibly meet.  Somehow she managed. 

We had a falling out of sorts.  I was still a teenager, but I was in college, and had decided I was an adult, and was therefore ready.  For.  Sex.  That was the end of our closeness, our hours and hours of talks.  There’s more to that chapter, but this isn’t the time.  I’ve been thinking much lately of starting an entry that I will call “Chapters of my life”.  Maybe later, or possibly sooner, I’ll garner the courage to open that book.  It’s all so narcissistic, isn’t it

I write this only for myself.  To get it out.  It’s my own form of therapy.  I don’t want to offend my siblings, my parents, my family.  Any of them.  I love them.  Desperately.  All of them.  I mean no disrespect to anyone.  I seek no consolation.  Nor sympathy.  I want simply to voice these thoughts, so that I can eventually find my way out of the mire of emotions and neuroses and issues and memories and ideas and thoughts and attitudes that make me me.  And hopefully, one day, I will wake up and find the new and improved me, a loving, thoughtful, wise, centered, compassionate, together, and mentally sound mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend.

I am trying.

In a small town, the difference between Us and Them is very clear.’ How I wanted to be one of Us.’ Not one of Them.’ We teetered on the brink of the dividing line, and toppled over to join Them.’ Even so, I did’nt want to accept it.’ Or believe it. So I went out and made my own way.’ And I did okay.’ I am the Empress.’ And I’m wearing new clothes.

A tired, dilapidated old town.’ Depressed and weary.’ Shanties and shacks.’ How different it is to look through grown up eyes.’ How near sighted I was as a youth.’ I only saw that we were the poor people; the ragged band of barbarians that we were.’ No running water.’ Filth.’ I was so ashamed of so many things.’ I didn’t notice that we weren’t the only ones.’ (We probably were the only ones without water.)’ We were not the only shack dwellers.’ We were not alone in poverty.’

I have alot to say about Us and Them.’ Most of the time I’m not one of Them anymore.’ Sometimes when I’m melancholy, I find myself back on the other side of the tracks.’ I have to remind myself that it’s my choice, who I am, in my heart of hearts.’ I can be who I want to be.’ I can be who I choose to be. I am who I choose to be.’ I need to choose to be cheerful and bright, light and kind, gracious and loving.’ Those are all daily choices, moment by moment.’

Time spans the distance between Us and Them.’ Sometimes the Usses become Thems and the Thems become Usses.’ It mystifies me, when an Us become a Them.’ I wonder how they could let it happen, when it looked like they were the ones with the easy path.