And I sing

Ahh, it's the weekend and I'm heading east again
Two hours alone with my thoughts
Embarking with a heavy heart
Relishing the time to clear my mind
I turn the music up loud
The music that weaves through my soul, a thread to my past and to my destination
Old, old songs sung loud without a care

"She kept saying...
'I've never really done this kind of thing before, have you'
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous
And he said, 'Yes I have, but only a time or two'
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous"

I cross the state line
The speed limit sign changes
I step on the gas
And I sing

"Whiskey river take my mind
Don't let her memory torture me
Whiskey river don't run dry
You're all I've got, take care of me"

I cross the Wabash, and for a moment, the green of the treetops bring the record to a screeching halt
The sparkly snow covered branches are long gone
The purple and white of last week are a fleeting memory
A realization that the season has changed
Time doesn't stop for me, or for him
Or for anyone

"Many's the time I have looked in the water
And had no reflection to show
Oh, and many's the time
I have stood at the crossroads
Not knowing which way to go."

The road construction alerts the city is near
My senses heighten and the music is turned down
The sterile brown building rises behind the dirty river
And my heart starts to race as I wonder what I will find inside those walls

An empty parking lot
A revolving door
The ding of elevator doors
I press eight. Always the number eight
It's where the cancer lives

I feel the weight of my legs as I put one foot in front of the other
A long hallway, a deep breath
A tentative peek around the door

And today...today there is a smile for me
I squeeze his hand and in it I find my strength
The dread evaporates
I know this is where I am meant to be

And then I drive
This time to the music of my present
And I sing

"I don't scare easy
Don't fall apart when I'm under the gun
You can break my heart and I ain't gonna run
I don't scare easy, for no one"

the reason for the season

On Thanksgiving Eve, instead of contributing to the most lucrative night of the year for bar owners, the handsome hubby and I snuggled up to catch up on some newspaper reading and watch a movie.  I would say we are lame, but there is nothing lame about waking up on Thanksgiving morning feeling like a million bucks instead of feeling like something died in your mouth after it spent the night boring a hole in your brain with a butter knife. 

Pre-movie-watching, we plopped down with a few days worth of papers we had been too busy to read.  And when I say newspaper reading, I really mean wading through the giant stack of Black Friday ads that land like a ton of bricks on the front step on the day before Thanksgiving.  If you search hard enough, you might find a couple of pages worth of real news. All those ads stress me out but I decided to peruse a few from my favorite stores.  Initially I was pissed because I found the vacuum I just bought was going to be on sale on Black Friday for a hundred bucks cheaper than I paid, but then I realized that getting up at 3 am with the possibility of getting trampled was not worth a hundred bucks to me.  I guess I have a lot to be thankful for. Then I got pissed again when I thought of all the paper wasted to print these ads.

I started to think about how this Black Friday concept and how it gets crazier each year.  Stores are opening at midnight.  The good sales start at 3 am.  The number of BF ads on tv this week rivaled the political ads before the last election.  Then there is Cyber Monday, which come after BF, but online retailers are already sending out sales trying to get a leg up.  What is all of this for?  That is the question I ask myself every year.  And that is the question I asked the handsome husband last night in bed.  "Whose idea was it for the holidays to be about all these presents?"

The handsome hubby didn't even look up from his paper:

"Jesus was a capitalist." 

And that is why I love him.

words cannot express

Just a few reasons I am thankful today......

Peace, love, and thanksgiving,
Laura

a work in progress

Remember the boy who doesn't drink the koolaid?  You know, the one who got to decide his own religious path regardless of the timeline of the Catholic church?  Yeah, that boy will keep you guessing right up until the witching hour.  No pun intended. 

Last Saturday was confirmation day at the parish where koolaid boy goes to school.  It was the culmination of a couple months worth of prep work by the students and years of prep work by priests, teachers, parents, and God to make sure that these kids get to heaven.  For those who know me, it will come as a shock that the last sentence does not contain even a hint of sarcasm.  It's the honest-to-god truth.  The number one goal of our Catholic school, before education, is to get the children to heaven.  I do not make that up.

Now if it hasn't been clear to you before, I will come out right here, right now, loud and proud, saying that I have some very conflicted feelings about organized religion.  I also have issues with the whole father, son, and holy ghost trinity.  All that does for me is conjure up Michael Landon's head in a cloud with the Highway to Heaven theme song playing.  I get turned off by the dogma, the history of religious persecution, and those good Christian folks who judge me for not believing what they believe.  I have my own beliefs and spiritual path but you will never hear me tell you that you are wrong for what you believe.  To each his own.

I digress. I'm not here to bash religion or the Catholic church.  I am actually here to tell you the pride I felt when the golden boy made his final decision. One that I didn't know until it was all over. After weeks of the required studying, report writing, meeting with the priest, getting measured for robes, and a confirmation retreat, the big C day was fast approaching.  He had been asked to serve the mass along with three other boys, something he does from time to time and enjoys.  Yes, my child is an altar boy.  I admired those in charge for keeping him involved despite his rejection of confirmation (and secretly wondered if they were baiting him).  On confirmation day, I dropped off the still undecided potential confirmee one hour early as required and rushed home to change into something that made me look less like a track coach and more like a church lady. I returned to the church and slid into the end of a pew next to a wonderful family I know who helped me feel comfortable in a place that often makes me feel like an outsider. 

I sat quietly, waiting, absorbing the kind of organ music you physically feel in your chest, and wondering why it smelled like a head shop.  Oh yes, the Catholics love their incense.  There was a lot of commotion and then the congregation suddenly stilled.  The organ started up again and we all stood and turned toward the back of the church. It felt like there was a little bit of magic in the room. I had a coveted end seat so I was able to see the faces of each of my son's classmates as they walked down the aisle in their red gowns and hands folded in front of their hearts. I didn't think once about what rotten little shits I know some of them are.  They all looked like angels. It was a beautiful procession. There were knights dressed up with their feathered hats and swords across their chests.  One altar boy waved the incense. The priest and deacon and some other guys who I didn't know were smiling. Then I saw him.  Walking beside his good buddy.  Carrying a candle and leading the way for Santa Claus...uh.... I mean the Bishop.  My breath caught in my throat and I swallowed hard.  My heart swelled because I could see in him the pride he felt in what he was doing and I know the love he has for his friends walking before him. 

After Santa...aka the Bishop.... aka the Mini Pope waved and smiled to all the children in the congregation, the ceremony began.  I sat in reverence as it went on....and on...and on. The Catholics make sure you get your money's worth.  I joke, but the Bishop is a lovely man who delivered a great message to our kids that was exactly what they needed to hear (if any of them were actually listening and not thinking about the party that was to happen afterwards).  He talked about some of his own blunders.  He told them they will make mistakes and they will fall.  This is part of life and it is not bad or wrong.  It is stupid not to get up and move on and think about your path in life.  He actually used the word stupid. I liked him more for that.

I watched as all the children stood in front of the priest and had their heads blessed with oil and made their final commitment to the catholic church.  They blocked my view of the altar and there was a lot of movement, so as much as I strained my neck, I couldn't see what happened to the altar boys and their foreheads.  Then it was all over and I found my boy at the back of the church. He didn't want to stay for the reception.  I guess the xbox was calling.

We walked out of the church together into the damp November air and I shivered.  I turned to him.  "So, did you do it?" 

And this, ladies and gentleman, is what we stressed and strained and fretted about for almost three months.....

"I guess so" he said. 
"What do you mean?" the pitch of my voice raising just a bit. "Did the bishop bless you with oil?"
"Yeah, I think so" he said as he touched his forehead.

And it was then I decided no more words were needed.  He went home to his xbox and I poured a glass of wine.

Some questions take a long, long time to be answered and maybe they never will be.  And that's really ok with me.

screw this day

Ever have days where you... wake up exhausted and you feel like there's a force physically weighing on your chest? Or in my case, it's weighing on my back since I usually come to with my face planted in a scrunched up wad of cotton in a pillowcase. The first thought that passes through the fog between your ears is actually the most rational one you will have all day:  "Shit, I am barely treading water."  Then you drag yourself up, take a deep breath that gets caught before it hits your lungs, and paint on a fake smile.  When you put one foot in front of the other and start to face your day, your overriding thought is "I f'ing hate everyone."  Ring any bells? Anyone? Bueller? Anyone?

That's all I got.  Just wondered if there are any other crazies out there. 

happy birthday to my boy

My boy. My beautiful, smart, witty, artistic boy with a heart as big as an ocean and a soul as old as time. 

My boy is the first one to jump in a freezing lake to support one he loves. He wants to save the planet. He is your friend because of your heart and mind, not your status.

My boy thinks so deeply it sometimes hurts my heart. He loves knowledge. He is not a follower and he is not a leader.  He is true to himself. 

My boy does not conform for conformity's sake. He grows his hair long. He carries a candle to the front of the church that he questions because he wants to do his part. He believes in God and sorts out religion. 

I look into my boy's eyes and I float in a sea of everything I know to be true.  He teaches me.  He seeks answers.  I am his home.  He is mine. 

My boy moves slowly despite any need to hurry.  He talks back. He does not hear instructions. He strums a guitar. He stands on stage and is not afraid to sing. He jokes and his belly laugh is the best sound I have ever heard.

My boy cries. He hurts.  He adapts. He learns. He spontaneously wraps his arms around my neck and squeezes. 

My boy loves history. He is proud of where he comes from. He fiercely loves his family.  We are his home. 

My boy is better than me. He is mine. 

Happy Birthday

all jammed up

Dad and J memory

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away
--Paul Simon

I haven't been inspired to write much lately.  Life gets in the way and fills my head.  There's too much to sort out. Most of the time I just have to wait.  My mind spins like a top, and when it stops, the pieces fall into neat little places that make sense.  Then there are those times when big chunks of emotion become lodged waiting for me to dig in and do the work.  It is holing up and daring me to pick it apart and figure out what to do with it.  This is one of those times.

There is a part of my life I rarely talk about, even to those closest to me.  I pretend I don't know how to deal with it.  I tell myself that I haven't sorted out my emotions yet. That's a lie.  The truth is I know what I should be doing.  I am able to recognize my grief, fear, anger, abandonment, and guilt.  The truth is I get paralyzed by it... and I haven't done the work.

Many people know what it's like to lose a parent.  Fewer people know what it's like to lose a parent who is still living.  My young 63-year-old father is here with us, but a series of strokes has forever altered his being. He looks like my dad, but he doesn't sound like him and he doesn't act like him. He remembers everything about his life and mine, but I can't tell if he remembers what it means.  Sometimes I see glimpses of his spirit, but it is cloaked in his sadness. I wonder if I'm just remembering...or wishing.

How do you parent a parent? It is the caring for that is the hardest part. Even though it sucks, it's not the actual act of managing his bank account, washing his dishes, and taking out his trash that is difficult.  It's the idea of putting yourself in a parenting role for the person who is supposed to parent you. I'm not talking about just the logistical side of care-giving like taking him to doctor appointments and making sure he has a solid meal.  This is the tricky 'I don't know what the hell I am doing and am I fucking this up?' kind of parenting role. Who knows how to scold a parent for putting a box of Little Debbie's in the fridge next to his insulin? Who wants to tell their dad that you are taking away his checking account?  Can you tell me how to make him understand that if he sends in a hundred bucks, he is not going to win a million?  Just exactly how do I go about doing that? 

I have done all those things that I just mentioned, but it feels like I stood outside of my body and watched it happen.  It's the hazy reality that feels like it should belong to someone else. My whole life I have been strong, independent, and yes dear, stubborn.  I know how to get shit done.  I am not afraid of hard work.  There has been loss, heartache, divorce, illness, single parenting, and I've come through it all with shining colors.  Why do I feel like the biggest failure on the face of the earth when it comes to taking care of my dad?  Why do I sit home and think about what I should do but not do it?  Why do my legs feel like lead when I walk through his door? 

Last Friday on the forty minute drive to his house after too long an absence, I watched the combines humming in the field and counted the wagons full of grain. I admired the beauty of the harvest against the clear sky and felt the sun on my face.  My music was up loud and I was singing along with Tom.  My mind wandered, but I never let it go to where it needed to go.  It never went to my task at hand, so I didn't plan what to say or how to say it.  I don't remember how it came out, but somehow I managed. I came home spent like I had run all the way there and back. For now, that's how I do it.  Maybe on the next trip I will turn the music down and do some of the work...before I have to do the work.

Peace,
Laura