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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| Blogging Circle Prompt: November 9 is Chaos Never Dies Day. Write a story or poem about a character who is confronted with something that bring chaos into his/her life. The snow had come in during the night. It had come down in big, silent flakes from an oddly cloudless early-winter sky and now covered the yard in great, white drifts. When Della had opened the front door to let the dog out, she had been startled by the bright, whiteness of the world. She stood looking through the glass of the storm door, taking in the new landscape of their urban yard. Max whined at her feet, the collie-mix loved the snow. Though she hated to break the serenity of the scene, she opened the door and the dog shot past her and out the door. He bounded into the yard, nearly disappearing into the deeper drifts. He raced about, snapping at the snow with his jaws. Max returned to the door after taking care of business. His rust-colored body was covered with snow. Della pointed at him through the glass, "Shake!", she commanded. The dog whined and turned in a tight circle. Della pointed at him again. Max obeyed, shaking his stocky frame from head to paws, flinging the snow off him in sheets. She let him back inside and he made a beeline for the nearest couch. He dove onto it and began rolling his damp body around, ignoring Della's admonishments. Della rummaged in the hall closet for her rubber boots. She shucked off her slippers and tugged them on, tucking her pajama pants into the tops and throwing her winter coat over her bathrobe. She trudged outside to access her situation. There looked to be about three feet of snow, that heavy, wetter variety. Until she could get a plow out, her car wasn't going anywhere. Dismayed, she went back inside. She made a cup of tea and turned on the news. The list of cancellations scrolled across the television screen. Though it wasn't a surprise, Della still groaned audibly when she saw it there, Wilson Elementary - No School. That was it, it was official, the first snow day of the season. As if on cue, the floorboards above her head began to vibrate with the pounding of four sets of little feet. They'd seen the snow. Her peace was about to be shattered. Max jumped up to meet the broad as they cavorted happily down the stairs. Andrew and Reggie, her eight year old twins, were the first appear downstairs. Liam, the youngest, was close on their heels. There were broad smiles on their honey-colored faces. They rushed up to her, looking for confirmation. "No school today," she murmured. She winced as they erupted into loud hoots and cheers. Liam, her four year old, began to dance around, pumping both of his tiny fists in the air. Martin, still yawning, materialized at the base of the stairs. At 10, he was the oldest and the most reserved of the bunch. He smiled at her over the heads of his animated siblings. Della gazed back at her children over the rim of her teacup, trying to keep the panic at bay for just a bit longer. The first snow day of the school year was here, unexpected and unavoidable. The knowledge that she was now trapped with four boys for the entire day began to roll over her. Almost in perfect unison, they all began to chant, "Pancakes, Pancakes!", while Max danced and twirled excitedly around them. Winter had come early bringing chaos in its white wake. |
| Blog City Nov 9th Prompt: Sometimes parents, lovers, partners, and friends--knowingly or unknowingly--tell untruths about a person’s life. How would you handle such a false narrative of your life, if untrue stories and presumptions were said about you especially by someone close to you? This is a difficult situation. There is something uniquely devastating about dealing with betrayal within our most intimate relationships. I had a friend with whom I shared a twenty plus year friendship with who I believed was a true soul sister, a lifetime friend. It became clear, as my life moved through the milestones of marriage and my first child, that she harbored some feelings of jealousy or resentment that caused to her act out against me. Slowly my family and friends began to come forward and repeat some of the things that were being said about me, about my life and my choices that were not only categorically untrue but very hurtful. It is sad to simply toss away a friendship that spans so much of our lives together. We had been through so much over the years and there were moments when I felt she had been a rock for me. I hadn't wanted to believe she wasn't sincerely that person I had come to know and trust. I finally confronted her and over time we have made some strides. I still care about her and wish her happiness but I never really got over the trust that was broken. Today, she is still in my life but I don't believe she is the kind of friend who is able to be truly happy for me. I think it was always easier for her to love and support me when I was down and needed her, when things were not going well for me. And while I appreciate that, a true friend feels happiest when you are happy, when good things happen for you, to you. |
| November 6th 2015 Blogging Circle Prompt: What is the hardest part of a big project: getting the energy to begin, finding the time to work on it, or feeling down that it's over? Especially those of you, who are doing NaNoWri I am one of those closeted writers who have several novels sitting around in various stages of development. I am plagued by the curse of "never finding time". Between working full time, raising a daughter and running a household...finding time to do things for myself, like write or even exercise, is next to impossible some days. I anxiously await NaNo each year only to talk myself out of committing to it...its too easy to telly myself, "why start something you know you can never find time to do?" and so, each year it passes. I wouldn't trade my life for anything but it would nice to reach a point where I thought I could break out more "me time", outside the hours of Midnight to 2am, to work on something substantial. I did just finish my first children's book, a collaborate effort with a local non-profit group, that will be self-published and sold as a fundraiser for their Paws in the Classroom initiative. It felt good to complete something in the short window I was given, especially for a good cause. There may be hope for me after all! Blog City Prompt: What is one place you need to see to feel like your life is complete? I used to travel extensively before my daughter was born, mostly for work but some leisure trips as well. I've ventured into Canada but never to the places where my family immigrated from in Quebec. I feel that I would very much like to go there one day, get a sense of where my people came from. my great grandmother and grandfather traveled to Southeastern New England when they were first married. My great grandmother in particular was a lovely and resilient woman, her singsong accent is a part of my childhood soundtrack that I fondly miss. In high school I had a boyfriend who used to joke that being French Canadian wasn't a real nationality but I know, we had some customs, recipes, pet words and expressions...all those things that give a family national character and identity. I would like to visit the old homesteads for myself one day, trace those lines back to their roots.  ** Image ID #1774840 Unavailable **  |
| Blogging Circle Day 1085: November 4, 2015 Prompt: My beliefs enhance my life. Yes, No, Maybe? What do you think? I am surprisingly private about my beliefs, particularly those that govern my religious and spiritual choices. I will say that my willingness to believe in a high power does enhance my life. My spirituality has given me great comfort at some of the darker times of my life. I believe in the power of prayer. Lastly, I believe in miracles...the small ones that go relatively unnoticed every day but are proof positive that we are all connected and there is something bigger out there. Blog City Prompt: Many of us had imaginary friends as children. If your imaginary friend grew up beside you, what would his or her life be like today? I don't recall ever having made an imaginary friend, even in those five blissful years of being an old child before my siblings came along. It wasn't for lack of a vivid imagination. I used to imagine a great many wonderful things in my childhood years...from ruling great, watery kingdoms under the sea, to staring in my own Marine Theater show training killer whale, to presiding over my tribe as an Indian princess. I see now looking back that I clearly had some control issues and perhaps my need to be "ruler", "princess", "star" drove out any prospective, spotlight stealing imaginary friends! |
| Blog City Prompt, October 29th: Make a list of the best days of your life. On the days when I feel the threat of something dark and depressing creeping around the edges of my spirit, I try very hard to focus on the blessings I have been given in this life. There have been bad days...very bad days. The kind of bad days that make you want to wall off your heart and disappear into the bleakness that surrounds you. Those bad days, even in their absoluteness, are no match for the good days. The very best days of my life are so much more vivid in my streams of memory than any of the bad ones. The best days of my life mark milestones, personal victories and life-altering events. In some order of impact those days are: The day I realized I was in love for the first time. Though the relationship would not last, that day it was real and compelling and felt like everything to me. It consumed me in a way that would re-define the meaning of passion and devotion for me later on in life. It had been a relationship that was beyond itself in many ways. The day I first said the words, "I love you," and realized that I meant them, was perhaps the beginning of it all undoing itself. But on that day, on that day it had felt like forever. The day I was selected to be a Science delegate for the People to People Youth Exchange, followed in close proximity to the day my father agreed to sponsor that trip to Australia and New Zealand. It felt like something I had wanted my whole life and just never realized. I was just 17 and about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. The day I dove the Great Barrier Reef on that same trip. I remember sitting in the sun, my tank straps digging into my shoulders, listening to the guide give us our safety instructions. When it came time to jump off the pontoon boat, my heart was in my chest. I was about to do something I had dreamed about since I was five years old. It was beyond amazing. The day I started life away at college was a wonderful, bittersweet day. It makes the list because I met one of my dearest friends that day, someone who knows me better than most people do and she makes a constant effort to be involved in my life to this day. My wedding day, the second one, is one of the brightest in the spectrum. The weather was perfect. We were surrounded by our friends and families. I couldn't have felt more beautiful, more loved and more hopeful. It hadn't felt like a fairytale but rather a reward for my not having lost faith in love and in hope during those periods of my life when I well could have abandoned both. The joy of my wedding day could only be surpassed by perhaps the very best day of them all...the day my daughter was born. There hasn't been a day since that has felt as blessed, as full of promise as the day she came into the world. The first moment she wrapped her tiny fingers around mine, I became someone so much more of a person than I was before. Every accomplishment, every dream, every hope I had before that moment paled in comparison to the simple act of taking her into my arms for the first time. There have been many wonderful days that I could list, many of them are documented in this very blog. I try to commemorate most of my pivotal experiences, good and bad in this way. I can honestly say I am thankful for the ability to do that, for myself and for my daughter as well. |
| Blogging Circle/DAY 1078: October 28, 2015 Prompt: It's midnight on Halloween and you hear the Grandfather clock in the hall strike 13. What happens? I don't own a Grandfather clock, primarily because there is something movie-horror creepy about them...and I have children and dogs which makes owning anything so expensive and refined an impracticality on all levels. Halloween for the last few years has amounted to chasing my daughter around various neighborhoods for a few hours then ending up in bed well before the strike of Midnight, let alone, 13! However, for the sake of stretching my creative ligaments this afternoon I will use my imagination! The last door bell chime was over three hours ago. It was safe to say the trick or treaters had called in a night. I looked at the heaping bowl of peanut butter cups and realized with dismay that I had vastly overestimated the need for candy this year again. I would have to do something with those shiny orange bags of fat-filled joy before I was tempted to eat anymore of them myself. I made my rounds, checking the doors and windows, before starting up the stairs. All of a sudden, the old grandfather clock began to chime. It was a deep and ominous sound that echoed off the walls of the quiet house. The twelve chime rang out, followed almost immediately by another. Thirteen? Really? On Halloween? I dropped back down to the bottom of the stairs and peered around the corner at the timepiece. It stood like a sentinel in the corner of the dining room. All at once, the air around my ears began to sizzle and pop. The clock began to shake, the house began to pitch... That's about all I got folks... Blog City Prompt: Your creative imagination can be good for writing novels, poems, short stories but can be your worst enemy when it invents worse case scenarios. Do you agree? Nothing is as scary or as bad as what my own imagination can invent. I've come to realize that I typically can not stop my brain from doing that "worse case scenario" stuff and I hate that it my default setting sometimes. It makes me feel more like a fatalist, and less like a problem-solver. There is some comfort in planning for the worse case, in that you know you will be prepared for it. Unless the worse case scenario is a army of super large, scientifically engineered spiders or an War of the Worlds alien invasion...in that case, why prepare? Pointlessly running for your life is so tiring and let's face it, anything that comes after instant vaporization, isn't likely to be more pleasant anyway! |
| BLOG CITY: October 27th Day 600Prompt: Is there an image, a story line, or a scene that keeps coming up and persisting in your writing? Do you know why? Do you put it there knowingly or does it show up on its own, unannounced? Over the years I have been writing I would say there are definite themes that persist in my writing, even across the different genres. I think I'm a very deliberate writer so I am aware of these elements, they don't simply just show up involuntarily. I think in general, I am drawn to the darker shades of human behavior and emotion. I enjoy exploring the fine line, or the shadows between what might be described as traditionally good and evil. I like complex characters that are just damaged enough inside that it makes you second guess their actions and motivations but eventually reveal enough good that you can't help but root for them. I also have a character that haunts me. I have to finish her story but she's so beautifully complicated and so wonderful echoes some of my own personal narrative that I'm terrified, I think, to give her life and screw it up. Blogging Circle, October 27th: Do you enjoy being scared such as watching horror movies or reading scary books? Share with us, one that really got to you. I can remember being very keen on haunted houses and spooky hayrides when I was younger. I like the shot of adrenaline you get when the hayride mysteriously stalls on covered bridge and, though you know a chainsaw or zombie hoard is imminent, you can't help but scream in horror when they show up. I loved the mob mentality of a good scare...you scream simply and organically because everyone around you is screaming. I enjoyed that interactive experience far more than simply watching a horror movie. I liked engaging all my senses in the scare. I have found that over these later years I am less apt to go for the thrills and chills - despite all the wonderful offerings in my coastal New England towns - if only because I'm turned off by the lines and the crowds. These days I am far more likely to get lost in a scary novel. I've found my own imagination can generate some pretty terrifying scenarios with the right inspiration. The novels that scared me in some very primal way are the ones that have stayed with me the most. Stephen King's "Salem's Lot" was one of the first books I read that really frightened me. I think for me the scariest part was that even the priest, someone with God on their side, was still not safe from corruption and ultimately destruction at the hands of the vampire. I remember being so immersed in that book that on the rare occasion I put it down, I felt like I was surfacing with far too little air left in my lungs. Peter Straub's "Ghost Story" would be second in my list of volumes that scared the crap out of me. It was so beautifully crafted that I seemed the big scares crept up on me, distracted as I was by the quality of the story. The terror of the characters as they face their "demon" was so believable, so absolute, that you couldn't help but experience it right along with them. Lastly, another King classic, "It" was one of the few books that truly kept me up at night. There were simply too many uber-creepy things going on in this story. Pennywise is probably one of the most horrific characters I've even encountered. There was something so nightmare inducing about his rabid cackling, his serrated teeth and yellow eyes. He was a merciless, seemingly indestructible foe. King is a master storyteller when he is on his game and "It" was really intense. |
| Prompt: October 21 is Babbling Day this is a special day for "Blatherskites" (people who can't stop babbling) those who talk gibberish and can't stop babbling (sort of like a brook). For more information about this day see http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/October/babblingday.htm. This is your chance to babble about anything you want either in prose or poetry. Be creative and have fun. I have a scary basement. The house is one of those 1930's colonials that sit like sentinels on busy sub-urban streets and on quiet rural roads throughout New England. As with many of the houses from that era, my basement is stone and brick walls with a poured cement floor. Previous tenants tried to patch some of the cracks and holes and the result is a mottled, uneven patchwork of clipped plaster and faded paint. The walls give the space a decrepit look. The electrical has been updated but the lighting placement isn't very good and light never penetrates into all the corners. The fixtures in the wood ceiling are naked bulbs that deliver a narrow cone of urine-colored light. There is a small room at the far end which is not used and it always cast in permanent shadow. We close the door but it never seems to stay shut. The old makeshift door hangs half open in the gloom. The furnace is an ancient green beast of a machine, nestled amid a tangle of black cast iron and copper piping that roars to life, startlingly, only to click off a few seconds later. It is a damp and dark, wholly unpleasant place. Unfortunately for me, it is also the location of the washer and dryer. Naturally, I try to limit my laundry chores to the daylight hours but sometime life dictates that I need to finish a load or two at night. Last night was just such a night. I had finally gotten my daughter to bed when I realized I had left wet sheets in the machine. We had company coming in and so I really needed to get them into the dryer so I could make up the guest room. Reluctantly I made my way to the basement door. I called the dog. Turk was always one to follow me around and while a tiny, timid Min Pin might not be the best protection, he was still part Doberman and I wouldn't be down there alone. Turk immediately abandoned his quest to get into the kitchen garage and sauntered over the the basement door. "Let's go" I said, in my very best - "this is going to be so fun!"- voice. By the time I had unbolted the door and started down the stairs, Turk had taken off. I called to him a few times, even shook a treat bag but he refused to show. Useless! I continued down the stairs, flicking the light switch at the top and pausing at the bottom waiting for the motion light by the washers to flick on. I rushed over and began to transfer the sheets from the washer to the dryer. Mid way through my hurried task, Turk suddenly began to bark somewhere up in the house. This wasn't his usual garden variety annoying everyday barking. This was full-throated, alarm barking punctuated by growling and snarling. This was fear barking. This was "come quick there is something scary up here" barking. Naturally, because I have an active imagination and read too many thrillers, I immediately think "axe murderer". I abandon the laundry and rush up the stairs, my brain well ahead of my footing. I trip, of course, going up and almost break my leg. I get to the top of the stairs, breathless with my heart pounding right out of my chest. I'm thinking "weapon, weapon..." while I'm trying to place where in hell the dog is. I grab the broom, because somehow inexplicably that seems more lethal at the time than anything in my kitchen knife block. All at once Turk stops barking and goes silent. I call him and listen for his toenails clicking on the wood floor or his body hopping down the stairs. Nothing. I make a circuit of the downstairs. The doors and windows are all locked and in place. I start up the main stairs, still calling the dog, making my way to my bedroom where my daughter is sleeping. I cross the landing and hit the switch, flooding the bedroom with light. There, stretched out, belly up at the end of the bed, is Turk. He lifts his tiny head and yawns. "What the hell Turk?" I practically scream at him. I toss the broom aside feeling like an idiot. Turk blinks his dark eyes at me sleepily and rolls over. After a few minutes, my heart rates returns to normal. I evict Turk from the end of the bed. He looks back at me as if to say "what did I do?" before thumping over and planting himself in the easy chair. I crawl into bed. Below me, I hear the furnace roar to life and I remember the laundry, it never made it into the dryer...also, I'm not 100% certain that I bolted the basement door....Crap! |
| This past summer we spent a lot of time on the Mystic River. We explored the coves and marinas in a borrowed zodiac, soaking up sun while my daughter trailed her yellow crab net through the water to capture moon jellies. The river flows under the quasi-famous Mystic Drawbridge and past the Seaport, where the tall ship the Morgan as moored for most of the summer. Its a busy waterway, almost always populated by kayaks and paddleboarders. It slips past shops and restaurants and a town green that never seems free of an assortment of dogs, kids and hackysack players. My daughter loves to tie up at the dingy dock so we can venture down onto main street to score some ice cream or visit the candy shop. We passed many idyllic afternoons this way our Indian summer stretched on. |
| I can feel her eyes on me as I sit trying to stem the flow of frustrated tears that refuse to stop. I try listening to music. I decide the road noise will be better and cut the radio off, hitting the knob hard and fast with my palm for emphasis. We sit in relative silence for a few more miles, me watching her watching me in my rear view mirror. Does she look remorseful? I can’t tell. She looks serious but then that is so often the expression painted across her beautiful little features. I can feel the anger ebbing as the front door of the school draws ever closer. I hate mornings that start this way, with silly battles for the sake of battling, with screaming (hers) and heated words that rise to a frustrated crescendo (mine) that leave us both wrapped in misery. I am left with the aching certainty that I am fucking this up in some desperately important way, this “mom” thing. I have found it remarkably easy at times, effortless really, to be a more loving and compassionate mother than the one I had growing up. I tell her all the time that she is smart, she is kind and beautiful inside and out. It has been so enriching to encourage her curiosity, her passions and her interests. It is a joy to be part of her pursuits, to be there for as she experiences new things and to revisit things that have become part of our own traditions. Since that first moment I knew she was there, nestled under my heart, connected to my being, our relationship has become fundamental to my own existence. It has made me less forgiving, less understanding of the limitations of my own mother’s love. Where once I might have been able to dismiss the scrutiny and indifference I sometimes suffered in my youth, knowing how effortless it is to show love and to empower my daughter and make her feel like the center of my world, I find it increasing difficult to pretend that I can understand the coldness that has become a feature of my relationship with my mother. I tell myself only this, all mothers are a divinely complex beings who we must try to accept for what and who they are. And most importantly for me, I know that one mother’s nature is not necessarily built into the genetic makeup of her daughter. We can become the mothers we want to be. We can raise our daughters to be better, stronger, more loving versions of ourselves. Even on bad mornings. Even when we feel as if we are failing. I find a parking spot in the lot. There will be no drop off line today for us. I unhook her from her seat and pull her to me. I tell her I love her. I tell her I am sorry I lost my patience and yelled. I tell her I don’t want to have mornings like this, that it hurts me. She tells me she is sorry. She means this I know because she hugs me back, hard enough to make my ribs hurt. I know she is sorry because she wants me to walk her in, all the way to her classroom, which I do hand in hand. On my knees in front of her, I tell her again how much I love her, how special she is. She flicks her sea green eyes up to mine and I know she can see it there in my face - I see her. I know her. She is my everything. In a few moments, her friends cast dancing shadows over our moment of forgiveness. They are balls of excitement, having found a rare parent visitor to entertain with stories and jokes. They all vie for my attention at once. Her friend Gabby, learning that Jaden has had a tough morning, begins to pantomime her own battle with getting out of bed on time and soon we are both laughing at her antics. As I leave, I see Gabby move into my place, sweetly rubbing my daughter’s head, showing that trademark kindness that immediately endeared this little girl to me. I make a mental note to meet Gabby’s mother. I want to tell her what a fantastic daughter she is raising. On my drive to work, I find my heart is much lighter…maybe I am not completely fucking up this “mom” thing after all. After all, I am a mother, a divinely complex being who might not always be perfect but never gives up trying to be the best version of myself that I can be. I’m doing the best I can with what I have and what I have is a joy to give. My daughter knows she is loved, beyond words, beyond measure – at least I am getting that part 100% right. |
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