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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 ** Image ID #1701066 Unavailable **   |
| "She discovered with great delight that one does not love one's children just because they are one's children but because of the friendship formed while raising them." Author, Gabriel Garcia Marquez Jaden recently turned five. With the passing of that milestone, I've encountered a daughter who discovers new abilities, expressions and emotions on an almost daily basis. It is a daunting pace of development, an ever expanding learning curve for which I often feel I must struggle to keep up with. For example, I find I am not longer equipped to help her with her piano lessons, she now understands far more about the notes and music than I do. My role has become merely to listen, to encourage and to keep her to a regular practice schedule...all the rest, she does on her own. Watching her play now its difficult to contain my delight as I see her mind making all the right connections with her fingers on the keys. Having mastered many of the basic songs in her book, she has begun to push herself through the more challenging ones, her delicate mouth silently counting off the notes, her brow furrowed with concentration. She is building confidence in herself, and not just in front of her piano. Jaden has always been shy but in the last few months, I see her pushing herself to be more outgoing. Her typical warm-up period has become shorter. She will make and maintain eye contact with most adults that address her and she will verbally answer when before eliciting even a head shake was a near impossible task. Her sense of self, of who she is, has become radically more focused and centered. She will not hesitate to tell me what she likes, or doesn't, how she is feeling and most important, how I make her feel - which is typically "more lonely" when I refuse to play something with her. When I do make her happy, which I hope is much of the time, her favorite expression is to tell me how much she "loves me in her heart"...which is just about the best thing in the world to hear. I try to remember that, especially on the days when I feel she is running too quickly for me to catch up. I try to catch all those amazing moments of sweetness; like when she smiles and bends to kiss her doll goodnight, when she throws a protective arm around the dog after he settles down beside her on the couch or when she bounds into the kitchen to greet me when I get home and her green eyes are sparking with the lovely animation of a pure and youthful joy. I am so acutely aware that time is passing, that we are allotted only so much time to enjoy those stinky morning breath kisses and silly dance party nights. I know one day she will start to resist that extra kiss and hug at the door to her classroom. Soon she may not want to hold my hand so often in public, or want to make puzzles or color with me for hours. I can only hope she will always "love me in her heart" regardless of how fast she is growing and maturing. And while she might not always be my biggest fan, I will always and forever be hers. |
| This morning while I was getting dressed, my daughter asked me about the red scar on my belly. I told her it was my favorite scar because it was made when she was born, that it was how the doctor's had brought her into the world. Jaden looked at me for a minute with wide eyes. Then, she leaned against me and murmured "you are my best friend Mom", as if she magically understood the entire terrifying and wonderful experience of childbirth and sincerely appreciated my sacrifice and commitment to motherhood. There are moments with my daughter when I wonder if she is in possession of one of those rare old souls, as if she understands and perceives much more than she should despite her years. Oddly, sometimes I see so much comprehension in her sea-change eyes, that it is almost unnerving. Jaden is remarkable for many reasons but it’s her often uncanny powers of perception that frequently leave me in awe. She is a quiet and reserved child, an active listener who can express herself as effectively with words as she can with non-verbal cues. When we find her in a talkative mood, she is animated and tends to chat with the comfort and ease of any adult. It never ceases to make her Dad shake his head and smile. |
 I was a boat kid growing up. My father introduced us to the world of boating from a very early age and it seemed we always had one boat or another - boats which progressed in size and capability through the years. Our summer weekends were peppered with boat trips and excursions. On the rare occasion, we would sometimes meet up with other families and tie up, bow to stern, rafting together out at Block Island or Montauk. As boat kids we quickly learned how to maneuver across the decks of conjoined boats and the world became smaller and wetter, graced with more sun, fun and freedom than we ever thought possible. The fireworks displays viewed from the deck of the boat were unrivaled in their brilliance and the nights spent slumbered in the cabin of a once-upon-a-time, old cabin cruiser were uncomfortable but unparalleled in our childhood memories. This past weekend, my daughter got a chance to experience some of this rare fun herself on a boat trip out to Three Mile Harbor. While my Dad's current boat is more luxurious and comfortable than anything I remembered from my younger days, the rest of the weekend was a fabulous flashback for me and a wondrous new experience for Jaden. I was so delighted watching her open up with the other kids - wanting to be on whatever boat they happened to be on at the time. She easily took to life on the boat, waking up with a smile, snagging her breakfast, donning her life jacket and taking off to be with her new friends. In the course of the weekend, she spent only the nights on the boat with us and the rest of the time, in the pack of kids fishing, playing and just hanging out. When we were joined by the big three story cabin cruiser the night of the fireworks, she was soon hanging out on the top deck, the youngest in a group of kids there, feeling like a big girl and coming out of her shell in a beautiful way. The first night, watching her catch snapper blues in the lights of the boats, was a real treat. The other kids and adults taught her how to hold her rod, bouncing the lure in the glow until she caught her first fish. Later when she cut her foot on some barnacles off the swim platform, the kids came to the rescue with bandaids and lollipops, shoulder to shoulder with me in the cabin trying to stem her tears and make her smile. On firework night, the families huddled together with their glow sticks and red drink cups and the skies lit up with the fantastic display that seemed closer and more intensely beautiful than any I remembered. The colors and exhilaration clearly reflected in the upturned faces of children and adults alike. The mornings were stunningly peaceful and Jaden always woke up with a smile. The second and last morning in the harbor, she woke up early and stumbled out to join Grampa on the stern, plopping down aside of him for a few minutes before jumping into bed to cuddle with Joy in the berth. This was a kid loving the time and attention, loving her family and completely comfortable in her element. Watching her, I knew she was creating powerful and treasured memories all her own. Boat kids are special. In my experience, they are tolerant, welcoming and eager to share and teach. Boat kids look out for each other and boating parents treasure the time with their families and become surrogates for whatever group of children end up hanging out in their sterns. It is a unique and wonderful world and I'm very touched and thrilled that my daughter got to experience it for herself. I see she is quickly becoming a boat kid, courtesy of her Grampa Art and Joy - enjoying her time on the water in whatever form it takes. |
| If something feels hard, really hard to do, then the odds are it is something that should be attempted. This stage of my life, that loosely framed "almost turning 40" period, it feels nearly impossible to write that novel embedded in my soul. It feels like there are not enough hours in the day and that the demands on my personal time are at an all time high. It feels tremendously hard, which is why I think its entirely the right time for me. I have a character who is delicate and flawed but fierce and full of righteous rage. She walks a path forged as much by the sins committed against her as those she has committed herself. I feel as if I have been writing her story in some form for many years. There are echos of me in almost all of her failures and victories and her demons and desires are entwined with my own. It feels like the right time to introduce my dark sister to the world, to finally and completely tell her story. |
| Last night I strong-armed my daughter through her shower a full hour behind schedule. She was uncooperative and wholly unappreciative of the fact that we were running pretty late with our preparations for bedtime. It had been a lovely day lorded over by a cloudless blue sky. We had lingered on the porch until dusk, taking in the first really perfect day in about two months, hoping in our hearts that weather was a hint of things finally to come. It was nice and also bittersweet because we were missing someone important, someone for who those nights of relaxation together on the porch were some of his very favorite times. Ricky would have parked his big body on the loveseat out there next to us, he would have been as content as we felt watching the evening dim down around us. Jaden stomped into her room, ensconced in a yellow towel, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. She was sullen and I knew a tantrum loomed dangerously close. Then, she surprised me. "Mommy, I miss Ricky", and she looked up at me with those sea-change eyes brimming with tears. Immediately, I dropped and pulled her in tightly, my throat constricting with my own grief. "I know Honey. I miss him too." I had felt Ricky absence so acutely myself only a few hours ago. Then, we talked about doggy heaven and how he wasn't sick anymore and he was happy and that while we miss him, he was in a better place. She said she didn't really remember what he looked like and she wanted me to describe him for her. I did, as tears rolled down my cheeks and I watch her nod with agreement as I ticked off all his best features on my fingers. Within a few minutes, she had moved past the moment, her active mind taking her to another distraction. I was left feeling the residual affects of remembering the loss. I am still struck by how strongly I grieve for our dog, how much I wish will all my heart that we could have saved him. In six years, he became such a part of our family that he is missed, even in our most quiet moments. I've yet to bake the paw print impressions they made us, I've no idea why. Its like I'm avoiding the act for some reason, as if I'm afraid of its finality in some strange way even though I know he's gone. |
| Why a rescue? ..For Ricky Bobby This week we lost our 6yr old dog Ricky Bobby to a rare and aggressive mouth cancer. The decision to put him down was agonizing but we knew it was the right thing to do for our beloved family member. Ricky was a rescue, and his story, like that of so many rescues, is a story about turning a second chance into a life with a loving family for however long that life lasts, be it 6 years or 16. It was actually my husband that found Ricky. We had made the decision to adopt a companion dog for our little red Min Pin named Turk. After missing out on several nice dogs, my husband sent me a picture of a dog named Rick. He was twelve months old and had recently arrived to a local foster home from his native Tennessee. His back-story was that he had been abandoned in a cemetery with his littermates and the kind woman who had taken in the entire pack, had managed to find homes for all of them but Rick. She was about to lose her home and fearing Rick would end up in a kill-shelter in the South, found a rescue group that agreed to bring him to the Northeast for placement. Rick was listed as a short-haired Terrier-Sheppard mix. He reportedly had a gentle disposition, was house-broken and good with other dogs. He was younger than we had planned but we made the call and arranged to meet him at his foster home, over an hour away in Berlin. The foster home was bustling with dogs of all shapes and sizes. The pack swirled around our feet until Ramona scuttled them all away and let Rick in. He raced around the corner and right into my heart. Rick was tall and honey-colored, a shade lighter and browner than our Turk. He was tall and had sickle-shaped tail that beat the air happily. You could almost make out the distinct breeds that might have been part of his genetic landscape, coming together in the most appealing of ways…the strong lines and large feet reminiscent of a Ridgeback and the perky, jaunting ears and face of a Collie and the soulful dark eyes of a Beagle, trimmed in black liner, that tracked our every move. We would soon come to recognize the other traits that made Rick that once in a lifetime dog…the protective instinct of a Sheppard, the loyalty of a Pit, the gentle grace of a Greyhound. Turk and Rick hit it off immediately; they even looked like a matching set! We left that foster home with a peculiar ache in our hearts, leaving him behind after just now finding him. After a series of meetings and home visits, we received that call that we were hoping for. Through grateful tears I listened to Ramona explain that she had chosen our family as the best fit for Rick and that we could pick him up as soon as we were ready. The next day, my grandmother and I made the trek back up to get him. We brought Rick home that afternoon, making it official by immediately amending his name to Ricky, which seemed to suit his playful, goofy demeanor much better than his more formal moniker. A few days later, while watching Talladega Nights together, I spontaneously called out “Ricky Bobby” in a really bad French accent and Ricky practically bounded across the room and into my lap. The nickname and the bad accent stuck. Ricky Bobby, we often joked, was big on looks but not too brainy. He was often distracted by his own enthusiasm. He was prone to wild, happy spinning fits when excited, something my sister lovingly dubbed his “willies”. He adored the snow, bounding in and out of the drifts like a gazelle and snatching snowflakes out of the sky with his snapping jaws. He loved chasing the squirrels and jumping, surprising us with his athleticism by easily launching his big body three or four feet strait up off the ground. He loved to cuddle, leaning against you while you watched TV, casually throwing one of his large legs over your lap. He always snuck into bed after he thought we were safely asleep, curling his body up like a cat at our feet or boldly sneaking under the covers to lie against us in the cold nights. He also counter surfed, something we had been warned about, and occasionally ate shoes (he preferred the most expensive ones). He dolphin-poked strangers, once even nipped a particularly undesirable one in the butt. He snored, loudly at times and snatched food from our daughter’s unattended plates and occasionally from between her fingers. He also never had an accident in the house, never showed an ounce of aggression toward our daughter, even in those intrusive toddler years and never failed to make us smile or laugh. The vet said the cancer was probably there all along. Given that he was a rescue and his history was unknown, he could have even had a genetic failing in his line and we would have never known. Regardless, we were devastated to learn that we would only have six short years with this amazing, loving dog who’d barely made it to mid-life. We expected much more for him, for us. I started this out by asking, “Why a rescue?” Why take the chance of taking in a dog with an unknown history, questionable breeding and their own unique set of challenges? I can tell you simply and without hesitation that the answer is, because that dog will love you with everyone inch of their grateful hearts. They will love you and love you with the most unconditional, graceful love you can imagine. They will make you better people, over and over again. The right rescue will fit with your family like they were born into it. There may never be another Ricky Bobby, but as long as we are able, our home will always be open to another rescue, our hearts will always be open to that special connection with a dog looking for that second chance. We all miss Ricky. It hurts every time we come home to not have him at the door, grinning and bouncing up and down on his big feet. We will miss you always, our big goof, our enforcer, our protector, our love bug and silly whirling dervish. RIP Ricky Bobby and know that you were our good boy and we loved you like crazy.  |
| “She breathed deeply of the scent of decaying fiction, disintegrating history, and forgotten verse, and she observed for the first time that a room full of books smelled like dessert: a sweet snack made of figs, vanilla, glue, and cleverness.” ― Joe Hill, NOS4A2 I recently was given tickets to a Great Book Weekend when it was hosted in my region. I eagerly planned my day, noting which talks with authors and workshops I wanted to participate in. I browsed the tables with all the shiny new books on display and gazed at the authors in their panel discussions with the anticipated mix of jealousy and admiration. All the while, something begged my attention like a pesky gnat buzzing in and out of the range of my swinging hand. It wasn't until I was making my last pass through the author's tables that I realized what it was...most of the people in attendance fell into the "Over the age of 60" range. Once I noticed, it became painfully obviously that there were very few young people and only a smattering of middle-agers like myself. What was happening out there in Bookland? I had to wonder, again, if the technology of e-readers and ipads was making actual printed books so obsolete that we were losing the connection with the medium completely. I recognize that e-readers have had a wonderful affect on new and unrepresented writers achieving greater publication success with many firms specializing in delivering works directly to kindle-type devices. I know that I myself have benefited from having my work accepted by various ezines and websites. I'm grateful for the exposure but I've also resisted the lure of the devices themselves. There is, in my opinion, just no substitute for the tactile feel, smell, heft of a book. It is part of the experience, part of the passion of the pursuit of a good read, to wander through the aisles in bookstores or libraries, browsing the titles, the cover art, flipping it over to read the author's bio. It's part of the ritual for me to climb in bed with a good book, crack it open to where I've likely dog-earred the page where I left off the night before, my fingers automatically smoothing the fold line flush again as I submerge myself in the printed words. E-readers don't give me the same thrill, electronic ink does not stir me in the same way. It feels too sanitized in some way, too sterile. I get that its easier to travel without one or two books crammed in your purse everywhere you go. I understand that those slim devices hold mini libraries and take up far less room. I may be a silly hold-out but I don't mind leaving room for Wally Lamb's latest three pound masterpiece in my carry-on. I don't mind brushing the sand off my page before I turn it, or balancing it on my lap on the train. I would be missing something essential if I were to give up the book, give up print. Likewise, I'm far prouder of my pieces that have made it into print anthologies and actual magazines than those that have enjoyed a limited life in electronic ink. They seem somehow more credible, more tangible for me. There is also this,...In our recent history, we have lived through several decades in times when books have been banned and even burned. Anyone who's glimpsed those burning pires of literary gems and rebels can't help but understand the importance of preserving them. Men and women have been driven to write with the same voracious appetite and insatiable passion that the masses have yearned to read. Books have been smuggled, hidden, preserved, banned, scandalized, destroyed, revered and protected all over the world since the beginning of time when scribes first put ink to scroll by candlelight. Books are symbols of our human journey. So maybe I am one of the few left that still prefers my fiction without the technological bells and whistles...well, me and most of the female population over the age of 56....but that's okay. I let my daughter read her ipad stories as her friends do, but I also take her to the library. I let her roam the aisles, browse the books and pick out the ones that catch her eye. I tell her stories but I also read to her from books. Whenever possible, I order from her scholastic book flyer to give her personal library a boost and I hope she gets the same rush I did when her new books come in. When she gets old enough, I'll get her a library card and hope it becomes her passport to wonderful and amazing worlds like I did for me. |
| This morning I took my daughter to her four year checkup at the doctor’s office. We were waiting for the doctor while she played with some brain teaser toy. She was sitting up on the table, twisted away so her back was toward me. Her thick brown braids were running down her shoulders and her skin looked almost caramel-colored against her pink strawberry shortcake undies. She had tucked one of her legs under her and was swinging her free leg, with its bubblegum pink sock, back and forth like a pendulum as she concentrated on moving the colored wooden beads of the puzzle. I realized with some real alarm that my daughter had somehow, seemingly overnight, grown into this beautiful little girl and that all those tender earmarks of toddlerhood were completely gone. She had sailed gracefully through those milestones and I thought, not for the first time, how does it go so quickly? Then all at once the doctor knocks and the sound sends her barreling back into my lap. She looks up at me with wide eyes that are a shade of green that falls somewhere between jade and aquamarine. She leans into me as the doctor starts his exam, watches me as I answer the questions about her development. She complies with his requests, though silently and with as little eye contact as she can manage. Later when the nurse gives her the vaccinations, she goes rigid in my arms and sobs into my shirt, a heartbreaking sound that even turns the stoic nurse teary-eyed and apologetic. Then it’s over. I get her dressed and she is picking out her stickers and chatting all the way to the parking lot, holding my hand and politely reminding me that I promised we would stop for munchkins before school. Another annual exam over, another year gone, memorialized in the updated vaccination records and percentile scaling. One of my friends from college is expecting now with her first child, another has a little girl who just passed the five month mark…new parents just embarking on this journey. Soon they will realize how much slower life seemed to move before they begin to measure it by the rate that their children grown and mature before their eyes. Time moved at such a different pace for me before my daughter and now it races forward. This motherhood thing, it’s really something. It’s amazing and challenging. It’s wondrous and joyful and frightening all at the same time. It humbles me, completes me and defines me in all new ways. Mostly though, it makes me conscious of the way time passes, of how fleeting some moments are and of how truly precious each and every day is. |
| There is a dark sister in my soul, a black goddess that stretches out under my skin. My anxiety is her pounding heartbeat against my spine and my doubt is her seething voice in my ear. My rage is her flexing talons, razor-sharp...and all my strength is born on her obsidian shoulders. I am, she is, we are...twins conjoined in the messy business of being. |
| October 25th was the date of my last blog entry...my efforts to write with more regularity are not working out obviously. There just never seems to be enough time, which must certainly be the lament of every working mom everywhere. These days when I find I can take a long enough shower, long enough to do more than a passing job at shaving, or do a grocery shopping trip alone in under an hour - those feel like days of unparalleled victory. Most days though, I'm doing a passing job at keeping the laundry up and the house clean, spending marginally enough time playing with my daughter and exactly zero time working on my craft. Writing is just about my only natural ability. I have a pretty good submission to publication rate for fiction under 3000 words. If I had time to write longer pieces, the time to work with a real editor on a marketable manuscript, who knows...I might be one of the lucky few amateurs to get a book deal I would, at least, have a fighting chance. Making the transition from published short story author to published novelist however takes, and this is a very simplified list, time, dedication, commitment and most of all..time. And time, my time, is in very short supply right now. One can't, I've recently discovered, attempt to write a novel over one's lunch break. Instead, I'm reading book jackets with envy as another writer makes another successful debut. It's probably just as well. What story would I tell anyway? These days I'm consumed with not screwing up raising my daughter and developing more effective couponing abilities. I worry sometimes that the creative pulse in my brain is dying out. I tell myself I should be happy I can still produce flash fiction with any degree of success. I tell myself that I should be pleased that I have followers and fans that appreciate my pieces and forgive my inconsistency in producing them on a regular basis. I do appreciate every kind word, every encouraging review...every person who clicks "follow" for me. I feel that support and it keeps me reaching. Writing after all is about more than the NY Times best seller list or awards and accolades. Writing is about the experience, the catharsis, the cheap therapy. Writing is about keeping myself honest and real. I save everything I write about my daughter so that one day I can compile the blogs and prose into a book for her, to show her, this was what I felt and thought about while raising you. I am confident she will read my words and know what it was to love her, to be loved by her and she will understand that it was simply...everything. So, I write...whatever and whenever. And I dream about my own book jacket...and just maybe one day I will find just enough time to tell just the right story... |
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