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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    |
| Today is my father's birthday so I thought it would be nice to write something in honor of him. I've worked with my father for the better part of my life, starting from the days I teetered along behind him in the hangar, through my summers home from college and this last decade when I decided to forge my own career in aviation. It has not always been easy, balancing the personal with the working relationship, but aside from the challenges it has also afforded me to see my father in a different light and in scenarios which have given me not only a tremendous appreciation for the man, but also a very basic understanding of where some of my own behaviors, values and core beliefs come from. While my father did not raise me alone, I am very much his daughter as these things sometimes work out to be. At some point, when I abandoned my ambitions of being a marine scientist to join him in his business, I realized I was choosing a predestined path. As much as he had supported me in all my other pursuits and endeavors, it seemed the natural course that I would come to work beside him, acknowledging that smells of MEK and jet fuel and the passion for aviation are as much a part of my biological landscape as they are his - though I never gravitated to the sky as he has. I prefer to focus on honing my business skills rather then learning to fly. But this is a blog about my father, and not me. So what do I want to say about the man? My father is the quintessential provider. I grew up in a home where my father went off to work, work that often stole entire afternoons from family vacations, made many a missed meal and left him cored and too exhausted to engage three rambling children at the end of the day. It was also the work that brought us many opportunities and afforded us a more than comfortable lifestyle, the very best he could provide. These last few years have been very difficult. I have watched him sacrifice so much to keep the company together at a time when, after a lifetime of working, he should be enjoying the fruits of all those years of labor. I would give anything to be able to see him relaxed again, motoring along the inter coastal in Florida with his wine glass and panama shirt rather than trapped in the endless meetings that leave him grim-faced and tense. But my father is also the devoted and compassionate employer, who can not think about the company he has built without seeing the many families that depend on him. He bears the responsibility for his people as sincerely and seriously as anyone I have ever met. I am immensely proud of the leader he is. He has impressed me countless times with his savvy, his salemanship, his unique ability to come through with whatever is needed, no matter how difficult the action or choice. The other side of my father, the personal one, has been oddly more difficult for me to know. The indifference and aloofness that I so often faulted him for over the years, I have come to understand is a necessary evil. It is not that he is incapable of feeling things too deeply but rather the the undercurrent of his emotions run so strong, he must keep them at bay lest they overrun him. My father is a man who loves his children so fiercely, it may be his greatest weakness. It is only through the birth of my daughter that I have really come to understand that about him because I see that wonderful yet terrible vulnerablity mirrored in myself. I think it was my wedding day when it really hit home, when I saw how he fought to keep his emotions in check as we walked arm in arm down the aisle, then later, when he delivered a speech that brought me and my new husband to tears and left every guest with a lump in their throat. And even more recently, when he sent me a heartfelt email thanking me for giving him Jaden as a grandchild. As a grandfather, he gets to be something he never allowed himself to be as a father really. He loves both Tyler and Jaden so openly, so comfortably, so uninhibited. Last week Jaden was with me in the office. He came in and sat down, attempting to coax her from my arms. I was delighted and touched beyond words when she readily tettered into his arms and hugged him. My father's face lit up in a way I had not seen in a long time. I wondered if my daughter had even the slightest clue how much she was healing him in that moment, with just her simple hug? I think my father would be surprised to learn that it has been the simple things that has made him wonderful in my eyes: The simple drive to be the best provider and boss he could be; the unquestioning support of my endeavors, whether in the form of care packages mailed to my college, or footing the bill for a particularly expensive trip to Australia and New Zealand when I was just 19, or bestowing his blessing on my marriage and later, on our decision to start a family of our own; and most importantly I think, his unconditional love...knowing that he will always be there for me, no matter what. Though I suspect this birthday is bittersweet for him this year, I hope he knows how much his children love and respect him. I hope he knows that this day we take the time to reflect on how much we appreciate him. |
| Amid rising gas prices and a winter that seems reluctant to relinquish its ghastly hold, many people, me included, are looking for that sparkly bit of good news. Any little bit of good news will do, as evidenced by the little surge of joy I found reading about the Javan Rhinos this afternoon. Apparently this rare species of Rhino has been hunted to the brink of extinction for its horns, which possess none of the healing qualities they are reported to possess. With only twelve births reported worldwide in the last decade, researchers were thrilled to see hidden camera footage that revealed what appears to be two healthy calves. As I looked over the grainy images of the baby Rhinos, I could not help but smile. It was a small, bright tidbit of good news and afterall who doesn't love baby Rhinos, with their too big heads and cuddly armor-plated bodies? The renewed hope for this rare species survival might not keep me warm or prevent me from having a heart attack the next time I have to fill my gas tank but it is good news and I'll take it in however it may come. |
| As I continue to struggle to write anything of particular interest and value, I am wondering if my block has more to do with me or the fact that the world seems trapped in the longest winter on record. If it isn't blizzards and ice storms, it is torrential rain and winds so fierce that they make the pictures on my sill topple over each time they slam against the window panes. At least the flood waters will wash away what's left of the snow. The best part of today is going to be trying to get my little dog to pee outside, with cold rain and high speed winds, that is not bloody likely. How I loathe that little dog these days! Turk has several bad habits but he is small, defenseless and dependent. He was our first "baby" and I suppose we are the route cause of a lot of his issues. No matter how frequently I threaten to oust him, he still manages to find a way into my lap and back into my heart at the end of even the most challenging day. He tucks his tiny red head under my arm and wiggles his stump of a tail and I momentarily forget that he's torn apart the garbage again, ate another diaper, peed on my humidifier. I momentarily forget that were it not for him, we would probably be enjoying new plush wall to wall carpeting or that Jaden would still have some of her favorite stuffed animals intact and non-eviscerated. Ricky, our handsome, burly shepard/pit mix rescue is so well-behaved that it serves to magnify Turk's shortcomings. Ricky's only real crime is that he is clumsy and easily distracted by shiny things or things that crinkle like potato chip bags. I have been mowed down more than once in his fumbling, sudden pursuit of phantom treats. Together Turk and Ricky are study in opposites, big/small, quick/lumbering, good/bad. Their common ground, and by far the best trait about both of them is they are gentle with Jaden. Jaden loves her puppies but it is Turk that engages and delights her. Undeterred by her sudden squeals and the cumbersome movements of a growing toddler, Turk runs excited circles around her, poking at her playfully and sending her into fits of giggles with his happy scampering. It is no wonder our little girl's first word was "Turk". Watching the two of them together, it is easy to see the budding love affair, the endearing friendship. And while Turk so often provokes my cursing and threats, it these moments, he inspires my unending love and gratitude. |
| My personal goal to write something every day is falling short this week. My last entry was the 14th...and I'm still coming up empty for inspiration. This cold is kicking my ass and draining my creativity. I'm feeling run down and crappy. I loathe these dry days. On the plus side, I managed to send out two pieces for potential publication, though I'm not sure either has a snowballs chance in hell of being picked up. Its the practice, the ritual of it that is important. As I wait for the inevitable "thank you, but no thank you" responses, I can at least congratulate myself on having made the effort. There seems to be so much more I should be doing, on all fronts of my life. Sometimes it feels like I'm half-assing mostly everything and I hate that. This cold is dragging on to long, hell, this winter is dragging on too long. I'm so sick of the rotting, gray mounds of snow everywhere I look. I'm tired of wearing socks. I miss my open-toed heels, I miss my tiki porch, I miss anything green and leaf-like. |
| In observance of Valentines Day, I sat down to write a blog bout love. For me, it is a complicated subject. Love has taken many forms for me, been represented in a myriad of ways. Love has made me a victim, a sinner, an enabler. It has also made me a fighter, a heroine, a mother. Love has lorded over my darkest hours and it has lifted me up into spaces of light and hope. I love my husband, he is a good man. I told my father once that meeting him felt like a reward for still having faith, for still believing enough to keep the blackness at bay despite the blows Love brought me in the past. I still feel that way. I love my daughter with a powerful, unconditional Love which I believe can only be divinely bestowed. I love my family in the unquestioning, patient Love reserved for the people that can frustrate, disappoint and also support you most in life. Today, at this time in my life, Love is making banana and chocolate chips pancakes Sunday morning even though bananas make me nauseous. It is the Love that makes me break into song with "Hot Potato, Hot Potato" on the drive home just because it makes the little face I see in the mirror smile and kick her feet in joy. It is the Love that makes my throat thick and my stomach flutter when I come back from my morning shower to find my husband and daughter sleeping nose to nose, her tiny hand curled around his finger, the very picture of contentment. |
| The date slipped by me, unnoticed, consumed as I was with concerns over my sick baby. "He would have been 41 yesterday", the single thought catching me up as I stepped from the shower this morning, feeling more awake than I had in days. These last few years, as my life has surged forward, I have been assaulted by thoughts of my friend with far less frequency. What's more, it has been several years since I made the pilgrimage to his grave. These days I dwell in memories only when the need is thrust upon me through the processes of rewriting and editing. These last few years, if I think about him at all, I am far more prone to do so in the Fall, during that week in September when he died rather than in February, on the day of his birth. So I am surprised by my sudden observation, and ever more so when I realize that I can not recall a single birthday celebration from the more than five years we were together, aside from a rare dinner with his mother perhaps. Could it have been simply that for so long he had been estranged from his family? Then why can't I remember a meal cooked in our home, a cake, a gift of some significance? I must have made some effort to observe his birthday once or have those kinder, warmer memories have been written over by all the dark, tragic ones? The possibility saddens me. It wasn't all bad. I don't want to remember of him in degrees of pain alone. He was not always the person his addiction made him in the end. He didn't always reduce me to hopeless tears, he didn't break every promise or fall short of every expectation. He didn't just break my heart. He didn't just die, he also lived, as fully and as completely as he was able. I decided that in honor of his birthday, in honor of a life that ended too soon, I would take a moment to remember a few of the more bright spots in our history. I think back to that uncommonly mild winter afternoon when he decided to take an old loaf of bread down to the cove by my apartment to feed the ducks. We sat and tossed handfuls of bread to the small clutch of mallards. He insisted on singing a Bare Naked Ladies tune and I laughed at his mangled lyrics and horribly off-tune rendition of "Brian Wilson". Distracted with our banter, neither one of us noticed that our small family of ducks had doubled in size and more were emerging from the reeds and the far shores in groups of five and six. Before we knew it, there was a gaggle of squawking, hungry ducks spilling ashore. One was even bold enough to waddle up and peck at the toe of my boot. "More!" I urged, reaching back for another lump of bread. Finding myself empty-handed, I turned to look at him. He stood there, the empty bread bag flapping, his face a shocked mask. "There isn't anymore." He said, and his eyes widened in alarm as he looked from me to the growing army of ducks, who by this time had begun storming the shore. We stood there watching the wall of angry fowl approaching, wings flapping and beady orange eyes flashing with obvious malicious intent. We both made the decision to run at the same time, launching ourselves up the steep hill, tripping over tree lips and stumbling over stones. We made it through my kitchen door and collapsed in a heap on the linoleum. Ragged breathing soon gave way to a fits of laughter. After a moment, he turned to me..."Cricket, that really wasn't my best idea afterall." We laughed about that afternoon time and time again over the years. There were many times he made me laugh but there were times he also coached my tears, not from his thoughtless actions but because I needed a good cry to put a bad day to rest or shake off an insult or injury. Many were the times I would come home with a heavy heart and find he had a bubble bath waiting for me. He would park his big body in the open doorway, his elbows propped up on a pillow, a bowl of popcorn on the floor in front of him, patiently waiting for me to just start talking, or yelling, or cursing, whatever I needed to do to unload. He was as good of a listener as you expect your closest friends to be. So these are the memories I call upon today, the moments he was a good friend, the memories behind the friend I still miss even if I can no longer recall the exact way the features of his face came together. I hope I will always remember the way he mixed up every lyric he ever sang, the way he filled up an open doorway and the sound of his unbridled laughter. I hope I will always remember the ducks. Even if I don't remember every Feb. 9th, just once in a while, in the mist of my wonderful life with my amazing husband and my beautiful daughter, I know he would want me to think of him this way. |
| I think it speaks volumes that the highlight of my week so far has been finding a correctable ribbon that fits our ancient office typewriter. And while the "snap" as I pressed it into place was satisfying, the volley of hoots and cheers it elicited were wildly inappropriate. It just felt like the only thing that has worked for me this week, and that in itself is evidence that this has really been a lousy few days. It isn't just that I have a sick child at home. It is the combination of the brutal cold, stress at work, a dog that insists that it is too cold or too wet to poop outside, the countless publication submission deadlines I have let slip by and yes, the fact that no matter how closely I follow the doctor's advice, I am still lying awake at night listening to my daughter breathing, her feverish little body pressed against mine in the dark. Last night I sat clutching one of her stuffed bears in my lap, letting my mind go to dark places, places where guilt and blame lie in wait to ambush. It was my mother-in-law who pulled me from my funk, materializing in the doorway of Jaden's room with her kind, concerned eyes. It is funny how, without a common language, some things like comfort and encouragement can still be rendered, wordlessly and without limitation. I really hope Jaden has a better night and that tomorrow she sees real improvement. I hope tomorrow brings better things in general. Hell, at least I have a working typewriter, in the unlikely event I actually need to use it. |
| There was a time I would have defined myself very differently. As I felt all women did, I owned at least one black lace bra and black leather boots that zipped up my calves and fit like a second skin. I took the time to wear both scented body lotion and perfume. I had a host of makeup, some for nights out, some for the daylight hours and some shades just for sitting around the house and looking put together. I bought clothes cut to flatter, wore some a little too tight and some a little too short. I could always be count on to flash a hint of cleavage when appropriate. My ideal night out was listening to some live music at bar, my lacquered fingertips tapping along to the beat on the stem of my wine glass. And while I still love wine and appreciate the rare night out on the town, the rest of it I fear, has become a casualty of motherhood. I'm fairly certain that my black lace bra still exists but has been banished to the back of my dresser drawer, replaced by far more sensible undergarments. I still wear the boots on occasion but the clothes once cut to flatter no longer do so in the same way. After a difficult experience with nursing, these days I'm far less likely to intentionally flash the twins. I think the last time I wore any makeup at all, night or day, was several months back. I consider it a victory if I make it through the day without discovering a spot of baby snot or dried rice puffs on the shoulder of my sweater. It is a monumental achievement if I manage to get lipstick or mascara on between traffic stops during my commute. What makes a woman though, I have learned, is a great deal more than makeup, or sexy clothes, or smelling like something other than baby lotion. Women are better defined by their grace, their wisdom and their strength. I can still command a meeting even if I've just brushed baby food from my hair. I can still close a deal with confidence even after a sleepless night or stressful morning. I'm just as razor-sharp as I ever was, even more so now that I've acquired a whole new set of instincts to work with. And I think I can even still make a man swoon if I look at him in just the right way, cleavage or no cleavage, even if that man happens to be my husband. Don't get me wrong, I would love be as outwardly womanly as I used to be and given some time and some extra work, I may be able to get back there soon but until then, I have to accept what I believe makes a woman a woman and be happy that I have those attributes in my corner. |
| My little girl has been sick, a common cold with all the common symptoms, runny nose, sneezing, watery eyes and a barking cough that has interrupted everyone's sleep for three nights running. Her father and I have taken shifts sitting up with her and as a result, are both pretty exhausted. It is hard to see our normally bright and sunny child reduced to whining and whimpering, and following a particularly aggressive bout of coughing, outright wailing. The good news, she's growing just fine. At 13 months, she's just about 75% for height and weight and her skills seems to be developing at or slightly ahead of schedule. Watching her this morning, sitting in her father's lap waiting for the doctor, I was struck by how her face has changed so much in the last few weeks, the rounded, baby face giving way to thinner, more little girl-like qualities. While her features are still very much mine or her father's, her face is becoming a uniquely beautiful one. Coupled with her ever-emerging personality, Jaden's individuality is beginning to shine. Her father once said to me, "I can't take my eyes off her." I find that I am often thinking the same thing. I watch her pawing through her books or contemplating some task she is about to tackle and the quiet determination in her gorgeous little face leaves me with in a state of breathless wonderment. And when she shouts at me and lets loose a stream of obviously urgent but as of yet, unintelligible baby babble, I am delighted and charmed beyond words. All the things that are special and amazing about Jaden are only dampened by her sickness, they are still there waiting to bubble to the surface the very second her ailments abate. After a sleepless night, her morning smiles and hugs can recharge our spirits in a way nothing else can. As parents, we may well be exhausted now for the better part of our lives but everything, every moment is so worth it. |
| The tree that we planted is nearly as wide across as my arm now. It still leans to the left and in even in a slight wind, bends precariously far, the wispy trails of its branches kissing the ground. It is a wonder that it made it through that first winter, standing stubbornly against the snow and ice. I took my lunch there the other day and watched the afternoon sun shining through the delicate green leaves. In that space, with the breeze rolling in off the surf and the smells of summer floating in the air around me, it seemed easy to forgive you. Then I remembered. I remembered when I first heard about what you had done, I had dropped everything and rushed to this hillside. I had wanted to tear the root ball free from the earth, rip it to pieces in my hands and toss the little tree into the churning sea below. It had seemed an appropriate revenge, to destroy even just one thing you had created, one thing you had cherished and cared for. I had flung myself free of the car and into the rainstorm. I had ran barefoot through the soggy grass only to fall on my knees at the base of the pathetically frail little tree. In my mind, I saw how carefully you had eased the sapling free from its plastic pot with hands that seemed impossibly large. You placed it into the dark hole in the ground, maneuvering your large frame around on your knees, gently packing down the dirt into the spaces. You watched over my shoulder as I watered it, concerned I might give it too much. I reached out then and fingered the delicate buds that would soon become leaves. You would not have the chance to see them. You had denied yourself even that most simple of pleasures. I loathed you but my grief was a sudden, crushing weight on my heart. I told myself I would not cry for you, yet the tears had come, unstoppable. I had stayed like that for a long time, crying away my rage and pain. I left the little tree unscathed that day and had returned nearly every one since to nurture it. I hope that it grows strong and broad, that boughs lengthen and the bark becomes a sturdy armor against the elements. I hope that one day I can sit in its shade and think of only good memories, reflect on your life and not just your final, desparate act. I hope that one day I will come here to sit and as I stare up through the branches at the brilliant blue sky, I will at last find forgiveness. |
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