(This post is not to say that fathers do not experience the things mentioned, from a mother's perspective, in this post. It is also not to look down upon any woman who works outside of the home. I respect any person who takes on the task of raising and/or providing for a child. One of my dearest friends is pursuing her dream for and because of her children.)
Bedtime stories are as much a part of the day ending as is the guilt of a mother. I don't say that as a victim, as though the choice to care for my children every day was something that happened to me. No. It was a choice.
The way I saw it was that I could invest in to the next 60 years of my life and make that quite comfortable, to be honest...or I could invest in to eternity by choosing to be the one to have the largest influence on my babes in their formative years. I felt like a hero when I was pregnant with my first and realized I had made that choice to stay home. Man, was I vain. I still thought that raising a child was about me in some way.
Women have 10 months to realize they are...mothers. (9 months is a strange lie, and I'm not sure why more people haven't caught on. 40 weeks is 10 months, yo'.) It's a strange transition. Motherhood is a jangly waltz, if you will. And if you feel like you are getting it all wrong...good for you! You are officially a mommy!
So, if you understand the guilt I am talking about as stay-at-home parent--or are questioning if you want to be one--here is my $8.26 on the matter. (One last disclosure: this post is mostly written to help me figure out what I am thinking and, possibly, to pacify my ego. You've been warned.) My poor attempt at narrowing this down is in the following 3 areas:
1. Life Lessons...
What do my kids see when I am angry? Sad? Stressed? Rushed? This is how they learn. I will not shield them from human emotion. I want to teach them how to navigate through it.
I cry in front of my kids. "It's ok to be sad. We still do our chores."
I apologize when I am wrong. "I'm sorry I was loud when you were upset."
I pray in front of them. "Dear God, help mommy to be patient."
I talk to myself. A lot.
I personally think there are three ways we teach our children:
1) By example
2) By example
3) By example
It's ok to screw up. Their lives will be full of mistakes. We can't avoid making mistakes. (Accidents are given their name for a reason.) Our children's mistakes are not all our fault. Enjoy that for a minute. Our job is to teach them how to live with excellence, a moral compass, and self-control. Teach them how to intentionally live life with generous dignity, and you change a generation.
2. When my best is not good enough.
Perfectionist, anyone? Me, too. People tell me, until they are blue in the face, "Just do your best." What do I do when I know my best was only half what I think my best is?
Look.
How arrogant do we really have to be to assume that the sky falling will or will not be our fault? In other words, is the world so fragile that I am in more control of it than my God? No. Get a grip. Take a breath. Repeat. Then...you do your best.
Wake up when it's time to wake up. Read a book when it's time to read a book. Brush your teeth together. Look at the amazing stick when it's presented. And be amazed. Count everything you can. Don't try to make yesterday--today. I have days where I can get up at 5, exercise, read my Bible, shower and have breakfast made (OK, this happened once, I think) by 8--and others where if my 2 year old sleeps until 8 I crawl in to bed with him and sleep. Until 8. Life is reading the moments and living them. Make a routine- and keep a schedule; just don't freak out if it beginss at a different time each morning. (This, of course, depends on the age of your kids, if they are in school, etc...) Wake up, eat, play. Start at 7, 7:20, or 7:56. You are not perfect. You are excellent.
3. Should I go back to work?
(Reminder of previous disclosure, for some women, yes. This is you. There is not one correct mold. I am not judging.)
Most days I think I focus on catching the "firsts." But, I miss the lasts. If I am doing the dishes I will say, "No I cannot hold you." (And, kids need to hear that sometimes the answer is no.)
But what if tomorrow you don't ask me to hold you? What if all of a sudden tomorrow is the day you are a kid, and not a baby, and you don't want me to hold you? What day was it that you no longer needed me to help you walk? What day was it that you could hold a cup on your own? How do we parents balance all of this? I mean, a dirty kitchen makes me very crazy inside...so...
We use our judgement. We have them help with the dishes (bonus--use it while we can). Basically, what I mean is, we let our toddlers think they are helping with the dishes and we clean the mess afterwards.
For me, personally, I wonder every single day if I am squelching my kids. Do you really think we can live our entire lives this way? Wondering what we did right or wrong? Now, I get it. Do your best.
For me, when it came to daycare, I had to ask myself how I would feel if I picked my baby up in a different outfit and I didn't know the story. Was it play-doh? The spaghetti at lunch? Did you get hurt? And it broke my heart to know that I wouldn't know the story behind a new outfit.
I get this wrong every day, and I go to sleep knowing that I get to try again tomorrow. Somewhere inside I think...if I do nothing else right today or tomorrow, they're gonna' know that I love them to the bones.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Facebook Fast
I realize not everyone may be living in the dark ages, by choice, as I do much of the time. I have long preferred a long hand letter (complete with a wax seal), record player, typewriter and paper journals to their counterparts. With that said, I love the Internet and still do not have a land line, currently. I aim for a balance and an act of moderation in our home (including my own time spent online). To be honest, I don't fall on the purest side of the equation but I also don't have any idea how to sync my iPhone. The side of me that tends to fall more on the conservative side of technology has some thoughts on the matter...
I wonder if my young child could (god forbid) call 911 on my cell should the need arise.
I have thought about his little brain--little hands next to the big satellite while he talks or plays on my phone (which totals, maybe 30 minutes per week).
Will my children call me when they are in their later 20's-early 30's? Tweens and teens?
Will my children know how to express emotions other than via emoticons? ;)
Will my children understand privacy? That strangers are dangerous, even behind a screen?
Will my children be isolated via the web? Will they be too busy creating their online selves that they no longer take honest moral inventories on who they really are?
Will my children know that life is not composed of abbrv's or life in a phrase?
You get the idea.
The world is changing. I am trying to keep up.
Technology is great. It teaches our children, and, in moderation and within safe and proper contexts, I think that is a fabulous thing. It even saves lives.
I have long wondered, however, if the Internet, and other tools of technology, have the potential of killing life.
I took a Facebook sabbatical. I deactivated my account for less than a month. I am not even sure if my absence counts as such. Try it. Deactivate your Facebook. I dare you.
Just-point-click-close. Why not? I don't know. But you do...
It is my conviction that the Internet has the potential to create a very dangerous, very false sense of community. Whatever your vice may be, whatever your choice of interaction, reaction, action or relationship...the Internet is two dimensional at best. What we are doing"with" each other--we are actually doing without each other.
Communication is made up of 7% verbal (in this case written) and 93% nonverbal body language.
Now, words are my life. I understand that not all people share the passion of the true sentence, the true word... simply put, I read the 1828 edition of the Noah Webster's Dictionary when I can't sleep.
Words matter. I get it, I really do. But words, I finally resolve, are-not-everything. Words, alone, are not life. Words are not the living. Words are 7%, and I want my children to grow with the knowledge that talking is not just words. I want them to know that true communication is listening, watching, and being present.
According to CNN, better than 90% of kids under the age of two have an online history. By age 5, more than 50% regularly use a device to access the Internet.
Research that studies how the Internet changes life is still in it's early stages, but it shows that regular Internet usage changes the way our brains work. I repeat, frequent use of the Internet shows (both for adults and children) a change in the way our brains function. In some children, this change in brain function, has been linked to: limited attention spans, lower comprehension, poor focus, greater risk for depression, and a diminished long-term memory.
If I am honest with myself, I have probably experienced the same list mentioned above.
Yes, I have a life. And I really do. But I felt left out once I deactivated my Facebook account. I even felt alone at times when I would have--otherwise--been scrolling through the news feed or checking information on group pages. (Don't judge me until you take me up on my dare.) I had to, had to ask myself-who-are-my-friends? BTW (pun intended) you know who you are. I could count on two hands who my friends are in this last 3 weeks but I have hundreds on Facebook.
Have we forgotten what defines friendship on some level? Do we send Valentine's to our mothers? Even email is antiquated these days. I just real life lol. Email is antiquated.
You know what makes me really real life lol? "Facebook security."
Have you googled yourself? Your name that "safely" hovers over your child's pictures, even in a tagged post? LOL. LOL. LOL. Google yourself. It opened my eyes as I read the town in which I live, my parent's names, husband's name, his sister's name and where she lives (and has lived). The real kicker was when I googled her name and got information about her husband's family, sister, brother-in-law...
LOL.
It took 5 clicks to get to my husband's brother's wife's mother's information. And she lives in another state--along with her son and his wife...
For a small monthly fee you could have someone's credit history. Facebook security?
L-O-friggin' ELLLLL.
Who a person is, who a person has always been, is who they are behind closed doors. Who a person is, who a person has always been, is not who they are in Facebook phrases. We see each other in glimpses like passing on the street. I am honest with the things I say in updates (even though cryptic, at times), but what do you know (or care) if I am lying?
I do trust the people in my friends list. Ones that I may not be in regular contact with are still good people. I am not afraid that everyone who did not call me in the last few weeks are the boogey man. But honestly, it may be more accurately stated to say (with many of my 'friends') that I trusted them when I knew them in waking life. But who are they now? The truth is that I have not even so much as run in to many of them in the last 10 years, but I have given them an open window in to my life.
Then. I. Am. Awake.
It is no secret that the media dictates and sets the pace for fashions, trends, even mascara. I may not be one to care about jeans, bags or Ulta...but I am, by choice, a victim of commercialism in many other ways. This post is not to judge anyone who has an intimate affair with life via satellite or a love for Coach. But, is it possible that the bar has now been raised and our ways of communication directed by the waves of the man-in-the-moon himself? Will we all fade in to a background via updates?
Don't get me wrong...I like Facebook. I will continue to use it. I even tweet (lol--ok, I'm done now).
But I have to ask myself if this use of the Internet has dictated what I once would never have dreamed of sharing behind my cloak. Has the Internet encouraged me to share what I wear behind my glasses with--the world? And all because it's "safe?"
For example, sharing pictures of my kids (which I recently stopped posting), thoughts of mine on many things...this blog...
The Internet made me brave, I suppose you could say. Isn't that sad and wonderful? The Internet is it's own cloak. Who are you reading this? I don't know, but you know me. Getting the picture?
According to several news sites (but I have only noted one in the bibliography of this post, since it was so prevalent) the world spends per day per day per day PER DAY on Facebook... 10.5 billion minutes. This average did not include time spent on phones. This is also according to the company of Facebook's IPO filing (10.5 billion minutes) per day.
Now, that seems silly to me. I live in a small town, in a relatively small house, with two small children. So let's make this small. (Like I said, wonder with words, eh?)
Let's just say someone were to spend 5 minutes at a time on Facebook to scroll the news feed, reply to a message, re-read a comment (you know you have) or check for 'likes' (don't even lie).
Let's say that they did this simple thing, for 5 minutes, 10 times in a 24 hour time period. Let's say, they did this 7 days a week, for 4 weeks. That's 1,400 minutes a month.
That-is-twenty-three point three (23.3) hours of life, on average a month, that that person will spend on Facebook.
Some of us "conservative" Internet users may, on average, per month, spend near one day of life on Facebook. Fakebook?
Now point-click-close-and go call your mother.
********************************************************************************
Laird, Sam. "Is Social Media Destroying Real-World Relationships? [INFOGRAPHIC]." Mashable June 14, 2012. 16 December 2012 <http://mashable.com>.
Clinton, Chelsea, Steyer, James P. "Is the Internet hurting Children?" CNN Opinion 21 May 2012. 16 December 2012 <http://www.cnn.com>.
I wonder if my young child could (god forbid) call 911 on my cell should the need arise.
I have thought about his little brain--little hands next to the big satellite while he talks or plays on my phone (which totals, maybe 30 minutes per week).
Will my children call me when they are in their later 20's-early 30's? Tweens and teens?
Will my children know how to express emotions other than via emoticons? ;)
Will my children understand privacy? That strangers are dangerous, even behind a screen?
Will my children be isolated via the web? Will they be too busy creating their online selves that they no longer take honest moral inventories on who they really are?
Will my children know that life is not composed of abbrv's or life in a phrase?
You get the idea.
The world is changing. I am trying to keep up.
Technology is great. It teaches our children, and, in moderation and within safe and proper contexts, I think that is a fabulous thing. It even saves lives.
I have long wondered, however, if the Internet, and other tools of technology, have the potential of killing life.
I took a Facebook sabbatical. I deactivated my account for less than a month. I am not even sure if my absence counts as such. Try it. Deactivate your Facebook. I dare you.
Just-point-click-close. Why not? I don't know. But you do...
It is my conviction that the Internet has the potential to create a very dangerous, very false sense of community. Whatever your vice may be, whatever your choice of interaction, reaction, action or relationship...the Internet is two dimensional at best. What we are doing"with" each other--we are actually doing without each other.
Communication is made up of 7% verbal (in this case written) and 93% nonverbal body language.
Now, words are my life. I understand that not all people share the passion of the true sentence, the true word... simply put, I read the 1828 edition of the Noah Webster's Dictionary when I can't sleep.
Words matter. I get it, I really do. But words, I finally resolve, are-not-everything. Words, alone, are not life. Words are not the living. Words are 7%, and I want my children to grow with the knowledge that talking is not just words. I want them to know that true communication is listening, watching, and being present.
According to CNN, better than 90% of kids under the age of two have an online history. By age 5, more than 50% regularly use a device to access the Internet.
Research that studies how the Internet changes life is still in it's early stages, but it shows that regular Internet usage changes the way our brains work. I repeat, frequent use of the Internet shows (both for adults and children) a change in the way our brains function. In some children, this change in brain function, has been linked to: limited attention spans, lower comprehension, poor focus, greater risk for depression, and a diminished long-term memory.
If I am honest with myself, I have probably experienced the same list mentioned above.
Yes, I have a life. And I really do. But I felt left out once I deactivated my Facebook account. I even felt alone at times when I would have--otherwise--been scrolling through the news feed or checking information on group pages. (Don't judge me until you take me up on my dare.) I had to, had to ask myself-who-are-my-friends? BTW (pun intended) you know who you are. I could count on two hands who my friends are in this last 3 weeks but I have hundreds on Facebook.
Have we forgotten what defines friendship on some level? Do we send Valentine's to our mothers? Even email is antiquated these days. I just real life lol. Email is antiquated.
You know what makes me really real life lol? "Facebook security."
Have you googled yourself? Your name that "safely" hovers over your child's pictures, even in a tagged post? LOL. LOL. LOL. Google yourself. It opened my eyes as I read the town in which I live, my parent's names, husband's name, his sister's name and where she lives (and has lived). The real kicker was when I googled her name and got information about her husband's family, sister, brother-in-law...
LOL.
It took 5 clicks to get to my husband's brother's wife's mother's information. And she lives in another state--along with her son and his wife...
For a small monthly fee you could have someone's credit history. Facebook security?
L-O-friggin' ELLLLL.
Who a person is, who a person has always been, is who they are behind closed doors. Who a person is, who a person has always been, is not who they are in Facebook phrases. We see each other in glimpses like passing on the street. I am honest with the things I say in updates (even though cryptic, at times), but what do you know (or care) if I am lying?
I do trust the people in my friends list. Ones that I may not be in regular contact with are still good people. I am not afraid that everyone who did not call me in the last few weeks are the boogey man. But honestly, it may be more accurately stated to say (with many of my 'friends') that I trusted them when I knew them in waking life. But who are they now? The truth is that I have not even so much as run in to many of them in the last 10 years, but I have given them an open window in to my life.
Then. I. Am. Awake.
It is no secret that the media dictates and sets the pace for fashions, trends, even mascara. I may not be one to care about jeans, bags or Ulta...but I am, by choice, a victim of commercialism in many other ways. This post is not to judge anyone who has an intimate affair with life via satellite or a love for Coach. But, is it possible that the bar has now been raised and our ways of communication directed by the waves of the man-in-the-moon himself? Will we all fade in to a background via updates?
Don't get me wrong...I like Facebook. I will continue to use it. I even tweet (lol--ok, I'm done now).
But I have to ask myself if this use of the Internet has dictated what I once would never have dreamed of sharing behind my cloak. Has the Internet encouraged me to share what I wear behind my glasses with--the world? And all because it's "safe?"
For example, sharing pictures of my kids (which I recently stopped posting), thoughts of mine on many things...this blog...
The Internet made me brave, I suppose you could say. Isn't that sad and wonderful? The Internet is it's own cloak. Who are you reading this? I don't know, but you know me. Getting the picture?
According to several news sites (but I have only noted one in the bibliography of this post, since it was so prevalent) the world spends per day per day per day PER DAY on Facebook... 10.5 billion minutes. This average did not include time spent on phones. This is also according to the company of Facebook's IPO filing (10.5 billion minutes) per day.
Now, that seems silly to me. I live in a small town, in a relatively small house, with two small children. So let's make this small. (Like I said, wonder with words, eh?)
Let's just say someone were to spend 5 minutes at a time on Facebook to scroll the news feed, reply to a message, re-read a comment (you know you have) or check for 'likes' (don't even lie).
Let's say that they did this simple thing, for 5 minutes, 10 times in a 24 hour time period. Let's say, they did this 7 days a week, for 4 weeks. That's 1,400 minutes a month.
That-is-twenty-three point three (23.3) hours of life, on average a month, that that person will spend on Facebook.
Some of us "conservative" Internet users may, on average, per month, spend near one day of life on Facebook. Fakebook?
Now point-click-close-and go call your mother.
********************************************************************************
Laird, Sam. "Is Social Media Destroying Real-World Relationships? [INFOGRAPHIC]." Mashable June 14, 2012. 16 December 2012 <http://mashable.com>.
Clinton, Chelsea, Steyer, James P. "Is the Internet hurting Children?" CNN Opinion 21 May 2012. 16 December 2012 <http://www.cnn.com>.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
30 Something Prose
30 Something was a show on television I remember my mother watching when I was young...and she was 30 something. She is now 50 something, and I find myself nearing the 30's.
I keep hearing nothing but wonderful things about 30 something.
Please, don't judge the lack of grammar or correct punctuation, the lack of order in thought or the emotional canvass. I am not trying to impress, which is, in part, a part of the 30's, I hear.
Ironically the only time I have never been self-conscious in a bathing suit was this past summer. I had an almost two-year-old boy and was 8 months pregnant. And for the first time, I really didn't give a hoot about the cover-up. That day was about playing in the pool and being stained by the sun...finally.
For many reasons, the last few months have had my head swimming with the most haunting question, perhaps, that all humans face in their lifetime: "What if?"
I have thought about my childhood friendships and all that they taught me. Becky, on Lafayette, well bless her heart. I taught her how to climb a tree only to leave her there once the street lights came on; and, she was still my friend the next day. I thought about my dog. It made me cry, actually, when I realized he had probably died years and years ago. Our brains rationalize, don't they? Why wouldn't I, at the mature age of almost 30, have realized my dog probably died?
I believe that God let that dog live through being hit by a truck, eating a bag of poison so his blood became so thick it wouldn't even move through his body, and getting stung by an entire wasps nest. I repeat, he lived. And back to my believing...well, I believe that God let that dog live because he was the only thing constant about my childhood. My dog. My dog was, in the end, the only thing that stayed the same...until my parents got rid of him when I was in middle school, which, made sense. Anyway, he died. It made me sad to almost 30 something realize that death is a part of everyone's life.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the realization that I am not immortal. Well, I am, but not in the physical sense. I think the realization, the deep-down knowing that I, too, will die, like so many close to me have...well, it makes you wonder what the heck you are doing today.
I know it's just a birthday. I know it's a wonderful birthday. I don't know why, I guess, this one seems like the first, and possibly, the only birthday that should really count for something.
I want my children to know what God taught me in my generation and those that went before them. I want to know why the world is going paperless; and, I want to know why I have a growing passion to remain the woman with a wax seal on my longhand letters, record player and tobacco pipe. I want my children to know that there is one-true-God and that believing that will offend many people. I want them to know that it was not their mother that said so, but rather, Jesus Christ himself.
I want my children to know what their great-grandparents were like, the America they fought for, and the importance of living diligently and sober minded. I want my children to know the importance of working hard and sleeping hard...sometimes with sand on your feet if you get the chance. In fact, sleep with sand on your feet every chance you get.
I don't know...but 30 something feels like a new life both in a daunting and a glorious way.
Perhaps you can relate...
It feels like a crowded street in a rain storm, the way my mind has been reeling the last few weeks. It's as though you recognize every face and recall every story attached to them...but in the end, you can see the aerial view of black umbrellas and you want to be the red one...
Amidst 30 black umbrellas, you want to be the red.
I hope that I am the red umbrella.
I keep hearing nothing but wonderful things about 30 something.
Please, don't judge the lack of grammar or correct punctuation, the lack of order in thought or the emotional canvass. I am not trying to impress, which is, in part, a part of the 30's, I hear.
Ironically the only time I have never been self-conscious in a bathing suit was this past summer. I had an almost two-year-old boy and was 8 months pregnant. And for the first time, I really didn't give a hoot about the cover-up. That day was about playing in the pool and being stained by the sun...finally.
For many reasons, the last few months have had my head swimming with the most haunting question, perhaps, that all humans face in their lifetime: "What if?"
I have thought about my childhood friendships and all that they taught me. Becky, on Lafayette, well bless her heart. I taught her how to climb a tree only to leave her there once the street lights came on; and, she was still my friend the next day. I thought about my dog. It made me cry, actually, when I realized he had probably died years and years ago. Our brains rationalize, don't they? Why wouldn't I, at the mature age of almost 30, have realized my dog probably died?
I believe that God let that dog live through being hit by a truck, eating a bag of poison so his blood became so thick it wouldn't even move through his body, and getting stung by an entire wasps nest. I repeat, he lived. And back to my believing...well, I believe that God let that dog live because he was the only thing constant about my childhood. My dog. My dog was, in the end, the only thing that stayed the same...until my parents got rid of him when I was in middle school, which, made sense. Anyway, he died. It made me sad to almost 30 something realize that death is a part of everyone's life.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the realization that I am not immortal. Well, I am, but not in the physical sense. I think the realization, the deep-down knowing that I, too, will die, like so many close to me have...well, it makes you wonder what the heck you are doing today.
I know it's just a birthday. I know it's a wonderful birthday. I don't know why, I guess, this one seems like the first, and possibly, the only birthday that should really count for something.
I want my children to know what God taught me in my generation and those that went before them. I want to know why the world is going paperless; and, I want to know why I have a growing passion to remain the woman with a wax seal on my longhand letters, record player and tobacco pipe. I want my children to know that there is one-true-God and that believing that will offend many people. I want them to know that it was not their mother that said so, but rather, Jesus Christ himself.
I want my children to know what their great-grandparents were like, the America they fought for, and the importance of living diligently and sober minded. I want my children to know the importance of working hard and sleeping hard...sometimes with sand on your feet if you get the chance. In fact, sleep with sand on your feet every chance you get.
I don't know...but 30 something feels like a new life both in a daunting and a glorious way.
Perhaps you can relate...
It feels like a crowded street in a rain storm, the way my mind has been reeling the last few weeks. It's as though you recognize every face and recall every story attached to them...but in the end, you can see the aerial view of black umbrellas and you want to be the red one...
Amidst 30 black umbrellas, you want to be the red.
I hope that I am the red umbrella.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
I Believe
I find it sad and profound that the Christian army is the only army that shoots it's own wounded. If I could recall the genius behind the genius in that concept I would attribute their genius.
I find it ironic that in the age of tolerance, I have seen and witnessed much adversity as a believer in Jesus Christ. I am not simply talking about my own personal life, but also amongst peers. My belief has become one that is-not-tolerated in many social circles. I have spent years trying to escape confrontation, in the hope of never offending someone. Yes, there have been times when I have had a knot in my throat that I could not swallow--and I would speak God's truths. Those times have been somewhat spontaneous...like vomit, actually.
Today, I was reminded that I was promised adversity as a Christian. I do not speak as a martyr, victim or senseless wander lust woman who finally found something that makes me feel safe. I do not speak as one with a gun ready to shoot any who come in to my camp...Christian or otherwise. I really just want to tell you something.
I understand how the notion of a man, who proclaimed to be God's son, and a people who gather and eat crackers and drink grape juice each week in remembrance of a horrific murder...it's friggin' weird. It really is. It's confusing.
Dare I begin to get in to the historical (not the Biblical) man of Jesus?
No.
Not tonight.
I do have a case to prove, but I hope, and hope for all who believe in the saving grace of God through Jesus, that our proof will be in our lives. I hope our proof is in the imperfections of our lives. Grace does not exist without struggle.
I smoke occasionally at nap time. I like TOOL, NIN, and Perfect Circle.
I have had sex out of wedlock. A lot of sex (which I am not glorifying...it broke my heart and made me wish I knew who I was).
And you know what? I have had some really horrible people do some really, really horrible things in my life that changed me.
I have spit in the face of a man that was not even a mirror of an actual man after I beat him. I gave him a sign, my sign, my sins for him to carry on his cross to his death. I gave him my sign to carry and post as a crime he never committed...
"Liar. Cheat. Adulteress. Drunk."
And then I watched him suffocate to death. And then I walked away and stayed silent holding a sign that read, "Truthful witness. Honorable friend. Virgin. Renewed. Redeemed."
And as I glanced back, I saw his sign had changed and read the wrongs of every horrible person and every horrible thing they had ever done...to me.
The horrible men that abused a little girl. The horrible men that abused an adolescent. The horrible man that stole my virginity...
and many other crimes that I can't stomach telling anyone, especially via blog.
Or maybe, not ever.
Now, I realize "another Christian telling how much they love Jesus" may not be the new approach, or the one to create curiosity in a heart; so, I will attempt another...
Let's start at the beginning. God made the world. God made the world in a specific order. Now, I know this is the beginning of controversy, and I, having no left brain, may not be the best person to answer your carbon dating questions. What I do know, is that everything, ever-y-thing has a design. If anyone brought to you a watch would you assume it fashioned itself? We recognize design. Why is that?
I am unable to, perhaps, ask or answer the left brain questions...but let me ask you something...
do you understand the complexity of bacteria flagellum?
God gave the world order. Accidents don't organize themselves. Everything had, has, will have an order because the very world you are living in was stamped with the thumbprint of a Creator--a just Creator. He adores his creation. He adores me. He adores you.
Why did Jesus come in to the world? To testify to the truth (John 18:33-38). What was on trial?
Truth.
To my knowledge, no other man has ever said to me, "You don't have to do anything but believe that I am going to die for you, so you don't have to die. And then, you're saved." Seem too good to be true? If you answer yes to that question, then, perhaps you should wonder if you have been deceived. Perhaps you can ponder if you were the reason Jesus came to testify-to-the-truth.
So, if truth was on trial, it was naturally offering a fight against lies.
The fact that Jesus stood trial fought against lies held in our world-views, our home-views, our social-views...our views on justice.
Carl Sagan (Humanist of the year, 1981) said, "Our future depends on how we understand the cosmos, we will follow the truth no matter where it leads."
I have yet to find a scientific theory that began with a hypothesis, followed by a theory, and finally ended in a law that ended with, "the only conclusion that 'it' all came from somewhere,but we don't know where," where that theory was, in fact, attributed to God. In other words..."follow the truth wherever it leads"...unless it leads to God.
If our universe was really a random chaos, what would be the need to study it? We study it's amazing design.
In my limited understanding of left brain workings, if the data does not match the "law," you then change your hypothesis--and start over.
Mt. Rushmore was not random.
Yet DNA was somehow random? How long did it take for us to evolve so that our brains would get the message we had been cut, so that our blood would clot, so that we would not bleed to death? How did humanity survive, at all, during this time?
Again, I truly have no left brain and boast NOT of any knowledge in this area...I am taking something for it's skin and bones (truly).
In The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Darwin wrote letters that he could not be anything but sick when he encountered small details; ie: the peacock feather.
Just the structure of an Amoeba has enough detail to fill over 1,000 Encyclopedia Britannicas.
Now, truly, I back away because I am no source for Molecular Biology, or the fossil record. What my right brain tells me, however, is that any theory lacking evidence simply becomes it's own theory, supported, then, by it's lack of evidence.
I should shut up, because this is really not my strength.
Let me, now, move to more of my right brain (where I will have spelling errors, and ironically, is much shorter).
Let's say you wanted to convince someone, more than anything else you have ever wanted, that you loved them. What would you do to show that love, to prove that love? Anything, correct?
Now, I am not talking about God's love- I am talking about the notion of an enemy that DOES do everything to block us from the TRUTH of a God, Yahweh, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
What would he stop short of in an attempt to deceive you?
Hypocritical Christians is too easy (and widely used).
Ugly hearted Christians (of which I AM one)?
Economic collapse?
Rape?
Incest?
Murder?
Losing your job? Family?
How about all of those starving kids (thank you, Francis Chan for reminding me that while I am asking God 'why are so many people starving,' God is asking me that question).
Storms? War?
You see a just God does not violate his own laws in which he created the world to run. He does not become a puppet master forcing us to follow and obey.
While he does voluntarily limit himself so we are able to experience his presence in this broken world, he does not stop his order...because he is just.
(Parts of this blog have been inspired by 'The Truth Project' and the very wonderful Del Tackett. I wish he was my grandpa.)
I find it ironic that in the age of tolerance, I have seen and witnessed much adversity as a believer in Jesus Christ. I am not simply talking about my own personal life, but also amongst peers. My belief has become one that is-not-tolerated in many social circles. I have spent years trying to escape confrontation, in the hope of never offending someone. Yes, there have been times when I have had a knot in my throat that I could not swallow--and I would speak God's truths. Those times have been somewhat spontaneous...like vomit, actually.
Today, I was reminded that I was promised adversity as a Christian. I do not speak as a martyr, victim or senseless wander lust woman who finally found something that makes me feel safe. I do not speak as one with a gun ready to shoot any who come in to my camp...Christian or otherwise. I really just want to tell you something.
I understand how the notion of a man, who proclaimed to be God's son, and a people who gather and eat crackers and drink grape juice each week in remembrance of a horrific murder...it's friggin' weird. It really is. It's confusing.
Dare I begin to get in to the historical (not the Biblical) man of Jesus?
No.
Not tonight.
I do have a case to prove, but I hope, and hope for all who believe in the saving grace of God through Jesus, that our proof will be in our lives. I hope our proof is in the imperfections of our lives. Grace does not exist without struggle.
I smoke occasionally at nap time. I like TOOL, NIN, and Perfect Circle.
I have had sex out of wedlock. A lot of sex (which I am not glorifying...it broke my heart and made me wish I knew who I was).
And you know what? I have had some really horrible people do some really, really horrible things in my life that changed me.
I have spit in the face of a man that was not even a mirror of an actual man after I beat him. I gave him a sign, my sign, my sins for him to carry on his cross to his death. I gave him my sign to carry and post as a crime he never committed...
"Liar. Cheat. Adulteress. Drunk."
And then I watched him suffocate to death. And then I walked away and stayed silent holding a sign that read, "Truthful witness. Honorable friend. Virgin. Renewed. Redeemed."
And as I glanced back, I saw his sign had changed and read the wrongs of every horrible person and every horrible thing they had ever done...to me.
The horrible men that abused a little girl. The horrible men that abused an adolescent. The horrible man that stole my virginity...
and many other crimes that I can't stomach telling anyone, especially via blog.
Or maybe, not ever.
Now, I realize "another Christian telling how much they love Jesus" may not be the new approach, or the one to create curiosity in a heart; so, I will attempt another...
Let's start at the beginning. God made the world. God made the world in a specific order. Now, I know this is the beginning of controversy, and I, having no left brain, may not be the best person to answer your carbon dating questions. What I do know, is that everything, ever-y-thing has a design. If anyone brought to you a watch would you assume it fashioned itself? We recognize design. Why is that?
I am unable to, perhaps, ask or answer the left brain questions...but let me ask you something...
do you understand the complexity of bacteria flagellum?
God gave the world order. Accidents don't organize themselves. Everything had, has, will have an order because the very world you are living in was stamped with the thumbprint of a Creator--a just Creator. He adores his creation. He adores me. He adores you.
Why did Jesus come in to the world? To testify to the truth (John 18:33-38). What was on trial?
Truth.
To my knowledge, no other man has ever said to me, "You don't have to do anything but believe that I am going to die for you, so you don't have to die. And then, you're saved." Seem too good to be true? If you answer yes to that question, then, perhaps you should wonder if you have been deceived. Perhaps you can ponder if you were the reason Jesus came to testify-to-the-truth.
So, if truth was on trial, it was naturally offering a fight against lies.
The fact that Jesus stood trial fought against lies held in our world-views, our home-views, our social-views...our views on justice.
Carl Sagan (Humanist of the year, 1981) said, "Our future depends on how we understand the cosmos, we will follow the truth no matter where it leads."
I have yet to find a scientific theory that began with a hypothesis, followed by a theory, and finally ended in a law that ended with, "the only conclusion that 'it' all came from somewhere,but we don't know where," where that theory was, in fact, attributed to God. In other words..."follow the truth wherever it leads"...unless it leads to God.
If our universe was really a random chaos, what would be the need to study it? We study it's amazing design.
In my limited understanding of left brain workings, if the data does not match the "law," you then change your hypothesis--and start over.
Mt. Rushmore was not random.
Yet DNA was somehow random? How long did it take for us to evolve so that our brains would get the message we had been cut, so that our blood would clot, so that we would not bleed to death? How did humanity survive, at all, during this time?
Again, I truly have no left brain and boast NOT of any knowledge in this area...I am taking something for it's skin and bones (truly).
In The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Darwin wrote letters that he could not be anything but sick when he encountered small details; ie: the peacock feather.
Just the structure of an Amoeba has enough detail to fill over 1,000 Encyclopedia Britannicas.
Now, truly, I back away because I am no source for Molecular Biology, or the fossil record. What my right brain tells me, however, is that any theory lacking evidence simply becomes it's own theory, supported, then, by it's lack of evidence.
I should shut up, because this is really not my strength.
Let me, now, move to more of my right brain (where I will have spelling errors, and ironically, is much shorter).
Let's say you wanted to convince someone, more than anything else you have ever wanted, that you loved them. What would you do to show that love, to prove that love? Anything, correct?
Now, I am not talking about God's love- I am talking about the notion of an enemy that DOES do everything to block us from the TRUTH of a God, Yahweh, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
What would he stop short of in an attempt to deceive you?
Hypocritical Christians is too easy (and widely used).
Ugly hearted Christians (of which I AM one)?
Economic collapse?
Rape?
Incest?
Murder?
Losing your job? Family?
How about all of those starving kids (thank you, Francis Chan for reminding me that while I am asking God 'why are so many people starving,' God is asking me that question).
Storms? War?
You see a just God does not violate his own laws in which he created the world to run. He does not become a puppet master forcing us to follow and obey.
While he does voluntarily limit himself so we are able to experience his presence in this broken world, he does not stop his order...because he is just.
(Parts of this blog have been inspired by 'The Truth Project' and the very wonderful Del Tackett. I wish he was my grandpa.)
Friday, September 7, 2012
chicken scratch--literally
If I'm being honest, and you always should when you write, I am best at prose, these days. Chicken scratch. And writing on photographs. I'll show you if you ask. It's like painting. Well, no, it is painting. It's using words to paint a picture. No, it's using a picture to paint your words...
I realize some people actually want to know how to write. Well, I won't spend your time or mine on grammar or punctuation...but it does matter. Anyway, you-just-write-and-don't care. You will find something in yourself when you do that and it will surprise you what you were thinking.
nostalgia
perplexed? don't fall through
the ice-
i only said hello
i slept in a canopy of howls
and marked the way back
with pieces of bread
crumbs
...and then you can shape it later, if you want to shape it later...
This-is prose. I think it's horrible that Ginsberg had a thing for boys in his basement, and I can't say I stand for all of 'Howl' but it's brilliant. Always been one of my favorites. Read it. Read America. William Carlos Williams- another one. His short stories make me want to write and make sense of something. He will make you want to write like dancing.
I wrote "I miss you" in the sky with a flashlight- from the base of "somewhere over the rainbow" listening to bon iver and thinking about trains. you would understand, i think. and in another life, you may appreciate that. but I don't believe in other lives...just this one.
Main st smells like a big city if you catch it by a donut shop, someone smoking, coffee in hand and the sound of a bus. the city is everywhere. the whole rest of the world is an inch- ONE INCH from the tip of my nose. my porch. the whole-world.
it seems strange to feel trapped when you think of it that way.
i live in a town where I can say i took my dress to francis st and everyone know I am talking about the cleaners.
each step of the walking waking world would make the most incredible song...the-most-incredible song. I don't find myself in a new pair of shoes like some people I know. I don't think it's bad that they do, in fact I am jealous, probably. perhaps I am the dullard. it's like you see your whole life broken in to pieces when you need the big picture, like a daunting landscape of years and vacations and pictures that tell a story you wish you were a part of. i am not the den mother. I am not the voice of reason in the thriller. am i?
sang in my head the entire time was bumpy
i think it rained yesterday
was windy and I was
numb
i told my sister I would write about what I would tell the 17 year old me. surprisingly, i have only a few things for now...if it's possible to even attempt that novel, here is the beginning, I suppose:
play basketball this year. you will still want to kick box in 10 years, and you can--then.
keep playing-the-piano. sing more. sing. sing. sing. don't stop singing your freshman year of college. sing. it wakes your soul up. don't forget that, it will change you temporarily if you forget that.
don't get in the car with 'X'.
don't fall for something later just because it's a really good story. you will realize, all too late, that's all it was--a really good story. and the irony of your life will be that you are the only one who won't buy it.
prose.
I realize some people actually want to know how to write. Well, I won't spend your time or mine on grammar or punctuation...but it does matter. Anyway, you-just-write-and-don't care. You will find something in yourself when you do that and it will surprise you what you were thinking.
nostalgia
perplexed? don't fall through
the ice-
i only said hello
i slept in a canopy of howls
and marked the way back
with pieces of bread
crumbs
...and then you can shape it later, if you want to shape it later...
This-is prose. I think it's horrible that Ginsberg had a thing for boys in his basement, and I can't say I stand for all of 'Howl' but it's brilliant. Always been one of my favorites. Read it. Read America. William Carlos Williams- another one. His short stories make me want to write and make sense of something. He will make you want to write like dancing.
I wrote "I miss you" in the sky with a flashlight- from the base of "somewhere over the rainbow" listening to bon iver and thinking about trains. you would understand, i think. and in another life, you may appreciate that. but I don't believe in other lives...just this one.
Main st smells like a big city if you catch it by a donut shop, someone smoking, coffee in hand and the sound of a bus. the city is everywhere. the whole rest of the world is an inch- ONE INCH from the tip of my nose. my porch. the whole-world.
it seems strange to feel trapped when you think of it that way.
i live in a town where I can say i took my dress to francis st and everyone know I am talking about the cleaners.
each step of the walking waking world would make the most incredible song...the-most-incredible song. I don't find myself in a new pair of shoes like some people I know. I don't think it's bad that they do, in fact I am jealous, probably. perhaps I am the dullard. it's like you see your whole life broken in to pieces when you need the big picture, like a daunting landscape of years and vacations and pictures that tell a story you wish you were a part of. i am not the den mother. I am not the voice of reason in the thriller. am i?
sang in my head the entire time was bumpy
i think it rained yesterday
was windy and I was
numb
i told my sister I would write about what I would tell the 17 year old me. surprisingly, i have only a few things for now...if it's possible to even attempt that novel, here is the beginning, I suppose:
play basketball this year. you will still want to kick box in 10 years, and you can--then.
keep playing-the-piano. sing more. sing. sing. sing. don't stop singing your freshman year of college. sing. it wakes your soul up. don't forget that, it will change you temporarily if you forget that.
don't get in the car with 'X'.
don't fall for something later just because it's a really good story. you will realize, all too late, that's all it was--a really good story. and the irony of your life will be that you are the only one who won't buy it.
prose.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Battleship
Healing from a battle wound is like standing on the shore. There are times the pain calmly laps over your feet and never once does it hinder your ability to walk-to STOMP- all over and inside of it. Then, as the tide rises, it seems to surprise as it swallows you. Covers your head. No up from down. And you are left in a cloud of sand that hides your predators, and you are left with burning, aching lungs. The more you fight this, the less energy you have to fight...this.
While I write from the edges of my heart on this blog, I keep some things cryptic on purpose. Although written to a phantom audience, even some of those ghosts have no business knowing.
Writing heals, and it can also wound. You can easily write yourself in circles until you feel--and welcome--familiar warm arms of apathy to enclose you. In these arms you believe the lie that you have no strength to fight. And you stop.
It's tricky, though.
Once you are consumed in that tidal wave, be it fear or sadness, you incur less injury by being limp. Your predators may leave if they think you already dead. So, how is one to know what to do?
I believe, with all of my heart, that a person's mouth will be their undoing. Words matter matter matter. So, as I write this I'm faced with a choice: do I write about the tide, all be it true, or do I write about the calm with will come?
I will choose the latter.
To follow a dream you must know it exists or you will find yourself chasing the wind. I believe my husband's dream exists. I believe in my dream. My dream is family.
Family is institution. Family is diversity within unity. Family is love. Family is God's heart.
Strong families make a strong nation. I have never fought a war of nations, but I am a soldier. Sometimes, ladies, we need to be silent. When you look at your husband in the eyes like a deer in the headlights, when your inside voice is screaming and beating words up your throat, when your burning lungs in that tidal wave have just enough air to push your very heart past your tongue...we just need to be silent and search our hearts. This makes us soldiers.
This use of 'soldier' is not to be mistaken for being a martyr, as some wives are King of (play on words intentional). It's easy to mutter beneath our breath as we do the dishes, as we pick up clothes (am I the only one who knows where the hamper is?). Or as we submit. I have learned that submission does NOT mean going placidly in the night as pirates devour my gold. This word encompasses a battle of fighting pirates within OURSELVES- and takes incredible force and endurance. And some nights our battle is to walk the halls alone, again, at 2 am, holding our crying babes.
But you see...this is my life. It is no one's job but mine to choose joy in my life.
Some would say that being joyful and trusting God through these tidal waves makes for a controlled and boring life. Still, others ask, "Isn't it a crutch?"
Believing and trusting in the Living God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob is the craziest adventure of...well...my life. Boring? Not even for a minute.
Is it also a crutch? Absolutely. And I welcome these limp legs in this wave because then there is rescue. And I need that 'crutch' that is my God because I cannot do this alone.
Can you?
Don't you ever just feel like you just-can't-do-it?
I have a choice in this tidal wave, and I choose to ride these waves with generous dignity. When I can't fight, the Lord God of Israel will fight for me and I need only to be still. And this makes me a soldier.
My battles will be fought and won and great will be my children's peace.
While I write from the edges of my heart on this blog, I keep some things cryptic on purpose. Although written to a phantom audience, even some of those ghosts have no business knowing.
Writing heals, and it can also wound. You can easily write yourself in circles until you feel--and welcome--familiar warm arms of apathy to enclose you. In these arms you believe the lie that you have no strength to fight. And you stop.
It's tricky, though.
Once you are consumed in that tidal wave, be it fear or sadness, you incur less injury by being limp. Your predators may leave if they think you already dead. So, how is one to know what to do?
I believe, with all of my heart, that a person's mouth will be their undoing. Words matter matter matter. So, as I write this I'm faced with a choice: do I write about the tide, all be it true, or do I write about the calm with will come?
I will choose the latter.
To follow a dream you must know it exists or you will find yourself chasing the wind. I believe my husband's dream exists. I believe in my dream. My dream is family.
Family is institution. Family is diversity within unity. Family is love. Family is God's heart.
Strong families make a strong nation. I have never fought a war of nations, but I am a soldier. Sometimes, ladies, we need to be silent. When you look at your husband in the eyes like a deer in the headlights, when your inside voice is screaming and beating words up your throat, when your burning lungs in that tidal wave have just enough air to push your very heart past your tongue...we just need to be silent and search our hearts. This makes us soldiers.
This use of 'soldier' is not to be mistaken for being a martyr, as some wives are King of (play on words intentional). It's easy to mutter beneath our breath as we do the dishes, as we pick up clothes (am I the only one who knows where the hamper is?). Or as we submit. I have learned that submission does NOT mean going placidly in the night as pirates devour my gold. This word encompasses a battle of fighting pirates within OURSELVES- and takes incredible force and endurance. And some nights our battle is to walk the halls alone, again, at 2 am, holding our crying babes.
But you see...this is my life. It is no one's job but mine to choose joy in my life.
Some would say that being joyful and trusting God through these tidal waves makes for a controlled and boring life. Still, others ask, "Isn't it a crutch?"
Believing and trusting in the Living God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob is the craziest adventure of...well...my life. Boring? Not even for a minute.
Is it also a crutch? Absolutely. And I welcome these limp legs in this wave because then there is rescue. And I need that 'crutch' that is my God because I cannot do this alone.
Can you?
Don't you ever just feel like you just-can't-do-it?
I have a choice in this tidal wave, and I choose to ride these waves with generous dignity. When I can't fight, the Lord God of Israel will fight for me and I need only to be still. And this makes me a soldier.
My battles will be fought and won and great will be my children's peace.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
a young 80 something
I saw my Uncle Johnny tonight. The last time I saw him was at my Great Uncle Pocco's funeral. The last time I had seen my Uncle Pocco was at Christmas that year. Pueblo.
Pocco (Presley) and I watched football talking about the team that year. We never talked about how he was dying. We never talked about how we was going to die. We hugged goodbye like it was an Easter dinner years past when everyone we both knew and loved was still alive. We hugged like we will see each other again. At Easter.
That's how everyone in the Casack family says goodbye...like we will see each other again. And we will.
I was richly blessed and was adopted in 2nd grade by the man my mother married. I was adopted by my father- the only father ever meant to be mine.
And his family is my family. Of course they are.
But there is something about my mother's family that feels more like home. I don't know how to say it without possibly hurting feelings, which is not my intention. I just mean... I understand something about Pueblo and watering the lawn from my grandfather's porch that no one else could ever understand.
The time in between trips to Pueblo is enough to fill a lifetime, it seems. Time I lived there as a child of a single mother and every weekend until I was 7 and my mom married. Every Friday picked up from school. Every weekend stories and soda in bed with grandma and strawberry grass stains on my knees.
Most of this won't make sense to anyone. I don't care. Most of this won't be grammatically correct. I don't care.
I just have to have somewhere to put what flooded me tonight before it disappears. like i think i will disappear once my grandmother dies. like i think every memory that ever mattered to write down before i had children will disappear once my sweet grams dies and how i never visit her at her nursing home even now that she is here in longmont, finally, and why don't you go see her, ashley rose? why won't you go see rosemary which the flower means remembrance which is more than ironic and lovely and horribly sad because she can't keep her eyes open long enough to even recognize a voice and why can't i go see her?
why can't i go see you? why can't you remember, grams?
it's me. it's pale flower. it's me. you would remember me.
and sometimes i think you are the only one that would. that would really remember me.
i used to tear pages of my journals out and hand them to people in case i died. to be remembered.
feeding you strawberry sundaes, watching your hands shake on the table like you are blowing on a candle like you are whistling...
and it's like our lives are polaroid pictures that sat in an album in the sun and now they are garish orange colors bled all together making some sort of collage of what...was the picture. what was an anniversary. a song. life.
i used to drive for hours just to help you brush your teeth and tuck you in once your life became an 8X10 room with one box of frames and drive back with a pack of cigarettes and smoke every-single-one singing at the top of my heart from the bottom of my lungs like you could hear me and like i was helping you sleep
and i wanted to see you poke your sweet fingers through the blinds again from your mobile home and wave goodbye because you knew i was leaving and because you knew i would see you again and you would see me.
at easter.
aunt margie's laugh you always thought every person checking you out at the grocery store was upset with you the time you had to put the apples back because you didn't have enough money the time you lost your car and walked for hours in the parking lot when you first started to forget the story about the turpentine and how i laughed the moth in the kitchen and grandpa's green robe on the back of the bathroom door the wall of mirrors the room that scared me the crack in the sidewalk were i tripped at the twins' house every time i chased your car down the street when you and grandpa dropped me off back home the steel mill marking the drive home. my mom gave me the rocker and wanted it back to refinish. and it broke my heart.
the pictures riddled on aunt lou's wall with generations of life crawling in to grandpa's lap at age 15--minutes before he walked himself out of his house to go die he knew he would die at that hospital and so did i and i felt his tears in my hair as he held me.
i felt his tears in my hair. no more russian easters. why don't we have russian easter's grams? I can bring the basket and honey...you can bring the host and parsley. and i want to see you at that table. God, i want to see my family at easter.
the dream you had after both of your sons had died. tony and steve. drunk drivers. the way you told the story of the police coming to your door. again. the sirens. the way you knew.
the blocks of bikers around the church that day. grandpa in court giving that man freedom "ruining his life won't bring my son's back."
tony's life after his daddy was killed. prison. kids. drugs. sobriety. i love that brother cousin of mine.
when you drove around the block listening to "the hollies- he ain't heavy" and cried and asked me to be quiet and how i understand that funeral song after i can't tell you anymore. alan parson's project "time."
the gold leaf ring. the ruby ring. the plastic ring. the gap you have in your teeth. me too.
taking you to the bathroom. the role reversal in our lovely relationship...helping you put your shoes on. and tie them.
the morning of grandpa's funeral. you cried because you sat on your glasses. i cried because i got red lipstick on my white dress.
i miss you. grandma I miss you. i miss my family. i miss my family. i miss you.
you would have so much to say to me in this season of my life. i know you would. you knew something all along that we never knew...
and i can't ask you anymore.
and you are sleeping blocks away from me.
blocks!!!! and i have not seen you since your birthday LAST march. Cards i have bought for you...stupid, cheesy, FAKE cards are in my desk drawer like a crime.
"don't bring me flowers when I am dead."
when were you last outside, rosebud?
when did you last see a tree? a squirrel? i killed one the other day. hit it with my car. i sobbed. man, i hate it when i kill animals.
called you from pay phones growing up. had a dime in my shoe every day for passing period.
i miss your voice. i miss talking to grandpa.
when he died i set my alarm for 15 minutes.
15 minutes.
and i wept. i crawled in to a ball and rocked on my floor and muddled ungodly tones in to my fists and pillow. and then my alarm went off. and i stopped crying.
how do you deal with one of your dads dying?
i could ask you. but i can't.
the music and how "Jesus knew what he was doing to create something so beautiful as that." the scorpion in the sliding glass door. I Love Lucy. Golden Girls. squeeze its. cherries.
fighting with tony at grandpa's feet when he made us play under the dining room table as a reminder...he was there.
when he walked out of his house the last time a moth flew in. and he looked at me and told me i would have to get them myself now. mass. funerals.
the shadow of the fan as it whirled over that statue of mary the last time you could go to mass.
the time you told the woman she looked like a man because you didn't know you were saying that.
the way you still would ask if you get me anything...when you could not go to the bathroom yourself...you just didn't know.
the brown glass always filled with water at grandpa's spot. the way his eyebrows raised when he opened the mail. cigar smoke.
nadia's theme for your 25th.
you hid the chocolate in your underwear drawer. and the alka-seltzer. pushing the veins on your hands. baths in the sink. cyrus.
i learned how to be an adult as a child.
i have a bed time. i have to go to bed. i have two kids these days.
i love you.
pale flower
Pocco (Presley) and I watched football talking about the team that year. We never talked about how he was dying. We never talked about how we was going to die. We hugged goodbye like it was an Easter dinner years past when everyone we both knew and loved was still alive. We hugged like we will see each other again. At Easter.
That's how everyone in the Casack family says goodbye...like we will see each other again. And we will.
I was richly blessed and was adopted in 2nd grade by the man my mother married. I was adopted by my father- the only father ever meant to be mine.
And his family is my family. Of course they are.
But there is something about my mother's family that feels more like home. I don't know how to say it without possibly hurting feelings, which is not my intention. I just mean... I understand something about Pueblo and watering the lawn from my grandfather's porch that no one else could ever understand.
The time in between trips to Pueblo is enough to fill a lifetime, it seems. Time I lived there as a child of a single mother and every weekend until I was 7 and my mom married. Every Friday picked up from school. Every weekend stories and soda in bed with grandma and strawberry grass stains on my knees.
Most of this won't make sense to anyone. I don't care. Most of this won't be grammatically correct. I don't care.
I just have to have somewhere to put what flooded me tonight before it disappears. like i think i will disappear once my grandmother dies. like i think every memory that ever mattered to write down before i had children will disappear once my sweet grams dies and how i never visit her at her nursing home even now that she is here in longmont, finally, and why don't you go see her, ashley rose? why won't you go see rosemary which the flower means remembrance which is more than ironic and lovely and horribly sad because she can't keep her eyes open long enough to even recognize a voice and why can't i go see her?
why can't i go see you? why can't you remember, grams?
it's me. it's pale flower. it's me. you would remember me.
and sometimes i think you are the only one that would. that would really remember me.
i used to tear pages of my journals out and hand them to people in case i died. to be remembered.
feeding you strawberry sundaes, watching your hands shake on the table like you are blowing on a candle like you are whistling...
and it's like our lives are polaroid pictures that sat in an album in the sun and now they are garish orange colors bled all together making some sort of collage of what...was the picture. what was an anniversary. a song. life.
i used to drive for hours just to help you brush your teeth and tuck you in once your life became an 8X10 room with one box of frames and drive back with a pack of cigarettes and smoke every-single-one singing at the top of my heart from the bottom of my lungs like you could hear me and like i was helping you sleep
and i wanted to see you poke your sweet fingers through the blinds again from your mobile home and wave goodbye because you knew i was leaving and because you knew i would see you again and you would see me.
at easter.
aunt margie's laugh you always thought every person checking you out at the grocery store was upset with you the time you had to put the apples back because you didn't have enough money the time you lost your car and walked for hours in the parking lot when you first started to forget the story about the turpentine and how i laughed the moth in the kitchen and grandpa's green robe on the back of the bathroom door the wall of mirrors the room that scared me the crack in the sidewalk were i tripped at the twins' house every time i chased your car down the street when you and grandpa dropped me off back home the steel mill marking the drive home. my mom gave me the rocker and wanted it back to refinish. and it broke my heart.
the pictures riddled on aunt lou's wall with generations of life crawling in to grandpa's lap at age 15--minutes before he walked himself out of his house to go die he knew he would die at that hospital and so did i and i felt his tears in my hair as he held me.
i felt his tears in my hair. no more russian easters. why don't we have russian easter's grams? I can bring the basket and honey...you can bring the host and parsley. and i want to see you at that table. God, i want to see my family at easter.
the dream you had after both of your sons had died. tony and steve. drunk drivers. the way you told the story of the police coming to your door. again. the sirens. the way you knew.
the blocks of bikers around the church that day. grandpa in court giving that man freedom "ruining his life won't bring my son's back."
tony's life after his daddy was killed. prison. kids. drugs. sobriety. i love that brother cousin of mine.
when you drove around the block listening to "the hollies- he ain't heavy" and cried and asked me to be quiet and how i understand that funeral song after i can't tell you anymore. alan parson's project "time."
the gold leaf ring. the ruby ring. the plastic ring. the gap you have in your teeth. me too.
taking you to the bathroom. the role reversal in our lovely relationship...helping you put your shoes on. and tie them.
the morning of grandpa's funeral. you cried because you sat on your glasses. i cried because i got red lipstick on my white dress.
i miss you. grandma I miss you. i miss my family. i miss my family. i miss you.
you would have so much to say to me in this season of my life. i know you would. you knew something all along that we never knew...
and i can't ask you anymore.
and you are sleeping blocks away from me.
blocks!!!! and i have not seen you since your birthday LAST march. Cards i have bought for you...stupid, cheesy, FAKE cards are in my desk drawer like a crime.
"don't bring me flowers when I am dead."
when were you last outside, rosebud?
when did you last see a tree? a squirrel? i killed one the other day. hit it with my car. i sobbed. man, i hate it when i kill animals.
called you from pay phones growing up. had a dime in my shoe every day for passing period.
i miss your voice. i miss talking to grandpa.
when he died i set my alarm for 15 minutes.
15 minutes.
and i wept. i crawled in to a ball and rocked on my floor and muddled ungodly tones in to my fists and pillow. and then my alarm went off. and i stopped crying.
how do you deal with one of your dads dying?
i could ask you. but i can't.
the music and how "Jesus knew what he was doing to create something so beautiful as that." the scorpion in the sliding glass door. I Love Lucy. Golden Girls. squeeze its. cherries.
fighting with tony at grandpa's feet when he made us play under the dining room table as a reminder...he was there.
when he walked out of his house the last time a moth flew in. and he looked at me and told me i would have to get them myself now. mass. funerals.
the shadow of the fan as it whirled over that statue of mary the last time you could go to mass.
the time you told the woman she looked like a man because you didn't know you were saying that.
the way you still would ask if you get me anything...when you could not go to the bathroom yourself...you just didn't know.
the brown glass always filled with water at grandpa's spot. the way his eyebrows raised when he opened the mail. cigar smoke.
nadia's theme for your 25th.
you hid the chocolate in your underwear drawer. and the alka-seltzer. pushing the veins on your hands. baths in the sink. cyrus.
i learned how to be an adult as a child.
i have a bed time. i have to go to bed. i have two kids these days.
i love you.
pale flower
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