Travels

We drove and drove and drove west. 1,270 miles to be exact (and that's just one-way). Wide expanses of black, yellow-dashed interstate stretched out in front of and behind us. The first 17 hours of the trip I drove solo, just me and my kids. Although I felt trepidation about the driving before we left, the time in the car ended up being quite peaceful. The hum of the tires. The whir of the DVD player. The long, long playlist of songs on my iPod. Outside my windows a moving meditation of diverse landscapes unfolded at 72 MPH. My own personal wonderland.

I watched as the mountains of western New Jersey gave way to the slope and rolling interstate of Pennsylvania. And as I drove west on I-80, Pennsylvania yielded to Ohio. Western Ohio still held the slight hills of the previous state but I knew, because I lived my younger years in northern Ohio, that the paths of the ancient glaciers would soon make their journey evident as we traveled into the flatest of flats.

I still find it strange to be an adult where I used to be a kid. And, for the record, I find it strange that I find this strange. Since my family moved so often when I was growing up, a different place is home now than it was when I was young. I moved five times before I was in Kindergarten. I moved in 7th, 9th and 11th grades. I went to college. I moved eight times since I graduated from college. I've so often craved a familiar, physical home--the place I can navigate with my eyes closed. But. Instead I have a cornucopia of homes, places I hold dear sprinkled with memories of living. I can see them like red push-pins dotted all over a map.

*****

It's funny where some memories reside. Some live in expected places--for me, in the scent of garlic and onions sauteeing in butter. In the arms of my husband and in the sleeping bodies of my children. In the coolness of my mother's hand. Memories sit in the smell of chlorine and old photographs, boxed and filed in the basement.

But others reside in complex, unexpected places. As I drove through Ohio, I began to see the inky tails of memories, zipping by, their traces like car exhaust in the cold of January. Pungent. Nearly invisible. Daring me to see them.

These memories lurked under concrete underpasses. In the accordian fans of corn. In the flat expanse of black highway. They congregated on the low-hanging power lines, like black birds. Memories lived here. The ones that I don't often visit. It makes me wonder: are they really memories if they don't reside in my brain? Or are they blips, nascent experiences just waiting to be reclaimed, ready to graduate to memory status?

*****

When I used to travel these roads, I rode as a passenger. In the back on a red, vinyl bench seat with a lap belt holding me safely in place. My parents consulted a map to determine their direction--I can still see my mom's hands and arms folding a map of Ohio into submission. Now, I drive. Airbags and car seats fill my minivan. I consult my phone and my navigation system for directions. Straw wrappers litter the floor mats. My kids watch movies and slightly scuffed DVDs join the wrappers on the floors. I send up a mother's wish that the little-finger smudges and scratches don't prevent the DVDs from playing. When I look down quickly at the steering wheel, I can see a pair of hands that would pass as my mother's. But they're mine.

Now what used to legitimately be called laugh-lines are well-deserved wrinkles covered in a shroud of SPF 70 trying to undo years of sun damage garnered in the 70s and 80s. When I used to live here. When these roads were home.

*****

Now I'm driving my kids to my dear friends' and family's houses and I brief my kids before we arrive:

The last time you saw Myles you were both in diapers and you stole toys from him.

You last met this family two years ago. Remember--she was pregnant? Well, now that baby is

almost two.

She was a bridesmaid at Daddy's and my wedding. Yes, I was one at hers, too.

We stop. Many times. At houses we've stopped at many times before. Familiar driveways and strong, safe, knowing arms greet us. These people know all my nooks and crannies because they lived a lot of them with me. At each predetermined stop, we gorge ourselves on hugs and kisses and so many stories. Told in person, instead of over the phone. Complete with live facial expressions and shiny eyes. We share stories of our families. Of challenges and triumphs. Of life. Of children's successes and, shall we say, quirks. And of ours.

I get to hold and squeeze the little bodies whose sweet faces fill my Christmas card stack.

I remember...

I hear these words emerging from my mouth, directed lovingly toward my friend's children, just as I heard my mother say before me.

I remember when I held you in my arms and you were only this big

I remember the last time I saw you and you were a bump in your Mama's belly.

I kiss their sweet heads and enjoy highly fractured conversations with their moms.

Suddenly, hours and days have passed and it's time to go. Again. We exchange teary, long-held goodbyes with many repeats. We try to shove two years of living into days, hours, lunches.

Each time the kids and I walk into the driveways and climb back into the blue minivan, we hug our friends again.

They say,

Oh, take this kettle corn

and

Here are some snacks for the road

and

Do you need any other food

and

Text me when you get there

and they love through their outstretched offerings of food stuffs, through their outstretched arms, as women do by mothering and nurturing and caring. At each stop, we pull out of the driveway loaded with teary goodbyes, more food than we could possibly eat and a strong reserve of hugs. Physical reminders that friendship perseveres miles and 365-day-stretches-of-days.

My heart and stomach lurch. We pull out of the many driveways, windows open to the Midwestern summer air. Our tanned arms waving, tears regathering, horn honking.

We see their hands waving back, waving so many simultaneous wishes. Indentations of our memories bind us, holding us together, connected until we met again.

And we move on. Our four wheels carrying us to the next state, the next stop, the next set of welcoming arms. Home.

Road Trip

Well, my friends, the time of year has come when my writing and blogging slow to a crawl. It's a bittersweet time: bitter because I adore writing, blogging and this on-line space we all inhabit. Sweet because it's summer and we have nothing but Time and we're preparing for a nice long, old-fashioned road trip. (I put those words like nice and old-fashioned in there to trick myself into believing that 23 hours in the car will be nice. And old-fashioned? Well, Will from Will & Grace once said something like, "Why is it that when you put the word old-fashioned in front of anything, it becomes wonderful?" )

I will miss our connections. So I'm hoping (fingers crossed tightly) that we'll reconnect where I drop off. And I'll still post occasionally. I know I won't be able to stay away for too long from this space that I love.

So happy trails to you (and to me--please, please let me have happy trails) and enjoy the summer solstice.

Into Focus

I can't remember when I first visited Christine's blog, Coffees and Commutes. But I can tell you that now, I can't imagine a week when I don't seek out her words, rich with truth and insight.

Christine writes candidly about her life as a mother, her career and her life with depression. We both unfortunately walk this life of depression. But gratefully, after reading her posts, I feel human. Normal. Not alone. Her words are like a hand, stretching through my screen and into my soul.

Today's guest post is by Christine. Please read her powerful words and if you don't already, visit her wonderful blog. I'm sure you'll be so glad you did.

Into Focus

I felt a flash of optimism today. Actually it announced itself like a flash, but steadied itself quickly into a flickering light. There it was, dancing calmly in front of me, small, but resolute and strong. With it comes clarity, the kind of clarity that comes with a new set of glasses, my life finally vibrant and crisp.

Because I wasn’t expecting it, it felt delicious and wondrous.

When you start to come out of a dense fog, the glint of transparency seems to sparkle brilliantly. You reflect and realize how overcome your life was by sadness and despair. The new clarity stands completely juxtaposed to the more familiar grey oppression, tantalizing with the freshness of a sunny spring day. For a short time, I reveled in it and was reminded how good life could feel.

When I first fell into my personal abyss and realized that I would need medication to help me out of the sludge of my mind, it wasn’t long before I started to feel better. Within a week the haze started to life, my energy slowly rebounded, my heart’s cadence slowed to a more manageable rhythm.

Now, many weeks later, I believe I may actually be getting better. I’m more myself than I have been in a very long time. It feels like the return of an old friend who you didn’t even realize you had missed, the familiarity bringing a new sensation full of ripe possibilities.

It’s very difficult to describe how pervasive my depression was. Now with clarity, comes the benefit of hindsight and a feeling of sadness for the self who was lost for so long and all that was missed because of it. I feel like whole pockets of the past couple of years have been taken from me, particularly the last 5 or 6 months.

I’m told this is common, that when people begin to feel better they recognize that the struggle was there far longer than they ever knew. The slide was gradual of course, but it was deep. I think that’s the true horror of this illness—how it squeezes a person’s wellbeing in the most secretive way, so that it’s not obvious to the one who matters most—yourself.

But here’s what I now know. At the beginning of this year I set out to find myself. In the process I completely lost myself. Now I believe this is exactly what was supposed to happen.

Until recently I fought it, refusing to allow myself to be lost. That is precisely where the sadness and confusion came from. I was afraid to let go and just be. I thought self-understanding came like an achievement, something to reach. Like a place of souls. When all along it was inside me—right now—right here.

It seems cliché, but I really did need to lose myself before I could truly find myself.

I was so blind I almost missed itI floundered and sputtered and practically snuffed out my own breath in a desperate attempt to discover something that didn’t exist.

A self beyond myself.

So here I am, trying this realization on for size and reminding myself to breathe in the simplicity of a live lived each day. This very moment. Consciously reminding myself, as I do so often with my children—stop, breathe, focus. I feeling my thoughts and allow them without judgment. Testing it out, learning it.

Simple, and yet so hard. Practicing.

Acknowledging that what I feel is real and okay. And then moving on. Deeper. But within the self who I already am.

Ties That Bind

We pulled into our driveway and parked. I got the grocery bags and made multiple trips into the house with them. In and out, up the stairs and down, open and close the door. I got back to the car and found Henry, still sitting in his car seat, staring into the air. I stood just outside the door of our blue minivan. I bit my tongue. My usual strings of sentences ached to pop out, Come on, Henry, get out of your car seat. Come on, hurry up. UNBUCKLE. Get your things. Come on, come on COME ON!

But.

This time, my words stalled, dissolving on my tongue. I don't know why I was able to stop. Typically, when the mental list of To Dos swirls, I cannot stop its throbbing beat. Maybe, on this day, I was able because we had no pressing plans. Or maybe I just got lucky. Instead of issuing my usual litany of instructions, I surrendered and slowly lowered my head to rest it on top of his. Striations of dappled, warm sunlight danced around us, holding us in a sling of suspended time. A dry breeze blew, capturing Henry's boyish scent and distilling it around us. His blond hair tickled my forehead. I rested. He rested. Henry was still. We were still, together.
The light, stippled through the variegated cornucopia of green leaves, made silly designs on our bodies. The sun poured warmly around us. I felt the shift--the shift from mental minutia to this life, this now. I felt the swell of the sacred and its enormity caught in my throat. Our connectedness felt primal and familiar--like we'd been here before. And of course, we had.

*****

Our very first connection was an umbilical cord which gave life and oxygen and nutrition. Just five years ago, the contractions racked my body, coursing in synchronicity with the Earth's pull. Just five years ago, Henry was born.
I planned to have an epidural--the anesthesiologists merely awaited the word from my doctor and nurses, and my doctors and nurses awaited the word from me. Hubby went to get a huge shot of caffeine and I lay in my hospital bed, contractions rushing me like tidal waves. As the pain ricocheted through my body, my finger sat poised to push the button to call them. But I waited. Something stopped me--a primal urge to connect with my body, the inherent power within me to grow and deliver a life. I hadn't been able to experience this when I delivered Abby so this time, I waited. My body coursed with the primitive synchronicity of life. I felt at that moment more connected to a bigger world than I ever had before. I was plugged into it all. There. Participating in his arrival.

I finally asked for (and gratefully received) my epidural.

When he arrived, time stopped. It was him and me. With the umbilical cord cut, we experienced the first severing of our first bond. A first of many partings and meetings. I didn't know then, on the day he arrived, that our relationship would morph and reconstitute so many times.

The shift from nursing to formula. From milk to solids. From my feeding him to him feeding himself. To now, when I'll be upstairs and hear him in the kitchen below, food bags crinkling, while he rummages for his own sustenance. I know one day, when he lives his own life, I will yearn for the crinkling of those bags.
The bonds of our physicality change and morph daily, coupled with conjugations of emotion to continually tether us. This evolution of the relationship between mother and child, particularly thismother and these children, forces me to ponder the future. I reflect on my adult relationship with my mother. The physical distance between us now makes my heart ache for that inexorable, future parting of my children.

I know that the shifting occurs, in small, almost transparent bits, daily. I live within these evolving parameters of our life. First nights in their rooms. First sleepovers. First weekends away. And then, firsts of their young-adult lives will barrel down upon us. I know that our future points of connection are unpredictable but when these blissful blips come--10, 20, 30 years from now--I will lean into them with a fierce gratitude and faith that they will continue.

*****

The night before Henry's fifth birthday, I sat on my deck. I sipped my gin and tonic (double lime, please and thank you). The winds played their melodies on the leaves, each different green and shape yielding a rapturous, natural cacauphony. The sound was reminiscent of waves rolling onto the shore. And I'm reminded of the powerful waves that signaled the arrival of Henry. These waves of wind signaled the arrival of this now. On the undercurrent of those winds flew vestiges of time past, five days ago when Henry and I sat in the driveway, locked in our moment. And five years ago, when Henry joined me on this journey. Together.
On that evening, the world felt so big. Carbonated gratitude bubbled through my veins. I peered out into the western sky--the palest robin's-egg blue tinged with the silvery promise of twilight. The silhouettes of trees, leaves, pine needles and branches punctuated the horizon. The wind continued to roll, playing the symphonic hush of night. The decadent scent of a neighbor's bonfire hopped onto one of the wind streams.
Right above me, in a room on the second floor of my home, a still-four-year-old Henry slept. Almost five years after his birth, our physicality still continues to shift, to roll, to morph. On the eve of his birthday, bricks and wood separate us only physically. Our lasting ties permeate, radiate.

Far off in the west, an airplane heads east, glimmering in the last remaining rays of daylight. A soft hush of supplication leaves my lips. A whisper of contentment. A nod to the extraordinary union of all that is. Henry. Me. The world around us. I relaxed into the tapestry of it all.

The sky slowly lost its pigmentation and deepened in its simplicity. Charcoal swirls of night formed where the sun left its vacancies, giving billing to the delicate silver crescent moon, subtly glowing. I got up from my perch and walked through the night into my home.

*****

Before I go to bed each night, I always check on my children. This night unfolded no differently. I padded down the hall in my socked feet, guided by faint strains of night lights spilling their glow onto the hardwood floors, groaning at my late-night intrusion.

The night arrived cool--in the 50s--and our windows were open to the night. First I kissed Abby, cozy and zonked in her hot pink bed. Then I opened Henry's door. I lay down in his bed next to him. For the thousandth time, I studied his blond-tousled hair. I cupped his round cheek, I stared at his long lashes.

An achy pit of not being able to remember this moment grew in my stomach. Maybe missing something before it is even gone is a good thing--a mark of reverence and insatiable gratitude. So I did what all mothers do--made myself an empty promise that I would remember it all. His scent. His quirky word choices. His heart.

I knew that now matter how I tried that these details would one day fade. I knew that despite my noble efforts I might not be able to conger the silkiness of his skin. They would escape my memory like fog. I awoke, an hour later, to Henry's face just inches from mine. He slept. My arm was flung over his chest, rising and falling with the cadence of his breathing. His knees were tucked into my stomach. Together. Connected.

I kissed my four-year-old one last time. Reluctantly, I got up and padded back down the hardwood hall to my cool, crisp white sheets. The memory of Henry at four already fraying at its edges. I slept.

The next morning, I awoke to Henry's beaming face inches from mine, proudly holding up five fingers.
I'm FIVE!, he smiled.

I reached over to him, and held his free hand. It was still silky. I breathed a sigh of relief. I know, I replied, I know! Happy Birthday, sweet boy. I brushed his hair from his eyes and returned his smile.

Parallels

As the school year wraps, I'm keenly aware of the merging presence of both the end and the beginning. The end of the school year and the beginning of the summer, mingling in the same space.

Yesterday, I walked the halls of Abby's elementary school.

What is it about the palpable, tangible energy during those last school days? The students and teachers all wear a mix of exhaustion and anticipatory joy on their faces. As my feet moved me down the hall, I recalled organizing all the shiny, crisp school supplies into Abby's backpack for the first day of school. Now, I peeked into classrooms and saw children haphazardly shoving old, worn folders, well-loved crayons and papers into their packs.

I inhaled the school unique essence of school: tempera paint, paper reams, glue and sweaty gym shoes. The scent of freshly-cut grass wafted in through the open windows. Blank hall walls, which just last week proudly displayed students' work, now looked so stark, punctuated with the occasional ripped corner of some well-thought-out project, pierced with one stalwart thumbtack. I could almost hear the scuffed, well-traveled floors saying, I thought they'd never leave... while simultaneously trying to commit the kids' beloved footsteps and hum to memory. As if they could sense the impending, inevitable solemn quiet of summer and were already yearning for the freshness of fall. I know how they feel.

Endings end and beginnings really begin, meshing and paralleling each other. I suspect the edges are always gray, frayed and ambiguous. Like those hallowed halls, like those worn school supplies. Like me. Simultaneously yearning for quiet and embracing the noise.

A repost from June 2010.

Carry On

I'm so persnickety--a bag of contradictions and nuances. So many thoughts rush, stop and course through my head lately. Nothing too notable, nothing too monumental. Just idiosyncrasies and minutia rolling like waves through my brain.

And so, in no particular order, I give a partial list of Me:

1. I am a neat freak. Clutter and messes can actually paralyze me. And since Murphy's Law likes to prevail, I live with three, lovely, wonderful, lovable NON-neat-freaks. (This morning, hubby called and asked what I was doing. I told him I was cleaning so I could write. He was definitely not surprised.)

2. I compare myself to others too much. Wondering why they can get so much done in a day, or write so many blog posts (ahem) and I can't. Wondering how she manages life with four kids so effortlessly and calmly while I stumble and bumble with two. I know that in the comparison game, there is no winner, just a stressed-out, paralyzed me haggardly sitting on the side of someone else's life. But it seems I like to torture myself. I am trying to stop.

3. When I get too caught up in my own thoughts (which happens more than I'd like to admit), I try to stop and say to myself,

All is well.

Breathe in. Out.

Observe.

Absorb.

Just be.

I become grounded in the now.

4. Sometimes I am as slow as a drip of molasses. Ideas and questions must be left to simmer in my brain before I can give answers or direction. I find this infuriating! I see my friends (again, with the comparisons) who make rapid-fire decisions and I flood with envy. Why can't I??

5. Often I have to do push-ups before I can write.

6. I still struggle with depression. When in a depressive episode, I feel like I'm in a well. Sounds and actions waft down into my small space. It takes awhile for my thoughts and responses to form--my words travel slowly back up the damp, dark well walls. Normal synapse activity slows to a low boil, trudging through viscosity of my brain.

6. My children's art work adorns many rooms in our home. Always makes me way-down-in-my-soul happy.

7. My idea of a heavenly afternoon: surrounding myself with boxes of old photos, sifting through them all. Laughing and crying as the moments hop out of the photos and into my memories. (When at my mom's house, sometimes I'll disappear. My mom will find me, in the basement, hunched over and pouring over old albums.)

8. I go to bed each night with a huge tumbler of ice water.

9. I adore old items with memories attached to them. For instance, my wedding band was created from my husband's great Aunt's wedding band. When I rub my finger over the small, pave diamonds, I love the feel of their unsymmetrical, imperfect topography. It seems like I can unlock years of lingering real history--the stories untold--which each pass of my finger tip. Fights. Hopes. Reconciliations. Sunscreen. Dinner. Tears. Sunlight.

10. Some random things that make my heart sing:

The melodic rustling of the wind over leaves

McDonald's French fries and magic diet coke

Just-out-of-the-tub hugs from my kids

A crisp flag on a slight breeze

A sunny perch to contemplate whatever begs for contemplation

12. I am an imperfect, average mother. Each day, I try to embrace this. Each day, I try to see the good in what I do. Each day I fail, and succeed. This gem greets and grounds me each time I leave my office:

So I'm off. Keeping calm and carrying on.

Seen

A path, leading. Like any other path, road, walk, drive. Leading somewhere. Anywhere.

Pure decadence.

*****

I stopped. I finally stopped and pulled over. Camera poised to

capture the dogwood

Resting her image

so certainly on the stream below.

*****

So small. So tender. Pushing through the rough facade

and topography of its environs

Surviving. Reaching up.

Growing.

*****

Another storm rolling in. Charcoal layered on

rumbling thunder. The air held the pungent

familiar scent of impending rain.

*****

My dear friend's rockin' yellow rain boots.

*****

Blowing some magic bubbles into the air.

*****

One day, maybe two weeks ago, we finally had a day

of sun and cornflower blue sky.

I took this photo through the sunroof

of my car.

It makes me smile.

Practice

This day

This moment

the connectedness

builds to crescendo, filling me to

blissful overload

I sat

I hugged

the little boy

who

will surely shun

my affections

some day,

some moment

Hitting pause

Hitting stop

Feeling the weight of our time

laden with winged bricks

poised to depart

without notice

Present.

Full.

Moments stringing together

a chain

between now and then.

Heavy body

Full heart

Holding onto everything.

Long spindly legs with

stretching bruised legs

amidst

Bits of conversation

falling to the grass blades and

popping like soap bubbles.

I Remember

I Remember....

I remember the way my mother’s feet tanned in the summer, except for that tiny dry patch just below her ankle bone.

I remember my first crush--a blond, tanned life guard and tennis pro at our club. He always wore a white swath of zinc oxide on his nose. I asked him if I could be his ball girl. He said yes. I was eight.

I remember the hypnotic morse code of Henry's heart beating through his chest and into mine as we snuggled in the light blue glider. The well-worn arms were stained with spit-up and baby lotion. I remember that I didn't care.

I remember when I was in seventh grade and Josh asked me out. I remember my answer, Yes!, escaping my lips as I heard the snickers and laughter from the mean girls who put him up to the task.

I remember that in elementary school, I could close my eyes and know, based on the heady scent of freshly cut grass, that the end of the school year lurked imminently.

I remember the rusted hole in the trunk of our car that acted as a portal for runaway groceries.

I remember the first time Abby looked up at me and furrowed her seconds-old brow.

I remember my first designer tennis shoes—leather Nike’s with a sky blue swoosh. (Important: They were most definitely NOT the generics from JC Penny.)

I remember the first time I took my husband's hand; I figured I didn't really ever want to let go.

I remember a summer night, lying on the itchy blanket in the backyard with thick, summer grass tickling my ankles and mosquitoes feasting on my legs. I stared at the stars and felt pleased that they sparkled their ancient glow for me. I felt like I took part in a vast secret.

I remember watching in amazement as my brother's wrist hung limply from his arm. I remember my stomach churning because I loved him so much and just wanted my love to fix him, just like that.

I remember stuffing the jump rope into the top of my one-piece white terry cloth romper. The red ties strained at my shoulders. I also remember my mother taking me back to the store and every bit of my body shaking as I returned the stolen jump rope to the store manager.

I remember squinting at the stick, willing the two lines to appear.

*****

This weekend, I got to spend three days learning about writing memoir from one of the greats,Dani Shapiro. Not only did I get to delve into the writing craft, I was flanked by dear friends. More on this phenomenal experience to come.

One of the many thought-provoking writing exercises that Dani gave us was to write (without stopping) for 10 minutes and to begin all sentences with "I remember." (An exercise inspired by Joe Brainard's Classic, I Remember). My friends, Lisa, Lindsey, Christine and Sarah and I all found this both fun and surprising - we discovered that we wrote down both long-cherished memories and ones percolate that we hadn't realized we remembered.

We think this is a powerful and revealing exercise, and wanted to share a few of our "I Remembers" as well as invite you to participate. Please join us - either by writing a post on your blog about what you remember or by adding a few of your memories to our comments. Start with five "I Remembers" and if you get a good rhythm and flow, keep going! If you write your own post, please come back and link it here - and we look forward to reading and responding to your memories. And please be sure check out Katrina Kenison's beautiful I Remembers, dedicated to her mother.

I Am Enough

I first learned about Tracey Clark's I Am Enough Collaborative last year. I was smitten. Through her encouraging collection of shared stories, she encourages us all to realize that today, right now, we are enough. That's right. With dark circles, dusty floors, sick kids, bills to pay and word to type, I Am Enough. So are you.

I'm honored today to share my I Am Enough story at Tracey's I Am Enough Collaborative.

When you're there, please take some time to read the inspiring stories of other women, all of whom are Enough.

In the Interim

I've been off in my own world, taking a bit of blogging break. I've been periodically working on my book (!!!!) and also just taking a breather.

I've been on a poetry kick lately. Rilke. Dickinson. Oliver. One of my new favorite finds: Dean Rader (you can visit his blog here.) I learned that one of my high school friends married a writer. Then I learned he was a poet. I bought his book, Works & Days. So. Good. (Side note: he was the Winner of the 2010 T.S. Eliot Prize.)

So, while I'm on my little hiatus, I give you one of my favorite Dean Rader poems:

Einstein

The universe (which others call the Library) - Borges

by Dean Rader (Works & Days)

He hated tomatoes

And was afraid

Of the noises in the

Desert at dusk.

At times, the numbers

Thumped across the brain

Like horses or bad sentences.

Just a second of peace,

He would say to himself.

A moment

To see images, music, colors.

The calculus of the visible.

_____

What does it mean to see light

And think of a poem?

To see numbers

And arrive at heaven?

To look at stars

And picture a river?

What does it mean to know time

The way one knows a language?

To say that centuries or seconds

Are the letter t in a poem of infinite metaphors?

_______

If you divide the present by the past

You arrive at perception.

If you see light as wave,

Your hear the word silence.

If you see light as particle,

You hear the word wind.

Is the opposite

Of darkness, darkness?

_______

Einstein thinks:

I know that what we are,

We have become, and what

We have become we turn

To shadow, and what the shadow

Touches, the present forgets.

Memory is the shadow of the present

Stretching backward

Forming the equation

To prove Borges was right:

God is a book.

The translator: me.

The language: desire.

Not Almost Seven

Abby and I were in the kitchen recently talking about the upcoming summer. We talked about next round-up of family birthdays, including hers. I told her that I couldn't believe that she would be seven this summer.

Because I busied myself washing dishes as we chatted, I couldn't see her incredulous stare. Her stare finally cut through my dish washing and I caught it, peripherally. I looked up from the sudsy sink.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, sweets?"

"Ummm, I'm going to be eight this summer."

Five little letters. One small word. Eight.

That little word smacked me and left a stinging swath. That five-letter-word sucked all the air out of the room. Abby continued to watch me. The drop in my gut validated that what she said was true.

Eight.

I looked at her, unable to disguise my slight confusion--and luckily, she seemed to get a kick out of my mental lapse. I really, truly thought she was turning seven. Interestingly, I didn't think she was six. She's seven, turning seven. Of course! Seven turning seven makes all the sense in the world.

My mind had reached over and hit its own little pause button.

But my mental pause didn't reach any further than my mind. Time spinning, spinning, spinning. Recklessly this time. Time, moving with her own motive, laced with her own prerogatives. I stared at Abby. Blond, wind-whipped pieces of hair escaped her pony tail and framed her transitional face. Angularity had crept in and replaced once full, round cheeks. Adult teeth crowded her mouth. Her questioning blue eyes sparkled while showing that their particular shade of innocence had shifted just a tinge.

This permutation of time's passage left me reeling and raw. The usual questions surfaced, as if their rhetorical repeat would magically make my mental pause button effective:

When did this happen? Eight? Didn't I just rub Desitin on her diaper-rashed tushy? How did I miss the culmination of moments leading us here?

No longer a little girl.

Almost Eight.

Stigmas

As a result of Catherine Zeta-Jones' statement regarding her Bipolar Disorder, the news media and internet are a flurry of commentary. I adore Zeta-Jones for her brave admission which helps to destigmatize depressive disorders. I have many dear friends who've battled their own depressive episodes. My friends Christine and Lindsey each write beautifully and openly about their dealings with depression. I find all of these women inspirational and sheroic (I totally stole that word from someone and I can't remember who they are so I can't give them credit. Apologies to that inspired person).

Yesterday morning, as I sat with my lap-top and read my Twitter stream, I read these two tweets from another shero, Jane Roper:

janeroper Jane Roper, writer

Yes, that's right. I just overshared in a big way. But it's part of my ongoing mission to destigmatize depression/bipolar disorder.

3 hours ago Favorite Retweet Reply

janeroper Jane Roper, writer

Forgot to take my meds last night. Feel like junkie in first hours of withdrawal. (I think?) Oy.

Brava!, I thought. Good for you and everyone who does their part to normalize this disease. HIGH FIVE. I applaud anyone who does anything to destigmatize depression because each time we share our struggles we extend air into another's lungs and normalize the human experience.

But my elation quickly retreated as one of those sneaky "uh-oh" feelings wrapped around my lungs. I realized--with gut-wrenching clarity--that I hold onto old, worn beliefs about my own depression which contribute to the very stigmas I wish to see obliterated. (But, luckily for everyone else, I reserve all my vitriol for me.)

My continual self-flagellation and judgement of my disease actually perpetuate the stigma. Damn it!, (shaking fist at the sky) I hate when that happens! This insight didn't fully crystallize until yesterday morning--I am so disappointed that I still suffer from depression. I thought, that by now, that I'd be able to manage this disease without medications. Or that, by now, I'd have sent this dark monster packing. My disappointment dances through my days while jeeringly mocking me. And frustratingly, the bitchy self-critic is actually a symptom of the very disease against which I rail. I feel that I'm weaker, somehow, less-than, because I've haven't mastered depression.

My logic denounces this silliness. Even as I see the words on my screen, I cringe at the ridiculousness of them. However, I realize that the maniacal stronghold of depression works into the dark recesses of my being--and my thoughts. I hope that by sharing these thoughts here, I can begin to jettison these cramped, toxic untruths.

Depression runs through the intricate tributaries of my heritage. Many different variations of the disease clog my genetic pool. Bipolar ebbing here, depressive episodes rising there. It'd be quicker to list those relatives who do not suffer some form of mental illness than to list all those who do. Unfortunately, because of those aforementioned societal taboos, no one discussed the depression epidemic in our family. The malformed DNA strands responsible for this unwelcome disease were brushed aside and ignored. Until recently. Now, it's discussed with a bit more candor. But, in my very humble opinion, not enough.

I hope to change that in my own family. I hope to find the wells of strength to do just that. Smash open that damned taboo. Today, I start. With this post.

I've always held hope in my palm, like a penny at a wishing well, hoping that with further self-actualization and maturation I would step out of the inky depressive rivers. Over 15 years later, I still take anti-depressants and occasionally I take anti-anxiety meds. I still need them. And this pisses me off immensely. I recognize the irony in this bitter pill--I know the drugs help me--I KNOW they allow me to function normally. But...that but still lingers....

*****

I remember the first days after I received my diagnosis of depression, roughly 15 years ago. I'd known for months that I was very depressed and finally found a doctor with whom I felt safe, comfortable and heal-able. She prescribed an anti-depressant and lots and lots of therapy. I embraced the thought of therapy. But the drugs? Nope. I wasn't ready to take them. Fear perched in my gut and heart--I was so, very, very scared.

Would the drugs numb me to life? Would I still live fully? Would I still feel? Would I become a zombie-lady, bumping aimlessly through life?

The first day, the foil starter pack stared at me from my Formica bathroom counter. I stared back. I didn't break the foil--I didn't take a pill. I proudly breezed off to work thinking, I don't need those things. I'm stronger than this. The second, third and fourth days that pill pack sat, untouched. I saw it each morning and each night, those tiny little pink pills that would supposedly make me feel better. That would lessen the caustic, damning views of myself. That would allow me to get healthy. Geesh, I thought, as IF.

Day six day came and I belligerently grabbed that now water-stained foil pack of pills. I sat on my gold, wide-wale corduroy couch and stared down the pills. The late, Saturday afternoon sun spilled into my tiny apartment; dust speckles danced on my grooved, faded hardwood floors. The sounds of my Chicago neighborhood, usually audible in a constant din, faded completely. The only two sounds I heard: my throbbing, questioning heart and the crinkle of the foil pack beneath my fingers.

One of my tanned legs swung over the edge of the couch, the other sat tucked beneath me. Disappointment flooded me, almost drowned me. My defeat inundated the room and thwarted the noble efforts of the tenacious sun beams. My failure owned me--depression was stronger than I. The foil pack glinted and fought with the sun, casting funny patterns on the ceiling. I turned the pack over and over, mentally volleying my decision. As much as I grappled, the answer was clear--continue through the caustic, grappling days of my depression, or give this foil-wrapped life--line a try.

I grabbed a glass of water. I pushed a pill through the foil wrapper. The foil crinkled. My heart thumped. I pushed through the inky, low-lying clouds. And I swallowed that pill.

I have more to say. So much more. But for now, I have some questions for you: what stigmas, if any, do you hold? Are you open and caring with others while judging yourself? Have you ever dealt with depression, or helped someone through depression?

Married? Married. Married? Yes, MARRIED. Geesh.

The most alive moment comes when those who love each other

Meet each other's eyes and in what flows between them then. - Rumi

This weekend, my brother got married.

My brother. And his new wife.

They. Are. Married.

My baby brother is nearly 8 years younger than me. As a much older sibling, and with no siblings between us, my relationship with my brother never embodied sibling rivalry. I remember the day he was born. I loved spending time with him, and he with me. But because I left for college when he was just 10, I didn't live at home while he morphed through the daily transformation of boy to young man. Despite this distance, we always enjoyed a close, warm relationship, albeit unfortunately infrequent at times. I always have, and still do, love him fiercely.

Now that we're both adults, we enjoy the erasure of the years that, at times, frustratingly distanced us. We've crossed the age bridge and we're not older/younger anymore, we're friends.

Last weekend, he got married. The two celebratory days rose and swirled with love, contentedness and joy. I rode the current, soaking up every last bit of the wonderfulness that was their wedding. Visions of days past and decades-old memories rose up for their moment in the spotlight. Strands of the past and hopes for the future embodied this space, this celebration of two. Each juncture of their wedding radiated grace and love; each moment a mirror, reflecting the inner, steadfast commitment and love between them.

***

On Monday morning, with the grace and flurry of the weekend behind me, I finally sat alone with my thoughts. The magnitude of their union forcefully smacked me. Tears gathered in my eyes and emotion clogged my throat as I reflected on the moments, some blurry, some crisp, swirling and rattling through my mind.

So I called my brother, and his wife (my sister-in-law!!), and through my sleepy-hoarse voice, I inarticulately choked out how fabulous they were. And how honored I was to be there. And how proud I was of them. And how much I loved them.

***

I want to share so many details with you. The careful tutelage that my brother and his bride took with all their guests. The exquisite details of the bride's dress and how it served the perfect canvas for her gorgeous, contagious happiness.

She. Was. Stunning.

The clear, yellow, late afternoon sun that chased away the fog and clouds that had lingered for days. The seriousness with which Abby and Henry took their wedding duties as Flower Girl and Ring Bearer. The exquisite views of the city. The rugged, confident handsomeness of the groom. The joyful tears that brimmed in the bride's eyes as my brother said, "I Do." The giddy elation rivaling the bubbling champagne as they publicly formalized their union. The high-fives that Hubby and I gave each other because we partied with the young folk until 2:30 am (3:30 am Eastern--which is notable because to us East Coasters, it was an hour later ... and we're almost a full decade OLDER).

But more than anything, I want to share this: this weekend, I fell so much more in love with my brother and my sister-in-law. The gussets and shades of love constantly amaze me; it's so expansive, so broad. Just as soon as I think that it would be impossible to trump the amount of love I feel for someone, the love bubbles up and multiplies, exponentially filling my heart and my life.

These two people? My brother and my sister-in-law? They are so upstanding. So gracious. So damn cool. Is it possible that this chiseled, loving, intelligent, accomplished, handsome man--who is, and will forever be one of my favorite men on the planet--used to be the round-cheeked boy with soft brown curls? And his new wife, well, she's spectacular; intelligent, accomplished, kind, funny, fun, (did I mention intelligent), caring, warm and beautiful. I cannot wait to fill my years knowing her more and more.

As I watched the two of them say "I Do", my breath suspended. I clasped my manicured hands. An exposed, red-brick wall served as their backdrop. Abby sat next to me, legs swinging her ballet-slipper clad feet. The suit-clad Henry sat next to her, his expression a delicate mix of curiosity and happiness. From my seat, I could only see my brother's silhouette. But I had a clear view of the bride's face. I watched all of her unspoken words and sentiments shine from her eyes, magnetically attached to my brother's own eyes. It's like they spoke their own relationship Morse code.

Now, I get to watch them settle into this next phase of their life. Together. Married.

***

That evening, I hung out with their friends. For the first time in a long time, I chilled with my brother and his contemporaries (point of reference: the last time I "hung out" with him and his friends, I was 18 and they were 10, running through the house doing what 10-year-olds do). They are now cool, accomplished, 20- and 30-somethings. Their friends' stories of them lit up the night, sparking laughter, tears and broad smiles. So many of their pals took the time to tell me how much they loved each of them. I learned so much about these two--and about how they love those that they love. I got to see each of them through a wider lens. As a result, I floated around like a helium balloon, riding the high of their fabulousness.

And now their life continues. The downs. The ups. The middle. And everything in between. They're ready. I know it. And more importantly, so do they.