I will never write about addiction, even though I should. I do not visit its hard landscape easily. I lived there once. It consumed me. The Addict dragged me to its jagged edge and left me there screaming as he plunged into its heart. When I am forced to describe addiction to others, I use spare language. I do not embellish. There are no colors or smells or quirky characters we met along the way. There are nouns and verbs. They are black and they are white. This is very unusual for me. When I am forced to remember addiction, however, it is vivid. Like a slide show set too fast in HD. Each lurid frame stands out, in Technicolor, then clicks to the next. Continue reading →
It is the best time of the day to write. Inside the house heaves rhythmically with sleeping pets and people and its own 90-year-old creaks and cracks. The coffee is strong and black. The screen is white and bright. Outside the street sleeps and the lake licks the beach. At this hour time is suspended.
It is the end of another dramatic week for the world. Trust and innocence suffered new blows. Here, we stood vigil with good people everywhere and held our breath and hearts as we watched it unfold on too many screens at once, it seemed. Meanwhile, in the inner circle of our daily lives, it was business as usual: crowded and hurried and scattered. But this week, next to all of those other screens, “business as usual” took on a sweeter meaning.
Last week I wrote my personal menu of excuses not to write. By Saturday, to kickstart my posts, I came up with the idea of the 20 minute post. 1, 2, 3 …20, POST. That was 7 days ago! And still no post! Certainly I have 20 minutes before lunch packing, law practicing, and life scrambling to spill a corner of my heart onto the keyboard?
It is kind of like taking a deep breath before starting the day. And I just did it. Well, I just did it in 37 minutes, including the time it took to heat up the espresso machine + let the dogs out. 🙂
December is a very hot month where I have worked for the past 20 Decembers. While on the outside, winds, rains, and several months of chilly darkness blow into town, inside it is an overheated pressure cooker. The reasons why are unimportant (and idiosyncratic to the cult of personalities we call our firm). Let’s just say that last December internal temperatures escalated even further when one of my partners ripped a page out of a business school text and suggested we should add performance reviews of ourselves to the mix. The exercise was just as sweaty as we had feared. However, after I finished, I had to admit – the self study had done me some good. So recently I applied the same scrutiny to my blogging to uncover why I am so surprisingly horrible at it! Nine posts since fall 2011 !?! I am particularly embarrassed to admit that in one of my first posts I even bragged:
I was born to blog. Some might say I have been blogging since long before “Al Gore Invented the Internet.” Harriet the Spy was my childhood heroine. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_the_Spy Yes, I was the one in the hoody, hunched over the notebook chronicling the late 1960s and the 1970s in Upstate New York and Ontario. My family rolled eyes, cringed and made paranoid comments in stage whispers. The compulsion continued and I have innumerable volumes tucked away in locked trunks and sealed envelopes on my property in An Unnamed West Coast City.
No time. Like nearly every other citizen of the modern world, I am very busy and “important.” I do not have time for this self-indulgence (even if it would improve my mental health)!
WordPress is too confusing. I believe this, but because I am so busy and “important,” I have not had time to find a good alternative.
Perfection is the enemy of the good. This one is probably self-explanatory. In me, the condition can be acute. It usually affects structure, language choice, and message. I probably do not need to mention that I also hate typo’s and misspellings, especially my own. Interestingly, I do a lot of writing in my everyday professional life and turn out a good work product without letting the pursuit of meaningless perfection rule my days.
No theme! This one is important. I love other people’s blogs and follow them. I read about writing. I read about blogging. One of the first rules about the latter is to have a theme. My head is like a tossed salad; there is no organizing theme, not even the vinaigrette is reliable. My family and friends and colleagues are similarly scattered. I think this is a problem with my writing in general. I am not exactly writing about any particular thing on a regular basis. You know, like the pretty meals I have cooked, the books I have read, my travels, or even carpools I have known and loved (or hated), being a lacrosse mom, the emptying nest, or what it is like to have a child run away (even though you know exactly where he is).
Fear of being uncovered. I really try not to write anything that would embarrass my people, but …..recently I wrote a barbed review of an evening at my home with a visiting relative. I compared our kitchen that night to a saloon and mentioned that it was my first lap dance ever. (It is well-known that I am not leading a lap dance sort of life. ) Then I emailed it to a few friends, but would be mortified if the kitchen island lap dancer, who is related to my husband, ever read it.
Not sure I like my blog name and I do not like the subtitle. Okay. I love the name, mom de guerre, because of the play on words but it is grim to the point of being a mismatch with my everyday life. As for the subtitle (“musings from the dark side of parenting”), it spilled onto the screen during a black period of child raising. I have had my nose pressed against the underbelly of parenting and it is ugly. The child who takes me there has given me permission to be open about it, but at core I am upbeat and hopeful, as well as protective of his privacy. Besides, I really do not want to wallow there even if I should. I have entertained a new blog name and maybe for my mental health I should adopt it.
The dogs need a walk, there is a load of laundry to be done, and I brought some work home. This relates to # 1. There is always something more urgent to do. I am a horrible relaxer and consider that a character flaw. I also have a 20 year long guilt streak about being a mother who works hard outside the home. Even as I write this, I am thinking about our federal taxes (due Monday), two cards I have to write, whether this is a productive way to spend an afternoon off of work, and, of course, the dishes in the sink. Oh! And did I exercise yet today (not really).
English: Ryan Jergensen bare footing on Lake Berryessa in 2006. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I am the mother of a boy who loves summer. I get it. We live in an emerald city surrounded by water and mountains. But good weather comes late, if at all, and when it does it is a golden reward for surviving the rest of the year and makes us forget the trials we endured for the reward.
The boy is now 17 years old and heading into his senior year of high school. Before this summer began, he said to me dreamily one day “what i love about summer is being on the lake or beside the lake, hanging with my boys.” One of my favorite summer photographs is of the lot of them lined up on a dock in their bright swimsuits in the early evening July light. 15 year old limbs and bravado everywhere. The confidence that the summer belonged to them and always would hung in the air. I remember that summer. Mountains of damp towels, sleeping in tangled combinations here and elsewhere. It was before they could drive.
But that is not this summer. Senior year is like a train barreling toward us on the tracks ahead. And he is being recruited for a college sport. There are three teams, one-on-one work outs with coaches, a trainer. And he is criss-crossing the country in a series of airplanes playing in “showcases”. He and his best friend have emptied their bank accounts and taken on investors to start a business: they are ice cream men. There are sober conversations between them across our kitchen island about insurance, routes, sources, and how to keep a circa 1979 U.S. Mail truck cum ice cream wagon on the road.
I wish someone had told me this last summer. I miss the damp towels.
I think about JOY a lot these days. I have posted obliquely about the darkness that cloaked 2011 until I stopped looking for joy in life’s headlines and started looking for it places like well-made sandwiches or the late summer return of the sharp shinned hawk couple to the tree we spend the rest of the year worrying will take out the entire block in a wind storm. 2011 was one of those years that proves the second part of this statement: “There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen.” (V. Lenin). I finally concluded that “joy is in the footnotes” for my own mental health and immediately started looking more closely for it there.
Now as our nest begins to empty, I look for joy in the everyday for different reasons. In two weeks my youngest plunges into his senior year. The long good bye begins. He lives a good life – crowded with sport, his talents, loving friends, academics, a business, his opinions, dreams and us. Less and less us, of course. This summer his father and I have sat on the figurative front porch of his life (and the literal front porch of our home) waiting for drive-by’s. And we love it. Even as I miss the carpools, the down times on sidelines of practice fields around the region, long and lazy post-dinner conversations, crowds of boys around the PS-whatever in the basement – and ask my husband why we couldn’t have raised at least one mama’s boy – I know in my heart this is what we raised them to do: to leave, carrying their own portable nests.
Several years ago when one of my sisters-in-law faced the emptying of her own nest, she recommended The Gift of an Ordinary Day: a Mother’s Memoir by Katrina Kenison, to me. www.katrinakenison.com When Kenison faced her own sons’ flight from the family life they’d built and known and loved, she wrote about it. At the time I took the book as a reminder to enjoy the ordinary rhythms of our lives together and as a caution that they would too-soon change. I now appreciate the deeper meaning.
Yes, I am going to look forward to this boy ‘s last year at home. We didn’t get a last year with our oldest son. He left suddenly one day before he finished high school – loudly, viciously, prematurely with more emotion than plan. We have been dealing with the backlash ever since. To this mother, a long good bye sounds delicious. And I am going to find joy in the ordinary every single day.