Glo Blog

  You would think hitting a wall, literally,head on, in October would have been a big indication I needed to slow down, sit still, process, proceed with caution.  But no.  I did not. I stitched up the broken places and kept going.  Next.  I kept going.

You would think the spinning,spinning in my brain and the sleepless nights throughout would have been an indication to slow down.  Be still.  But no.  I kept going.  I lit the match on the incense-and let it burn down to the nub-as my little Buddha patiently waited for me to come to a halt for just a moment,please, in the pause, and sit.  But no.

It is not in my nature. Never has been. To slow down goes against the grain. Perhaps that is why I loved running marathons so much. I just had to keep going.  2 miles turn into 4, 4 turn into 8, 8 into 16 and then the home stretch and suddenly, in a given amount of time, 26.2 was completed.  I could stop, for just a moment. Next.

And then,recently, when the still voice, that one honed so well on past mistakes and shoulda’s, coulda’s, woulda’s.  That voice, well fed on earned wisdom and courage, was not so still and screamed at me to stop, to slow down to, let it all go.  I did not listen.  I kept going. I was keeping grief at bay.  Not realizing I had to give it time to breathe and be part of who I was, at least for a little while.

“Four seasons.” A dear friend recently said to me.  “You have to get through four seasons.”

And then what?  I am a woman who has always known what to do.  My default is continual motion.  I do the right thing.  No matter what. I work hard.  I see things through.

Oldest child syndrome?  Or just a child raised to achieve?  To pursue?  To plow through?  No rest stops along the way.  I can not remember a time, ever, when I quit.  If one job was over, it was time to find another.  If one crisis was on the mend, I dealt with it and moved on to, well, sometimes another crisis and maybe then a bit of calm.  Life and all that. Failure, for lack of a better word, has never been an option.  And while, these default modes have served me well, I have come to realize, these modes of , what? Survival?  Perfection?  Also have become a hindrance.  I listened more to the cares and wants of others and not to the ones of myself. I stopped listening to that still voice.  She has always been right.  And I tuned her out. Muted her but good. Funny how that happens.  It is not so obvious in the midst of turmoil, but there in the aftermath, I have been the one left the most depleted.  The one not being most true to me.  I thought I knew better.  I though I learned that lesson.  Many, many times over.  But grief is a funny thing.  It hovers.  It lingers.  It shifts and changes.  And then, without warning, at least in my case, it whacks you upside the head and heart and leaves you motionless.  Forced still.  But not the good kind.  Not the calm kind of still.  Nope, in  my case, the still came with doubt and uncertainty.  It crept along behind me, annoyingly so and would not leave me be.  I cried.  A lot. I slept- very little. I cried-even more. I got angry. Judgemental. I held things in for fear I would say the wrong thing-or worse, say what I really felt.  I went overboard.  I got involved in projects I had no business being involved in, whatsoever.  I did not listen and I kept going.But I was going nowhere.  2 miles did not turn into 4, 4 did not turn into 8.  I was stuck and nothing was working.  My tricks-the ones that always got me through, well-they just were useless.

I don’t remember ever being as exhausted as I was. As I am.  In the bones and in my being.  I am reminded when, after the second year of caring for my mom, with all that goes with caring for a parent, turned into the third year and more of her mind started to go, and I started to grieve then for the mom I knew and for the mom I knew was never coming back- a longtime mentor reminded me to not fool myself into thinking the grief I was feeling at the time would not resurface again on that day, whenever that day, or night it would be mom passed away. Grief will resurface, she said.  And it did. There was no running away from this one.

“Don’t kid yourself”, she said.

But I did.  I am sure I did.

There was so much to do at the time. The travel back and forth.  The tending to, the caring of, the paperwork, the checking in, the things we do when someone we love is dying and we want to do things right, as we should. Making sure health care and insurance allow her to die the way she wants.  Bending the rules, begging.  Watching a mother hold on to her mind and find the ease to breathe is not for the faint of heart and soul.  Not one bit.  I thought that was grieving.  And I kept going.  There was no time to stop. I was raising a child and being a wife and somewhere in there trying to find some iota of something for myself.  Wanna guess which went first?

But then, in the very quiet of a mid December 3am, when the house and all her contents were at rest, and I was sitting by a waning fire, that still voice spoke. I thought at first, it was the sound of my own muffled cries-you know when you cry quietly so no one else will hear. Those sounds we all make when we weep from the soul.  When all you want to do is cry.  I thought at first, it was the ramblings of my thoughts, trying to figure it all out-to find the solution.  To find the way. To keep going. To not disappoint.  To not let others down.  What to do?  And then again, from the deepest, softest squishy parts of my inner self-that still voice got louder.

Stop.

Just stop.

Be still.

Be. Still.

And for the first time in a long time, I  listened.  I heard.  I stopped.

I made decisions that served me and all that I am.  Others did not like that so much.  But I am okay with that.  I wasn’t at first to be truthful, but it settled into a knowing.

I slept.  I cried some more.  I hugged my child.  I kissed my husband.

I sat still.

I grieved.  I am grieving.

I found strength.

I found my still.  I found my voice.

 

One candle more.  A look back at a year that propelled me one step closer to where ever it is I am supposed to be-provided me with more opportunities to learn, to grow, to gain more wisdom, strength and courage. It was a year of challenges- not just the kind that leave us wondering how, in the course of life, are we to get from point A to point B; but more about how we survive point A to get to point B-so we can continue down the path.   It was a year of side roads, bumps, pot holes and dangerous curves ahead. Forget A to B.  I just wanted to get in the car and go.

There are things, those pot holes and dangerous curves mostly that I think about the most. For I am certain, very certain now, with each candle added through the years, my  life has been shaped more by dangerous curves and pot holes than anything else.  Not because circumstance put them there-but because I chose to keep going-never mind the cost of repair. Things were demanding. I was pushed to the limit. I was wiped out by disappointments-disappointed by realizations and things you can not turn away from-if you are one of those women who sees-who does not shut out the light-who not only calls out the elephant in the room-but refuses, finally, to clean up after it.There in the muck of life-I found more of myself than I imagined.

People let me down.People imploded in front of me and took others down with them- but this year, instead of making excuses for them, I let them go. It was a tremendous gift to myself. I learned to shut my mouth.  No, really.  I learned, most importantly, when to just shut up and keep going and when to speak.  I got louder.  In the silence as much as in the speak. It made a huge difference in my  life.

I learned to value the process of death and accept when it arrives. And there in the process of death and staying true to someone else’s wishes and wants in the course of living while dying-I found the very presence of life.  I found what matters most and there in found what will  never matter. It is true- unconditional love is the richest and most treasured-and when death takes away that one last breath-it is the unconditional presence of love that will remain. It is the few unexpected moments you will remember in the tears.  It is the moments that made me her daughter, her first child, the woman I came to be because she gently nudged me and I got to do it differently than the way she did-and sometimes-exactly the way she did. Sometimes, even in the darkest moments, I got to be her voice-a gift she gave me without even knowing it.   It matters to stay true-no matter the challenges.  It matters to be honest.  It matters to stay the course-no matter what. No matter what.

I found peace.  In the most unexpected places. In the quiet of dawn-clutching my mothers hand when the hiss and pump of a machine overpowers the ebb and flow of an ocean, in the middle of the night, just us two, mother and daughter when the end is too near and no one else is around. When all she gave me, taught me is put to the test. She got it right-my mom, there in her hours of the end-she got it right.  I learned that at that exact time, that moment-when someone you love breathes the last breath, you will want to continue breathing and be grateful and be kind and continue on with the business of living.  I found peace in the grace of each moment. It was not talent, it was not beauty, it was not the unwrinkled brow that got me there.  It was every nook and cranny of life-every wrinkle of what’s if’s and why not’s.  It was the potholes, the dangerous curves and the destination unknown that got me there. None of it was easy. Ever. I learned to pick up the phone and ask for help, gratitude and guidance.  I learned in the deepest parts of the unexpected we find the things we never expected.

I learned that I don’t “have to” anymore.  I earned it and I am okay with it.  I don’t have to put up with people I no longer respect, agree with, or for that matter, don’t even like all that much. I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to act one way to please another group of people who act another way.  I don’t have to.  I don’t have to be anyone but who I am-with all the imperfections, with all the heartache, with all the stuff I am made of from the stuff I survived.

I learned I can survive anything thrown at me.  Anything-but if you attempt to humiliate my child, in all her goodness and light, I will never forgive and I will fight the urge to unleash a motherly anger that only a mother can understand.  I learned parenting gets harder, not easier.  And yes, it is okay to be one of those mom’s who drives your child to school in her pajamas.

Finally, I learned brilliance is overrated as is genius-and it is never an excuse for bad behavior.  Ever.  In this road map of life, we all have things that have left a mark, a scar-but at some point, we move on-we grow on-we get on with the mending and the healing and we navigate a different way.  Or else, we get on another road and leave the rest behind.  I learned, finally, I am okay with that.-leaving the rest behind.  It’s my own road. Potholes, dangerous curves and roadblocks.

 

It took a long time for me to hit the wall. Literally.  Years.  And then without a hint of a warning, there it was.  My wall. Never even saw it coming.  And I hit it hard-going ninety to nothing in a fitted black cocktail dress and leopard print pumps. Bam!  Left a mark on the wall of glass in a perfect shade of dusted rose with a hint of shimmer.  Squished lips imprinted on plate glass.  The scene of the crime.

I hit the glass wall so hard the pain did not even register at first.  But the sound sure did.  A guy loading in his drum set rounded the corner took one look, removed the cigarette from his mouth and simply said:

That musta hurt.

I check my two front teeth- still there. Blinding pain-and then I remember something about noses and lips bleeding a lot.  A real lot.

And sure enough, lips bleed.  A lot.

A part from the pain-I was pissed.  In between cursing myself for doing something so stupid-and for doing it so well- I apply pressure and access the damage.

Ewwwwwwwwww.

Lip flap and blood-split my cupid’s bow it did.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

And then I have to decide what to do.  Leave it alone?  Ice?  I have to sell art and mingle about in an hour-do I wing it and just go on?

I go on.  Nonchalantly mingling and hobnobbing in the name of art, as my top lip swells to porn star heights.   And every time I hobnob and smile, I feel the trickle of blood begin again…..

Um…your, um, lip is bleeding.

Oh. Sorry. I walked into a wall on my way in.

Jokes about screen doors and alcohol.

A mark of distinction?

Oh, it’s nothing.

THAT’S going to leave a mark.

Funny.

Does my husband secretly wish my upper lip would stay this swollen?? Hmmmm?  What is it about swollen lips and men?

Advice on where to go, where NOT to go, what to do and what not to do.

You’re gonna need a plastics guy ya know?

Really?  Plastics guy?  But I don’t know any plastics guys.

And then thanks to the power of word of mouth( no pun intended) I find a plastics guy.

Who very carefully and artistically put me back to together again.

Me and my cupids bow.

The swelling will go down. ( sorry honey) I will slow down. And best of all, I will have a small little scar to remind me to do so.

And my plastics guy?  If he is this good on lips I wonder how he is with………?

Well, every good woman needs a good plastics guy.

**Gracious and sincere thanks to Dr. Russell Babbitt III, Lyn and Robin for putting me back together again…..the guy is a genius.

 

 

Hattie used to say “ya’ll point ya’lls finger at someone they’ll be three point’in right back at cha”.   She would say this when after a terribly fun time in the family room-the den we called it-we would get to playing and playing turned to something getting broken.  Hattie would run in from the kitchen, leaving the fried bologna in the pan and look at us-quiet now, looking down at the floor-never at the broken object-and she’d say:

“Alright now, who did it?”

I would point at my brother, my brother would point at me and the kid from down the street would shrug his shoulders.

Silence.  Nothing but fingers.  And shoulders.  Stuck up right by his ears.  Frozen.

“I told ya’ll not to be horse’in round. Now who did it?”

Fingers and shoulders stay where they are.

Frying bologna beckons

Hattie leaves the room throwing the dishtowel over her shoulder along with her finger pointing quote.

“Ya’ll keep point’in.  Ya’ll got one finger in someones face and three pointing right back at you.  Hmmmmmmmp.”

I think about it every time I find myself pointing-literally or figuratively.  That one powerful finger pointing at someone else-and those three pointing right back at me. AS we navigate human error-community issues and worldly turbulence, it is easy to point the finger.  That one defiant moment when blame goes right away-up and out through the very tip of the pointer.  Mr. Pointer.  And yet, and yet, what is held in the those three pointing back?  Guilt?  Weakness?  Ignorance?  More defiance?  Times 3?  So there in my quest to shift and be brighter, lighter and more Buddha like.  There in those moments I am back on the road to a well lived life, I look a little more closer not at Mr. Pointer-but at those other three fingers that fold down and point back.  And one by one I name them:  Acceptance, and it unfolds. Courage, and it unfolds. Love, and it unfolds.  I am now looking at an open hand-palm up-open.  Mr. Pointer is now part of the pack-the whole hand. The whole.

Sun up, covers off, feet down, robe on,down the stairs leaving one snoring behind. Lights on, dogs fed, coffee on, laundry sorted, check the list. Computer on, journal opened,bills splayed, which one first? Dogs out, dogs in, coffee poured, smell the cream, cream poured, coffee stirred, brain stirring.  Quiet house. For now. Journal open, journal open. journal open to the page I have yet to finish, need to finish. Check face.  Sigh. Age.  What to do? Start laundry, the darks.  Coffee cup is, where? It’s Monday. It’s Monday. It’s Monday. Check this, start that, sit down. No. Get up. And what about?  Foot steps, snorer up, quiet is gone, dogs welcome another riser.  Kiss, kiss, love, love, dogs jumping. Little footsteps now, grumpy start for a nine year old’s day.  No, no, we won’t have this.  Kiss, kiss, love,love. Breakfast?  Darks out, whites in.  Dryer started. creaking, creaking, creaking, a dryer complains with every turn of the drum. Thump, squeal, thump squeal.  How much is a new dryer? Oh. and new tires. Before winter. How much are new tires?  Coffee.  New cup. Is there anything worse than cold coffee?  One leaves, kiss, kiss, love, love, the other goes up stairs,to change,now, right now,there is no way you are wearing that to schoo, because I said so. Off she goes hitting each stair with defiance. Lunch packed, teeth brushed, pass by journal open on the desk,get in the car, drive.  Wait.  For the line of cars to go. Kiss, kiss, not in front of everyone, mooooom!, door slammed, drive. Coffee. is. cold. again. House is quiet. Again. Except for the dryer. That damn dryer.  Dog throws up. Hmmmm? Ham bone not a good idea. Bone fragments and ham bits blended into a semi wool shag.  Journal open.  Sit.  Write. Phone rings, insurance questions.  Am I dressed for today? Will this do?  How vocal do I want to be today?  Do I care?  Really?  Breathe.  Journal open. Write.

 

In one direction or another.  Right?  If change is the constant then we all have the ability to move forward-one way or another. Change will be the evolution of us all. Even if we don’t do one darn thing. I have lived enough to know life cycles-beyond the obvious of life and death;this we all know.  More so , the life cycle of what comes back around to affirm?  confirm? deny? Remind us? taptaptap us ever so gently heed a warning?  Or better yet, suggest we try that again.  Once more.  I am happy to report a few good, really good circle of life moments.  When all the pieces and parts of the puzzle come together.  People and circumstance all at the same cocktail party, beautifully dressed and on time. Right there in the same room and there I am too, by force or will( or whatever else got me through “it” and got me where I needed to be).   When the past tears and disappointments meet with the joy and success and questions are answered(or not) and that particular circle of life moment is complete. Wrap it up.The trick is staying in the business of life long enough to cycle back around-again..and get it right. (or not) Life will cycle on- we don’t get to live life backwards.  Life is in the business of here and now.  Some days I am present.  Give me all the here and now I can handle.  Some days, though I hate to admit it, my what if’s scratch and claw at my here and now and I find myself on a side trip-there in the back of my mind, where every moment is kept. Oh. And. I remember everything. And there, right there in the deepestdarkest place, I find the road stop sign posting:

No regrets.

For once, I think I am okay with this.

Wouldacouldashoulda.

Can I now be so bold to look back and say that my shoulda’s gave way to whatever else I felt was more important?  My woulda stepped aside for passion?  Pain?  Grief?  Love? Coulda-there, on the sidelines testing my vanity and ego.  The road of no regret is long and hard won.  It is not for the faint of heart.  It is for the ones who take whatever other road seems more interesting and well, yes, less traveled.  Secluded even.  That road in that moment. Not the one of least resistance.  The road of change.  Get on it.  Buckle up.  And have enough sense to stop and pee when the trips get to long, or at least rest….and try, very, very hard not to run over anyone along the way.

 

I have been on a positive kick these days.  Living life in the now.  My now.  This moment to moment of taking whatever comes my way. Maybe the yoga is kicking in-Is it my Buddha and incense?   The four hours a day of biking?  Something is ever so slightly adjusting the level of serotonin in my brain-but by God, I have been happy.  Yes, that’s right!  Happy in a balanced, alliswellinmyworld kind of way. Even-keeled if you will.  Even a quick trip to Walmart to purchase last minute supplies left me-well, okay. Granted I was only there for 15 minutes-but I was able to leave the store without wanting to scream at anyone or tap someone on the shoulder, in a way my Grandma Brown would have done to remind them not to:   talk on the phone in public, have any body part exposed in a most disgusting way, or to beg them to stop having children. Just stop.

But then…………….

Something rose from way up inside the innards of my truest feelings this morning that no amount of incense, biking or Buddha would quell.  A general disgust at all things I simply have tolerated because it was the polite thing to do-people included.  This was the morning I was not  going to take it anymore-because I don’t have to. Nope. Not gonna do it.

No, no, no.  I. don’t. give. afly’infig ( my Grandma Brown would say that too) about what this says about me, about my temperament, my ability to breathe it all in and let it go, my “lack of”, or inability to.  I don’t want to calm down.  I don’t want to make peace.  Has anyone ever thought that by getting rid of all the things( and people) you simply tolerated ( in spite of, because of) can be a very positive way to make peace?

Hey!  I don’t like you.  Never have.  You are not nice and you take too much work to navigate.  Nice know’in ya.  Well, not really.  You never liked me either.

My nine year old daughter has been having a particularly difficult time with a certain other little nine year old. A budding she devil if you ask me.  The troubles with said she devil started last year.  And trust me when I tell you, this little dar’lin has all the makings of manipulation wrapped up in mean( and then I met the mom and it all  made sense to me)

I just don’t like her, my daughter said.  There is nothing nice about her.  There is something to be said for nine year old wisdom.

And while I wholeheartedly agreed, that thing, that make nice gene kicked in and I found myself saying exactly what my mother would have said( and probably did) to me when I was ridiculed by a pack of nine year olds myself-way back when.

You don’t have to like them, you don’t have to be their friend, but you must be nice and be respectful.

Really?   I remember, even to this day, that made no sense to me.  At nine.  At nineteen.  At 29…and well, today.

But why?  (we said this in tandem, my daughter and me)  Only her voice had more conviction and strength, unshaded by years of being nice.

Just be nice Gloria.

No.  I don’t want to.  Any. More.  I don’t want to be nice to people whom I just do not like.  I don’t want to pretend.  Don’t want to carry the burden of  nice anymore.  Not that I will be mean-that’s just not nice.  But I won’t be anything.  Void.  Stop pretending.

My mother was the queen of nice.  She did not know mean.  Well, she did, but her mean was, well, too nice.  And it cost her.  To her, nothing, because she would not have it any other way.  To those of us who knew otherwise, it cost her some extra years of life.  She should have, could have, would have.  But it was not in her capacity.  I chose differently, but it has taken me this long.  To find the voice to say no.  NO thank-you.  Not gonna do it anymore.

Those who know me know me well.  For them I save my nice.  My warmth,  my strength. My compassion and love.  Deep love.

No,if I don’t like you, I don’t want to be your friend.  In a plane, in a car, in a meeting or in a bar.  I am Me. Me I am.  I have nothing to give any more to those who continue to take. My time is valuable.  Not to be wasted.  Anymore.  I can not give an iota  to those who say one thing and mean another.   ALL. THE. TIME. Talk to someone else.  I do not want to pray for God fearing hypocrites-who do the most ungodly of things-and then blame it on God.  Figure that one out. Blame somebody else- and start with yourself.

Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times?  Okay so I am still learning.

 

If, way back long ago, I’d have given up I would miss out on these days of reflection.  I would not have been able to know, deep in the knowing, I got through it; in tact and whole- maybe even more so than I ever imagined.  Not that there weren’t any scars mind you.

Way back when, maybe even the first week of college, certainly the first semester when I was loving autumn but not my life in autumn.  When I was feeling lost in a sea of perfect girls, from perfect worlds, who had been on the perfect track to perfection.  I felt like the lost sock in a dryer of freshly laundered madras.  Anyway, somehow I landed in the threshold of an office outfitted with a beautiful big desk, making the woman sitting behind it appear even more petite than she was-an office cluttered with the droppings of somehow who very clearly loved adventure, learning and life.  I was standing in the midst of someone who would change my life forever and all I  could do was cry.

I am looking for Dr. Shearburn.  Dr. Dudley Shearburn.  ( a stodgy, pipe smoking old man, professorial looking in the same suit he wears everyday- a brown bag lunch even? with a thermos of black coffee-grading papers? )

Yes?  Dear?  The sound of southern, real southern,female, warm blanket southern from behind a stack of books.  Lots and lots of books.  There were books everywhere.  And art.  Lots of art of all kinds.

I was told, ( not now, you can’t cry now) to see Dr. Shearburn.  My advisor.  I am looking for Dr. Shearburn. ( I am quite certain if I am not pointed in the direction of where I am supposed to go, this poor women, with the warm blanket southern voice, is going to see me breakdown and sob.)

She stood up and walked from behind the desk-outfitted in colors and big jewelry.  Artsy jewelry.  She was alive.  Lively.  A little impish.  She sized me up in a second.

Uh huh.  What have we here?

Silence.

Sugah, I am Dr. Shearburn.  You are supposed to see me.  Warm blanket southern with as warm of a smile.

And that was that.

Let’s walk.

And for the next two hours we did.  Up and around a beautiful campus decked out in a stellar Piedmont North Carolina Fall.  Through the historic graveyards, past the bakery and up and down hills.  It was a walk ,to coin a phrase, to remember.  And I always have.

I cried.  Expressed my fear of being in a place where it appeared everyone else had it all figured out-and I was no where near the questions, never mind the answers. I hated my classes, hated feeling trapped and hated the fact we had to sing, yes, sing about virgin trees.  Yes.  Virgin trees.  Which were about the only things on campus NOT screwing around. Not that it bothered me.  Just seemed a little hypocritical, that’s all.

It seemed so easy for everyone else.  Prepared from years in a prep school or boarding school.  My learning curve was way off,well the curve.

Dr. Shearburn listened and walked.  Walked and listened. She would giggle.  She would nod from time to time, offer an insight here and there.  She held my hand, grabbed my shoulder, and called me sugah.  A lot.

It’s not fair I said.  It’s just  not fair.

She stopped walking-turned and looked at me, straight on with a smile and said:

Life is not fair.  Whoever told you life is fair?  Remove that word from your vocabulary.  Right here and now.  You get to choose. You get to reinvent.  You get to chart the course.  You get to get a life….and make it whatever you want.  But, life is not fair and it never will be.  So get over it and move on.

And that was that.

The next week, I changed some classes around, got a job off campus, and began the art of creating my life. It is advice that has never failed me.  Not once.  These are the words I share( quite often) with my daughter when she lets it be known that, indeed, life is not fair.

No, it is not. I tell her.  It never will be. But you get to create your own life-your own words for your own world.  You get to choose.

Dr. Shearburn stayed with me the entire four years of college life-and years later, she is with me as I reach milestones.  In life and in art.

 

  There, there.  It is all going to be alright.  It is all going to be alright.

Maybe.

You know what is wrong with you gal?

Well, as a matter of fact- I could go through a whole litney of what is wrong with me.  And then I start to cry-tears welling.  Holding back-not gonna do it.

Looky here gal, she said.

I did. Every inch of her life was right there on her face.  Not hidden, not smoothed out and inflated.  Life in every crease and crevice.  She earned every one.

You are looking for a there, there, she said.

  Your there, there.  Someone to come along and tap you gently on the shoulder, look you right in the eye, pull you close into a deep hug and whisper,

there,there. 

I cried even more.

She was right. 

The last four years have been an emotional boat load of heaves and ho’s.  From one destination to another-coming across things not on the map-circumstances that needed to be dealt with in the here and now-except the here and now kept going on and on so much I found myself lost in the sensation of any kind of feeling.Void.  There was no time.  The here and now was robbing me of the genuine- because everything was requiring me to participate on a level of  deep impact. I just kept moving.  I just keep moving.  It is the remedy.  It is the solution. It is what keeps me, oddly enough in the present.  How ironic.

If you are one of those women who is so inclined to fix, on all kinds of multi levels, and if you choose to see and be aware-I am not sure there will always be a there, there-waiting in the wings when you decide to slow down long enough.  Items don’t have to be checked off the list of life. Just about anything can wait-and your child will not dissolve into a heaping pile of emotional distress if you can not do everything-all the time.  Children need to know they are loved and safe. That covers a great deal.  Marriages require work and compromise and partners need to know they are loved and that they too are safe-even from things that have been there long before you ever entered the picture.  There, there’s are hard to come by these days.The there, theres in the every day are not where you think you will find them-but sometimes, on a day when the weight of the world is right there between my heart and soul and sleep has not been my friend-when circumstance is not working in my favor and my wish list is running longer than usual- I find my own there, there.  A whisper to  my self, filled with the knowing of self preservation and skill- with a solid hug of perseverance and the assurance that righteousness brings.

There,there.

This is how it started.  One day in late spring, 2007-my mother traveled up to New England to see my daughter play a flying monkey in a production of The Wizard of Oz.  My mother has traveled by herself for years-lived by herself for years.  She was always fond of getting up and going-by car-by plane-and a few times-by boat.  She loved to travel to see her children. And then her grandchildren.  And for the many years I lived in New York-my mother became part of the fabric  there as much as anything.  We had our rituals, our stomping grounds and she would always frequent the (many!) restaurants where I either waited tables or hosted.  She knew her way around the city and my neighborhood-and if she did not-she made the most of getting lost.  She would jsut stop and ask someone-anyone- to show her the way. But that was years ago.  Though even in recent years, she had no problem hoping on a plane to come visit me-or driving for several hours to visit my brothers. She knew how to find her way-my mom.  Even after the cancer.  She got up and went.  But that was then.

Don’t forget your phone mom. Don’t leave it in the charger.  You might need it if your flight is cancelled or delayed.

 Yes. It’s charging now, she said.  But I never use the darn thing anyway.

Mom, just bring your phone….  And call me at work if there is any trouble.  See you tomorrow.

And just like always, she complained about having to get up so early. “o’dark thirty” she would say.

And then the next day:

The phone kept ringing at work.  My phone was registering a number I did not recognize.  I went back to teaching-and the phone kept ringing.  On the fourth attempt, I answered.

Uh, hi, uh, is this Gloria?

Yes, this is Gloria.

You don’t know me, but I am here in Philadelphia with your mother.  She asked that I call.  She, uh, doesn’t have her phone- she , uh, left it in the charger.  Anyway, our flight to Providence was cancelled and , uh, your mom is here, with me.  She’s really frazzled..she seems disoriented.

  He sounded young.  Maybe they talked college basketball on the flight.  Maybe she just flat out introduced herself-full name and all- and then began a conversation about the many things she loved.

No,I’m not.  I heard her say in the background.  I am just fine.

Uh, he said, your mom wants to talk to you.

  Gloria I am fine.  I am fine!( in her everything is not alright voice but I am going to Pollyanna my way through this so you don’t think anything is wrong with me, because there is nothing wrong)

Well, it seems US Air has cancelled the flight so we are being rerouted and, well, no one can tell us when we will get to Providence, but we will at some point.

But mom ( as 15 kids with anger issues are staring at me).

I’m fine! , she said. I have a book. I always bring a book.  I don’t know this nice man’s name but he let me use his phone.  He has to go now. And that was that.

Dammit Pollyanna. 

Uh, should I call you when we know more, Uh, so you won’t worry about your mom?, the young man said.

What is your name?  How old are you? What do you do?  ( because I know my mother, and she never meets a stranger and within minutes said stranger will know too much and she will not care one bit…I mean, mom….she’s, well, she is just too trusting.

Information jotted down- I can’t get back to class because now I am distracted by how I going to get my mother from Philly to Providence-my mom-with no cell phone. I am on the phone to US Air at once-demanding-at once-and trying very hard to be nice because-someone once said to me to imagine rainbows shooting from your mouth when you are upset with the other person on the phone-especially when the other person is being difficult.

Could you, please( rainbow one) let me speak to a supervisor.  I have a problem.

How can I direct your problem?  (USAIR voice from somewhere in a call center)

Well, it involves a flight that was canceled-in Philly-without warning- and, well, my mother is stranded there-by herself…and I need to get her-

Flight number? ( call center voice interrupted)

Ummmm, I don’t know.  (rainbow #2)  Can you look it up by name?

I am not on the page.  (pause) Last name?

I gave the name-with a double shot of rainbow-because now I am thinking of too many things that are not making sense to me about mother.

Can you just tell me what time the flight is expected to leave, so I can be sure to meet my mother beca-

 Young man stuck in Philly with my mother dials in-I click over

Hey Glor!  We are going over to Gate 5- we should be in Providence at 4:45pm.  And this nice man let me use his phone.  I think he is a college student.  Very nice kid.  Yes, very nice.

and before I know it she hangs up the phone-

I click back over to US Air. We have been disconnected.

So much for spewing  fucking rainbows.