Two magnets, one mom, and a refrigerator door

Your eyes shift down from their low casting across the long table’s surface to the one with blush burned cheeks. With eyes averting, you wait for something small, something smart, worth the wasted while. Waiting. Waiting. My cheeks burn all the more in the stalled stretching span. The words on the page coarsely twist off my lips. Stupidity overwhelms me in that first unrecoverable instance.

My nose flares with a frustrated humph. In fact, there are no words on the page to twist off my lips, and you, you have yet to sit. I look to my right.

I hesitate, hating that damn black bulldog clip thingy. It sits silently clasping itself, clinging impotently and unused to my wall mounted magnetic strip. Waiting. Its thingy-ness remains verbless and voiceless. There is no fusion of form or frame for content or cognition. No muse at all, just a damn mute thingy. It watches me subjectlessly grope. I stop. I wait. I try not to do smart. Smart is stupid. It stalls me, binding up as yet unwritten moments. I stare empty eyed at that stupidly smart bulldog clip, clamped shut, failing to give voice. I hold there, for a memory of my own, for histories released. I wait; I waffle, like an unmoored blank page a drift to the floor.

And, I mull down on my unwritten party line as to why I am here. It sits heavy, I try to leverage it to push the pen. Nothing. Instead, I cultivate convincing myself to just freaking mimic the process I forced a mere forty-eight hours ago on my drawing students, set with the remedial task of blind contours. Literally positioning each with laterally outstretched penciled arms, reaching slightly behind them to mark their easeled, bulldog clamped pad. They stare into a stool perched peer’s face, a mere socially inappropriate two feet in front of them, stretching the non-penciled arm forward, finger extended, pointedly poking and tracing the multiple contours of a face not their own. Leaving a mere lead trace, the pencil and padded hand translates with one continuous threading line. So focused, they work until their shoulders’ scream with exerted burn. Arms windmill and then return to the page. The drawings develop; find face in a process not a product. It’s a way of unlearning cognitively compressed perceptual knowings. One eye large, one small and displaced below the nose, the ear a cheek, the chin so small, the nose laps over the mouth. Each distortedly different—fragility and frustration released. Those that forego fixation on final outcome, find face. The drawings oddly read as real. On the other hand, those penciled visually and cognitively coerced are worth only two magnets, one mom, and a refrigerator door.

So I put pen to page in a parallel process, but to write. Of course, this is a lie. I thumb my digital device, swiping away my glossed knowings, my stupidly false facades and my repetitive reviews of the LIKES on my most recent update. Hmmmph. I point to the damn convoluting contours of that impotent clip and my mind's eye fingeringly follows my own blind continuity of unfaked fragility and frustration with this forced first draft.

I am left with missing my mom.

a blessing may each year be better than the one that lay before it

may you listen to your longing to be free.
may the frames of your belonging be large enough for the dreams of your soul.
may you arise each day with a voice of blessing whispering in your heart that something good is going to happen to you.
may you find harmony between your soul and your life.
may the mansion of your soul never become a haunted place.
may you know the eternal longing which lives at the heart of time.
may there be kindness in your gaze when you look within.
may you never place walls between the light and yourself.
may [God's touch] free you from the prison of guilt, fear, disappointment, and despair.
may you allow the wild beauty of the invisible world gather you, mind you, and embrace you in belonging.

most sincerely, kathy

written by John O'Donohue

genetic disposition for diet coke runs in the family

I cannot be blamed for this one.

grams stay with you even when gone.

thinking about my gram. it's been a year since she gracefully let go into her leap from this realm to the other. miss her being here.

landed

din with dad and a gorgeous night drive home c

have a good day

I hope you find the gift of breath, the sky rich with blue, the air crisp with the cool December 10th morning, that you find peace in the green that grows wild even in the city and joy in your friends. I hope this December 10th is a good day. It and you are not forgotten and are of great value. I am glad you are.

I'd tell you myself but it is not an option. So I'll hope these things for you in the silence of cyberspace. And so I do.

I shot my parents today without going postal. well, they will go postal after they get printed for Christmas cards.

I'd tell you what my mom and dad said to get themselves laughing but then I'd have to kill you because omg its just wrong at their age and MY parents!

Monsters in the attic

I noticed this before but especially the last three years as I watch people construct monsters in their mental attics. Why do most of us do this? Actually I haven't met anyone who does not do this to some degree. We take the non-monsters from our lives and if a day comes when a wound runs deep...MONSTER! But I think when the wound runs deep and we lash out with words, actions and fears, when we exaggerate histories, ascribe imagined meanings, attribute evil where there is none, excommunicate in the name of god, get lost in blame, THEN the only way we can hold on to our identity as a good person, in spite of cruelties done from our own pain and flailing, we must make that other into a monster. If we recall them as monster, distorting our own histories and memory with exaggerations and falsehoods buried deep in our fears, then we have the illusion that our shame doesn't reveal our heart's course. Many monsters in our attics manifest from our shame. to admit that, blame would have to be set aside--both of oneself and other [the monster].

so what monsters lay in wait in my attic? i definitely have some but worse than the monsters in my attic is the fact that i can't (meaning i don't have the heart to) really play with children any more. there is no monster there. i just look at them and it hurts too much. children really can't play with a weeping woman. so i don't even try. i don't think i have the energy or heart to try now or again...far too tattered, the grief great.

i can't really be a part any more either. again it hurts too much. i suppose there are monsters there. i have my own new monsters and sharks...they swim in the mind of my constantly dredged histories...daily, when i wake up, when i try to close my eyes at night. in my mind i keep trying to console and comfort the monsters and sharks, but as in life they are deaf and mute and blind. i do what i can to drown these fictional monsters and sharks of their sting.

what monsters creep in your attic? do you really want to leave people you love donned in your man-made monster masks? eventually, though the monster stays on, while the person shoved behind the fear laden mask withers away. combine shunning with your group's artificial man-made monster masks and they can actually kill all that is and was real. It is the nature of some divorces.

happy almost father's day, padre!!

happy birthday mom.

I hate hematomas on my tibialis anterior. ouch!

I over work my art; I over work my body; ouch. rough cut 4x4 oak hurts when it bounces to the ground grazing my shin. I have never figured out how it is my jeans don't rip but what is beneath...ouchy!

I tried to make a small piece for faculty exhibition...is 6' deep x ~5' wide x 8.75' tall count as small. dang it all, I did try!

I was thinking a little about Judd gone wrong when I was framing this out.

And I ended my day stumbling onto my dad's love letters to my mom (this set he wrote to her after they were married not the usual before--I especially liked where he called her "my princess!"--to heck with liberation, I like that.) I didn't read the rest of it, thought it too invasive since they are both still alive. will read someday. then I found a series of report card from both my great great great grand father dating 1879 and his future wife. :)

i feel like a rat to the glittery!

my mom's antique (great?) grandmother's junk, oops, I mean fine costume, jewelry, that, I really like. I've always been an unjewelry person, but I really like all these glitteries. I can't decide if it is the ancestral emotional umbilical cord that links me to the "stuff" or just the glitteries. perhaps it is because it is like my art materials, harvested junk with a naturally aged and worn patina. though unlike my tire tubes these glitters may or may not have the monetary value of junk, so I am unsure as to whether to wear it or not since loosing a stone or chunk of glass is a serious possibility. the dirt is so thick upon this one, I can't even begin to guess, glass or cut stone. glitter, glitter, I feel like a rat.

grungy potential glitter view

only later did I realize my mom had spent the late afternoon crying. ooooh. she'd asked me to help her go through one of her dressers to separate the precious memory linked objects from stuff more just trinket-hoodish (to give away). it's something I witness people do as they age or begin winding down--the de-cluttering and hoarding of "stuff." each object whether linked to a strong memory or trinket-hood had an associated story to go with it. I did this with my grandmother in 2007 and now do it with my mother here in 2011. I enjoy the stories but catch myself becoming short in waiting on the tales associated with even cheap plastics from the mid 70s. I have to re-orient myself to focus on being present with my mom and her associations and not rush forward with my own. it is hard to remain open, patient, and present. though I worked on being present with her all afternoon, i discovered later that as she scooted back and forth in her motorized chair when all had been put away that I failed to notice her tears. I am so sorry I mentally went away when I thought we'd finished. I didn't really consider what this process must be like for her, this strange winding down and de-stuffing. I wish I had known how to remain more present with her. ouch for both of us for totally different reasons. ouchy.

and then on top of that I had a little too much wine, as I prepared our dinner, to drive her back to the nursing home. she really wanted me to come even if I didn't drive. but I am tired and didn't go with her and my dad. this really hurt her feelings even though I said I would be the one to take her back tomorrow.

i understand that there is this weird specialness the elderly derive from having their loved ones seen by their peers in the nursing home. it makes them feel loved and special; it makes all the losses associated with living there just a little more tolerable. and my mom so makes the best of it that I hate to disappoint her. but in some weird way I need to assert my me-ness. (notice how much if you say that aloud it sounds like meanness.) agggh no more wine while I cook or writing blogs in the aftermath--makes me too selfish.

hmmm. cough. blah.

when you finally, after looking at the house warming gift your mom has had sitting on the kitchen counter for a little over a decade, decide to open it and cook its contents, hmm, well cough, blah, hack. so I unwrapped the cellophane from the prettily arranged gingerbread man cookie kit, read the directions, mixed the decade old ingredients per instruction with fresh eggs, decorated each pressed out cookie with sparkles and such taken from the cabinet shelf from over the stove housing leftover birthday stuff from my childhood, slid the resulting items into and then back out of the oven, allowed them to just cool on the special rack designed for the task, AND then bit into one with hopes remembered....hack, blah, umm cough only to discover that the shelf life of a gingerbread cookie kit may only be one year, not one decade. hmmmm so I now have a plate filled with gingerbread men that upon the tongue have the texture of crumpled dried dirt and the flavor or lack thereof of cardboard or a communion wafer!!

DECEMBER 30, 2010
OMG!
I just arrived at the parental units and the cookies are still on the kitchen counter BUT SOME ARE MISSING. OMG! I inquired with great fear for my mom and dad. To my relief, my dad let me know he'd been feeding the "cookies" to the birds and squirrels in the backyard. Thank God!

stuff dating back to 1796 found in my gram's collection of things

Found in family bible my gram had that she received from previous generations, bible dating 1858.

 

then--circa 1964; now--summer 2010

photo my grandmother had, circa 1964
those are not freckles across my nose, but grime (outside playing grime)

photo i have, summer 2010
those are not shadows across my nose, chin, forehead and upper lip, but grime (outside playing art tire grime)

and then there is what i once thought was a doll that i played with when i visited. i loved this doll. even my brother remembered it. (yes i know it is a whisk broom but she danced and glided beautifully)

and a several historical newspapers like,

an interesting day with my dad and brother.

fun things my gram had...still

a blessing for this day the tenth of December

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

May God be with you and bless you:
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.

May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you...

oops. my gram took a tumble and broke her hip. OUCHY.

but the vicadin is totally working.

at 99, living independently, on no meds except over the counter vitamins, no ailments or complaints,  sharp as a tack, and ambulatory until today, the doctors plan to bolt that hip back together in the morning and send her on her way to rehab. hmm the doctor did ask her some funny questions. after they asked her if she smoked, drank, or did drugs...ever, to which she replied, "no," they asked if she thought that is why she's lived such a long healthy life. she just shrugged. hmmm. i am thinking she has had bacon and eggs and coffee every day for her entire life and must simply have amazingly good genes in her blood line. her mom lived to be 91; her dad 93.  YES this is my blood line!

i am hoping the surgery goes well tomorrow morning and she is up and walking soon. they believe she is a good candidate for the surgery but did inform of the real risks; especially for one her age. so if it's time for her to make the crossing, i hope she does so in the way she would like...quickly.

after i snapped this picture of her and i; it suddenly dawned on me that i know exactly what i am going to look like when i am 99, well, except i wont be 4'11".

It is difficult. no? yes.

"It's difficult to hear that what we reject out there is what we reject in ourselves, and what we reject in ourselves is what we are going to reject out there. But that, in a nutshell, is how it works. If we find ourselves unworkable and give up on ourselves, then we'll find others unworkable and give up on them. What we hate in ourselves, we'll hate in others. To the degree that we have compassion for ourselves, we will also have compassion for others. Having compassion starts and ends with having compassion for all those unwanted parts of ourselves, all those imperfections that we don't even want to look at."
- Pema Chodron

this seems to parallel other things i understand to be true, not because i have read it, not because the language is buried under the institutional weight of the church, but because it rings in the halls of the reality of heart and mind and relationships

forgive us our debts
as we forgive our debtors
i find my debts are those things i have held back/withheld. it doesn't matter if i intended to or not, meant it for good or harm or it was a manifestation of fear or hurt; it simply is a debt i have to another and to myself--a word or deed left undone, unfulfilled. if i cannot forgive myself for what i have withheld, why would i be able to forgive another for what they have withheld? if i cannot forgive myself for what i have withheld, why would i accept another's forgiveness? and if i cannot see my own debts, is this because i cannot tolerate my own unforgiveness towards myself ? am i without debt? no. i have and will have debt. i need to walk in living forgiveness.

forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass against us
my trespasses exist when i cross over into anothers space in a way that generates fear or harm, regardless as to whether the no trespassing signs were visible or not. it doesn't matter if i intended to cross over or not, meant it for good or harm or it was a manifestation of fear or hurt; it simply is a trespass i have committed against another and myself. if i cannot forgive myself for they ways i have crossed over, why would i be able to forgive another for how they have crossed over into me? if i cannot forgive myself for the ways i have crossed over, why would i accept another's forgiveness? and if i cannot see my own trespasses, is this because i cannot tolerate my own unforgiveness towards myself? am i without trespasses? no. i have and will trespass. i need to walk in a living forgiveness.

forgive us our sins
as we forgive those who sin against us
my sins are those things of mind, word, heart and action that alienate me from myself, others and god whether i intend this outcome or not. it doesn't matter if the thoughts, words, feelings, and actions were meant for good or harm or it was a manifestation of fear or hurt; it simply is an alienation i have created against myself, another, and god. if i cannot forgive myself for alienating myself, another, and god, why would i be able to forgive another for shunning me as alien? if i cannot forgive myself for alienating, why would i accept another's forgiveness? and if i cannot see my own sin, is this because i cannot tolerate my own unforgiveness? am i without sin? no. i have and will sin. i need to walk in living forgiveness.

or love your neighbor as yourself
who is my neighbor?
how do i love? does not loving require a living forgiveness, for even in our most intimate relationships, those we cherish, does not debt, trespasses and sin occur? are there not moments or years of withholding, crossing over, alienating? yes. what does a living forgiveness look like? perhaps compassion? perhaps mercy? perhaps joy? perhaps sorrows? perhaps living forgiveness is love?

or love your enemy
but who is my enemy?
awe dang. if i cut off, shutout, deny the enemies within, my own internal shadows that simply are, i will surely cut you off, shut you out, deny you. if you or your shadow even remotely generate fear or hurt within me, you have become my enemy from which i must protect myself. perhaps if i learn to love you, my enemy, i will be kinder to myself and vice versa. does it not play back and forth? is that why we are called to love our enemy? the outward exercise refines my inward makings, softens me? thus as i learn how to love my enemies, will i not also become compassionate with who i am and the shadow i cast? and as i am compassionate with who i am, will not my compassion for that which seems alien increase? is not love, compassion? is not compassion, a living forgiveness?

if i hate my enemy or her shadow, i will grow hard and cold. if i hate my enemy, i will assume the worst. eventually who will not be my enemy? i will be my worst enemy? yes.

what is hate?
what is it that i reject?
do i assume the worst?
what do i find unworkable?
who is my enemy?
who have i judged as enemy?
as other?
as alien?
as debtor?
as trespassor?
as sinner?

what is a living breathing forgiveness but love. that is love. it is difficult. no? yes.

i will continue to prepare my ground for living forgiveness. it will not be enough. but it will be.

thank you

mom and dad
grand girlfriends
Lori, Amy and Diana
Josh. Jeff and Jon
Karly and Riley
Paul and Cheri, Nicole and Troy
Glenn and Shelly
Gram
Michael and Bill
Marilyn, Tom and Thomas
fellow writers and thinkers
Matt, Jerry and Peter
Tommy
Dean and Sophie
Peter
Dr Rachel
Amy and Jeff
Trishadeaux
WASHers
BOXers
Share group young women
and you many others who have been especially sensitive, merciful and kind

I AM THANKFUL FOR
my big back porch
the sky
my box
tejano music that drifts over the night air on weekends
my grill
steak
acorn squash and asparagus
cheese
the cool breeze of autumn
the rumbles of the trains
my home grown arugula
my veggie garden boxes
the reuse warehouse
my job
my steel tip boots
my new girlie jeans
tire tubes
my summer in Connecticut
and the drive to and fro
my truck
pen and paper
my camera phone
mouse traps and roach killing agents
gifts of opportunity I have been given in the art world

god's abiding love that is not based on me or what others think.

that's a start to who and what I am grateful for this year. I will add as it pops in my head because there is so much more.