booandbunny

At 14 she couldn’t deny the urges that swept over her. She was much more woman than child, but in her plaid Catholic school skirt and knee socks it was hard to feel that way. Well, it was hard to feel that way until Robert came down the hall.

He was one of the first people to be nice to her when she joined the ranks of this pious tribe. They were 12 then and Robert knew what it was like to feel alone in these halls, for lots of reasons.

Kelly’d grown up in a sheltered place, closed in now by the Catholic-ness of it all. Her mother’s family was a hearty bunch of Irish Catholics (need we say more), her father’s family a generic Waspy clan. No specific ethnicity there. No specific religion. They made the assumption that everyone they met was Christian and said a quiet prayer for any they met who didn’t “fit in.” Kelly’s world was a white, Roman Catholic one until she met Robert.

He came from a place she had never seen or touched. He went to school for free because, well, because Catholics take people in. He read the book in religion class and sometimes asked questions that made no sense to a cradle Catholic like Kelly. Questions like, “But when were you saved?”

“Saved? Saved from what?” she asked him later, fiddling with her notebook.

“You know, saved,” he said. “When did you accept Jesus into your heart?”

“I don’t know, but I did,” she said. With her papers tucked away, she still couldn’t look at him. He was one of the few boys who was taller than her. She liked that. He had broad shoulders. She liked that, too. And his voice had already changed. But mostly she liked his eyes. He had the biggest, brownest eyes she’d ever experienced in all her 14 years. Later in life, she’d learn to call them expressive, soulful. They told her things about him that he didn’t know about himself and that she couldn’t put to words.

They started back down the hall.

“It’s just different at my church.” He finally broke the silence as they turned down the stairs. “My whole family is Southern Baptist. We would never be allowed to go to services in jeans the way you guys do. It’s just different.”

It was the end of the day and the stairs were deserted. He took her hand and, for whatever reason she was surprised. What made her tummy twist wasn’t the excitement of his touch. It wasn’t the realization that he liked her, too. It was the knowing. Knowing for the very first time.

Because she’d never touched a black person before and she couldn’t understand what was happening in her brain. “Why did you think it would feel different somehow?” she asked herself. She didn’t even realize until that moment that she had somehow wondered if his skin would feel different than hers.

His hand was soft and warm and she squeezed it as she felt her face flush. Even though she’d never really thought about their differences, they had been in the back of her brain. She was ashamed.

“Are you going to the dance tonight?” His voice cut through her thoughts and she dared to meet his gentle eyes, but they were fixed on her shoes.

He kissed her at that dance. Her tummy jumped at his scent, that jump you get when you’re 14 and experiencing arousal for the very first time. Suddenly she was acutely aware of her inner thighs. With his kiss, that awkward teenage kiss, she left her childhood behind. They were cheek to cheek now, and she learned that he had started shaving. The little difference in them she had never noticed before that day was gone again. He was Robert and they were the same, standing alone together.

Sometimes my brain makes connections and by the time I try to set them down with any kind of permanence they are gone. Not this time. Fortunately, the connection happened while standing six steps from my keyboard.

I had a minor internal hissy fit last night while scouring the junk drawer/art cabinet for Scotch tape. The kids had used up everything I had making a construction paper Quidditch Field a few weeks back and, in hiding the new Scotch tape from them I had inadvertently hidden it from myself. (I do this a lot.) And I really needed the tape right then! In my head I was wondering why I keep some of this stuff and I was calculating just how I could chuck a lot of it one afternoon while they are all at school: stickers they have no interest in any more, mostly used up coloring books, about three pounds of snapped crayons with the labels peeled off. Grrr. “Why do we keep some of ThIs STUFF?” This thought escaped my head, hurdled my teeth and crossed my lips with a volume and cadence that told the kids: Step away from the mom … now! Eventually I found the tape and the homework was completed.

Then, just now, I was cleaning off my desk (another grumbly task!). I picked up the copy of “The Poetry of Robert Frost: All eleven of his books—complete” (edited by Edward Connery Lathem) that had been pulled from its shelf Friday. As I returned it to its rightful spot, where it’s been collecting dust for many, mAnY, MANY years, I realized how many times I have packed this book, moved this book, dusted this book, paged through this book. "Why do I we have some of this stuff?" The thought whisped through my head and I had an answer this time.

I’m not certain my brother knew the powerful poetic origin of the cliche he had just used while talking about some of the choices he’s facing. It felt so good when I went right to this book, right to the page, and was able to e-mail it to him, hoping it would offer him the same warmth it’s brought so many before him.

I'm still going to toss a huge amount of the kids' old art supplies. But not all the stuff that sits on my shelves, in my cabinets, in the backs of drawers, has lost its usefulness.

Amazing. I was on the phone just now, staring out the back window as I usually do when I'm on the phone, when I noticed them. Nothing like the picture below, but it was as though they were coming just for me. I think it's all because I'm especially in tune with them this year. For whatever reason, their speckled wings are speaking to me, especially against that clear September sky.
One by one, as evenly spaced as Christmas lights on a string they rose over the back fence, sunk into the yard, caught a wave and disappeared over the house. Probably 30, maybe more, in the course of a half-hour conversation.
"You called us!"
"Here we are!"
"Just stop a second! Look!"
"See?"
Monarch movement just for me.

The pull of the Earth seems to tug the sky closer. What once seemed out of reach as it crossed the wide blue now seems just a flick ahead of my outstretched hand. A chorus distracts me from my silent friend and my eyes are drawn higher to that telltale V as it moves with intense purpose, perhaps headed to a destination not far from my friend here.

Its parents’ parents came north last spring, bringing with them that surge in me that cries: “Plant a flower garden so they’ll stay!” And now the same surge comes forth in me as my mums popcorn burst into bloom. But our friend can’t stay. It must find others of its kind.

My Kindergartener, himself a victim of seasonal migration, waits for the school bus. His eye is trained now on the flitting, floating, flamboyant flounce as it crosses our yard and rises on a breeze. He tells me all the science he’s learned these first weeks of school and how, when it’s a baby, it’s called a caterpillar.

Just once I’d like to witness the skies alive with these delicate wings en route to the birthplace of their grandparents … those east of the Rockies to the Mexican mountains and those west of the Rockies to Northern California. No one knows for sure how they get where they need to go, but they were born for this purpose. When they hatch they eat and eat and store up fat in their abdomens to power this unparalleled journey … they are the only butterflies in the world to make such a trip … 3,000 miles in all. In the spring they will begin to come back north, but the baton will be passed through generations of butterflies who eventually will reach the Northern U.S. and Canada.

Just once I’d like to eyeball a feathery cluster of wintering monarchs, wings overlapping wings, sheltering each other from the elements and weighing each other down to keep from being blown away. But ours is a point in their journey at which they are still alone, finding the road to a home they’ve never seen.

The Kindergartener boards the bus … off for another day on his own. Walking up the driveway a single honk pulls my eyes to another group of geese just taking shape. The sky is alive. The sky is beautiful. Nice things to think on a crystal blue September day. Maybe for these monarchs, for these geese, for these students it isn’t about the destination. Maybe it’s just the amazing journey.

Making that list was one of the better things I’ve done in the past few months. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-read it! “OK, that’s actually done as much as it can be. NEXT!” (I just watched Elaine Benes yell NEXT at the Soup Nazi last night. I don’t know why, but I love love love Julia Louis Dreyfus’ face when they freeze her in that determined, satisfied growl at the end of that Seinfeld episode.)

So I’ve trimmed back and mulched my gardens, cleaned out the basement and disposed of the recyclables, charitable donations and trash. I do still need to make a stop at the kids re-sale shop. I finished Christ the Lord Out of Egypt by Anne Rice, which was on my list of “hope to read it this year” books. And I put together three pieces for that local art show … a collage and two photographs. The theme of the show was “Black and White and Re(a)d All Over.” All my years in newspapers, it spoke to me.

So, in an effort to get back to blogging I went back to my first-ever favorite blog and found this, which really hit me after my stop at the local cultural arts center. Firstly, I felt quite intimidated and a bit silly with my entries once I saw some of the real art already on the walls. Then I got the treatment, the one Alexandra so adequately describes as the “snooty artists and writers who act is if the creative process is an exclusive club of sorts.” I nearly didn’t enter until I heard Hubby’s mantra in my head: “Fuck it! Just do it.”

Yes, the unedited Nike campaign got me going the way it usually does. I had fun in the creating and you know what … they aren’t so bad. And when you look at the many ways the theme was interpreted it’s really a fascinating exploration of the mind. We all read the same rules and came up with such different interpretations. Fascinating.

So I’ve taken care of a few big-ticket items, which feels really good. I created a little motivation of my own, and in so doing have discovered (and rediscovered) motivation elsewhere.

In Rice’s author’s note she talks about the genesis of her idea, the research and how her quest to create this book sustained her through her husband’s illness and death. “From that time on, December 2002 when he died, until 2005, I have studied the New Testament period, and I continue to study. I read constantly, night and day. … what would I write about my Jesus? I had no idea. But the prospects were interesting. … But I must do my research before I wrote one word.”

I felt like this note from her was written expressly for me. Leave out all of the religion. It was the idea of letting the voices haunt her … letting them transform and change as she learned more about their time in history … listening to them instead of hastily casting them to a page without looking back or letting them grow. It was exactly what I needed to hear. And so I added an item to the list of things that keep me from the keys, only this one is intentional … Research the history surrounding your idea. READ! And listen to your character instead of tuning her out.

Then last week at karate class I found motivation for my kids, frustrated by certain elements of the schoolwork load, as well as for myself.

“If you’re not workin’ hard I can’t teach you. I can teach someone who’s tryin’. But if you’re not tryin’ … I can’t help you. Got it?”

Yes, Sensei.

And then came the embrace of Alexandra’s post. So I think I’ll wear a colorful scarf today, just to help me remember there’s something surprising inside me if I just keep pulling for it.

NEXT!

I still cry. And the tears came today as I decided to add yesterday's and today's editions of the local paper to my box downstars. It's the box of papers from the 2000 election. My box of papers from September 2001. It's the box I will one day bring up for my kids, writing a modern history report, asking me: "What was it like then?" Then they were 3, 2 and 6 months. Today I send them off to school (8, 7 and 5) and telling them: "You're going to hear a lot about the Twin Towers today. If you have questions we can all talk together at dinner." And so I add the "Five Years Later ..." stories and a long journal entry to the box in the hopes that I will better understand where we were, where we are and where we hope to be. In looking back to the entries I wrote in those first days after the world changed I found this, which I share here as we all stop to remember it's a different world.

September 18, 2001 -- There is a ripple each of us creates, whether we know it or not. It is born in the simple acts of kindness as we reach out in times of trouble, in times of joy, in common decency. Oh how the ripples have turned to mighty waves as we think of more than 5,000 people missing and almost 500 confirmed dead in these attacks.

How many lives are touched in their loss? Each life touches the water of the earth, the basic element of our existence. And from that center, we reach out to our children, our siblings, our fellow students, our co-workers, our neighbors. We reach and we reach. And as we reach the outermost circles, the center disappears … spread so far that we forget where it began, we just know we’ve all been touched. And that’s what’s happening here.

How far reaching those individual lives. The waves have washed over the world.

I’ve been working on my list and am about to head out to drop off recyclables and a pile of bedding/clothing at the Goodwill Store, but had to share this grin that crossed my face, because I’ve written about it before. Yesterday, between applications for freelance gigs and designing a few things on the computer I shot off a few short, but heartfelt e-mails to some very, very old friends ... and I've heard back from them all!

I’m talking about the kinds of friends who had hair when we met, but don’t now. (It’s OK, he’s a guy and he’s almost 50!) I’m talking about the kinds of friends who remember the really dumb things I did in high school (like drunk barf in their car) and the really dumb things I did in college (like stumble across campus in aforementioned state alone at 2 a.m.) and yet, they love me anyway. (Please remember Hubby is in this group … he has seen me do many many many many many stupid things and still loves me anyway. S*I*G*H) They are the friends who held my hand when I was terrified I might be pregnant; when I was downtrodden because I was not; when I was moody because I was and when I was exhausted once I became a mom. These are the kinds of friends who love telling stories of my stupidity (and their own!) as long as none of our kids is around to hear our outlandish, brainless antics colorized by the prism of time. They are the friends who are always there … even when they’re in Nevada, Virginia, Texas, Chicago and I am not.

They also are the kinds of friends who are right here in my backyard, but life has us communicating electronically most of the time. And then, when we can, we sit down for a meal, lots of laughs and that feeling that you never …. EVER .... are too old to make new friends.

When all else swirls around me … when all else washes away … when the waters of time pass over me … I can sit down and rest … on the rocks, warm from the sun … the friendships that can’t be undone.

Hubby gave this a test drive the other day and so I decided I would, too, just for fun. It's always amazing to me how these things can peg a person. He is a Phoenix. I am a Chimera. Wonder if we're supposed to be compatible? Let me know who you are ... and enjoy today! Now, back to cleaning my basement.

You Are a Chimera

You are very outgoing and well connected to many people. Incredibly devoted to your family and friends, you find purpose in nurturing others. You are rarely alone, and you do best in the company of others. You are incredibly expressive, and people are sometimes overwhelmed by your strong emotions.