I'm Angry

"Today you are allowed to attend to something that makes you angry, and you are allowed to write about it without censoring yourself."

I am angry. So fucking angry. Not at this book. This book is quite good (more on that later). I'm angry at the state of our world. Where we are and what we've become. I'm just so angry. 

I'm angry that my daughters and my nieces have fewer rights than I did during my reproductive years and than my mother did during her whole fucking lifetime. I'm angry at how we got here, and I'm angry because everyone else isn't angry. 

I'm angry that I have five boxes of Plan B in my closet. And I'm angry that most days I'm tempted to order more. While I still can. I'm angry that that's the world we live in. I'm angry that one of my girls may need healthcare that will be denied to her by men who know nothing of her or her life or her internal organs. 

I'm angry that I live in a state of fear that someone I love may choose to have sex (how dare she), or worse yet not choose, and those tiny pills may have to be her safety net. I'm angry because she shouldn't have to have a safety net hidden in a closet. 

On My Mind

Today's writing instruction is to attend to a bigger grief than those we've been writing about. Pfff. Time to get heavy? Maybe. 

"Today, let's just look at this sorrow on the surface. Let's observe and see its shape. See how it may have stretched, from being ignored. See its need to be seen." 

That's an easy one. What's been weighing heavy on my mind recently is my son. Not the man himself. He's great. 

My relationship with him has been on my mind lately. 

On the surface, we have a wonderful relationship. We love each other, and that is not nothing. 

But for a long time I've been thinking about how I wish we talked more. Really talked. Two adults truly talking. Not a mother and child. Just two humans. I'm a terrible communicator. So first and foremost, I have not held up my side of this exchange. But second, and more importantly, I never taught him this skill (because I suck at it). 

I see so many others whose children are their best friends, and it makes me think about the two of us. Again...I repeat...mostly for my own benefit: We love one another dearly. But I would not say we are friends. 

When he was growing up, I didn't want to be his friend. I never wanted to be that parent. And I still don't long for that best friend vibe. He's not my best friend, and I have no desire to be his. But I would like to be friends. Friends who talk more freely than the two of us do. 

So...

I asked him if I can call him once a week, just to talk. To talk about our weeks and to ask him one question each week. And he agreed. He chose Wednesdays at noon for our call. 

So yesterday, I called. He didn't answer. Ha! We're off to a great start. 

I read this line in an online article about talking to adult children. I told you it's been on my mind a lot lately.

"Even if you work on not parenting when you talk to your kids, because of the roles you’ve always played in each other’s lives, they can often hear what you say through the paradigm of parenting. Your observations and questions may sound like criticism to their ears, and your suggestions may sound like you don’t have confidence in their ability to run their own lives."

And then the author said that the key to success is conversations with adult children is simply this:

Listen More, Talk Less

You can't say the wrong thing if you're listening. #GOALS

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"When you're done, list three good things that are close to you right now." 

My book (The Turnaway Study - So Good!), a mini chocolate cheesecake from GiGi's (also So Good!), and my cup (I do love cups)

Attending

Today's writing instruction is to write about something you need to attend to.

"Is something calling you to sit beside it with mercy?"

What a beautiful way to phrase what we want to accomplish in writing about something heavy.

And then the instructor added, "And start with the words 'I am creative and brave and funny and wise.'"

I love the juxtaposition of this. If you are going to write about something weighing heavy on your soul, why not start with "I am creative and brave and funny and wise"? Pat yourself on the back before you tear yourself down. It's the kind thing to do. 

When I used the word today above, I was referring to Monday, February 10. 

It is no longer Monday, February 10. 

Today is Friday, February 14. I sat with those instructions and thought about those instructions and wrote nothing for four days. I knew exactly what I needed to write about and still I wrote nothing for four days. Because sometimes that's how writing works. 

Then today (there's that word again), I participated in a workshop where I was given 15 minutes and this prompt:

Write about mothers (or mother figures) as both the best and worst thing ever.

And here is what I wrote:

What a timely prompt. I've been writing about motherhood a lot lately. I've written extensively for my son about how I know I wasn't a great mother to him and I'm sorry. It may be cliche, but there's truth in the simple sentiment I did my best. 

I did. 

And my best wasn't great. 

When A1 left the way he did, I was devastated. It proved I was a terrible mom. Again. Two for two. Two days later, my brother sat in my kitchen as I cried, and he said something that has stuck with me ever since. It brings me solace to this day. And it started with, "You did your best." 

He said, "You did your best. You gave all you had. If you give someone your last twenty dollars, it isn't your fault that they needed twenty-five. You have to let that shit go." 

When A2 left the way he did, under circumstances uncannily similar to A1's, I handled it better. I HAD done my best. I HAD made a difference in his life. I gave him my twenty dollars and that has to be enough. 

I understand now that turning 18 in foster care can fuck with a kid's head. And that is what they are. 18 year-old kids. It doesn't matter how many times I tell them they have a home. It doesn't matter how many times I tell them they have a family. It simply doesn't matter. In that moment, their reality is that they are an adult in the sea of foster care, and they are desperate to swim. They're not angry at me. It has nothing to do with me. They don't want to drown. 

All I can do is hope that someday they come to understand, as A1 did, that I will be their shore. I'll be here. No matter the splash you made swimming away, the shore is still there.  

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Talk about sitting beside something with mercy. That's more mercy than I've shown myself since he left. 

I am creative and brave and funny and wise, and I understood the assignment.

Books, Books, and More Books

 Books that have stuck with me for very different reasons: 

• A Prayer for Owen Meany
• Poisonwood Bible
• Tale of Two Cities
• Jurassic Park
• The Glass Castle
• The Last Lecture
• The Shining
• In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash
• On Writing
• Tuesdays with Morrie
• Riding the Bus with My Sister
• A Thousand Splendid Suns
• And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer
• The Reason I Jump
• The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland
• In Love: A Memoir of Love and Loss
• The House that Love Built
• When Women were Dragons
• Dear Ijeawele: Or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions
• The Death of Innocents: An Eyewitness Account of the Death Penalty that Sparked a National Debate

Gathering From Our Spaces

 We don't often notice, truly notice, the spaces we inhabit. Or is that just me? 

My spaces are to-do lists to me. My home is a constant reminder of the laundry that needs to be done and the dinner that never cooks itself and the dust that is accumulating on the framed photos I love so much. 

My barn (which I also love) houses the weights that aren't going to lift themselves. And there's always something out there that needs to be cleaned or shelved or decluttered. 

Even my backyard, one of my favorite spaces has so much work that needs to be done to it that relaxing in the space isn't relaxing at all after I begin to fixate on something that could be or needs to be done to the fence or the patio or the fire pit.

But today my assignment is to simply think about my spaces, not the tasks associated, and gather something lovely from one of them. 

I'm going to write about my current space: my classroom. 

It is a nice space. I work to make sure that it is inviting and calming and yet organized and dare I say even academic. It is a space full of bookshelves busting with books. And better yet, bookshelves with spaces where books have obviously been removed. But none of those books and none of those shelves are what I want to gather today. 

What I want to focus on today, rather, are the paper-chain links that scallop the walls. It is our book chain, and I love that chain. Right now, during my conference period, I have the overhead lights off and the floor lamp is the only light. It makes the chain along one wall look beautiful (and let's face it, paper chains aren't usually beautiful). 

When my students finish a book, they put the title of the book on a link, sign their name, and add the link to the chain. It's a silly tradition to have for high school students, but we love it. We all celebrate the reader (and the chain), and when we reach our goal, I feed them. That's really what they love about it. The food.

I, on the other hand, love the chain. And the reading. I love that they are reading.

Juan told me last year that he had never read a whole book before. He was a freshman in high school (should have been a sophomore) and had just finished a Diary of a Wimpy Kid book. Diary of a Wimpy Kid. And he was so proud of himself. As was I.

I now have a fairly large collection of Diary books. Juan and his friends couldn't get enough of them last year. The year before that I had a group of students obsessed with the I Survived books. I don't really care what they're reading. I don't care about the level or if they've read it five times already. 

Just read. 

This year it's Goosebumps. I can't buy them fast enough, and I certainly can't keep them on the shelves.

I get goosebumps looking at and thinking about that chain. See what I did there? Goosebumps.

Gathering the Goodness From Within

"Part of following the thread of goodness is seeing that you--the person who noticed and gathered these good things--are part of the story. You are an artist, a collector of memories and words and good sounds and smells and tastes. You are not only the hard things. You are not the endless to-do lists. You are this creature of curiosity and delight."

I love this notion, but it's a tall order. I'm not great about looking in when I write. I am more of an observer. A recorder of sorts. I write about what is happening around me and, more often than not, put a humorous spin on it. 

But looking within? That's tough. 

I admire writers who do it. Joan Didion was a master. 

I am not.

What are the good, joyful, bright, deep, or funny things about you? What do you like about your personality? About yourself? What are some golden things about you?

I try to be thoughtful. Performing small acts of kindness, especially anonymous ones, makes me happy. I love to pay for someone's meal and to send anonymous flowers. These things bring me joy.

I am smart. I am funny. And, in general, I think I give myself a thumbs up.

I'm doing OK in trying to leave the world a better place than I found it. 

Follow a Thread of Goodness

 I recently began reading Ross Gay's Book of Delights, and true to its title, it is delightful. I keep it tucked away in my purse, pulling it out to savor a short essay-ette, as Gay calls them, when I wait for a tire to be changed or for a doctor to call my name. I marvel at the way Gay relishes the small things that bring him joy and wonder while also acknowledging that some things hurt, and sometimes life is just hard. The book is filled with a balance of both. Gay gave himself permission to find joy all around him and, in return, reminded me to find more in my own daily life. 

The book is a reminder of exactly what I have always loved about writing, the sense of discovery. The joy in uncovering and exploring the beauty and even the anguish inherent in life.

As I work my way through week one of the "Following the Thread" course, I am thinking more and more about the concept of gathering. It fits so perfectly with Gay's work. He gathered the delights around him. 

I love this line from today's instructional notes: "One of the ideas that makes gathering rich for me is that these moments are mine forever and ever, and I honor them by writing about them."

So...

Let's gather.

Think of moments when you were in between childhood and adulthood. Moments when you were learning about who you were.

I was sulking in my room when he came in. I don't know exactly how old I was, but the fact that my room was my brother's old room (the only bedroom on the left side of the hall) tells me that I was at least a tweenager. Based on the sulk, most likely a full-blown teen with all the hormones and attitude that come with that age. 

I don't remember dad traveling much for work, but I remember that he had been out of town for a brief time and had returned this day. He came into my room and gave me a dancing flower that he had picked up for me on his trip. It was a plastic flower in a plastic pot, and when you turned it on, music played and it wiggled and danced. I think the flower was wearing headphones. I don't remember the song that played, but I can see it dancing in my mind.

I didn't let it show in that moment, but I loved that flower. I wish I still had it. I wish that I had told him or, better yet, shown him how much I loved that flower. But the teenager in me was unable to muster more than a simple thank you as I rolled over to face the wall again. Oh, how I wish I had done more.

I love the memory of that flower. 

It brings me joy.

It brings delight.