****
Non-subject: "old connections."
Guilt and shame; those are old connections for me.
*****
Late summer, 2003.
I sit on the screened-in back porch, on a cushion-seated, metal, straight-back chair that matches the cream-colored-marbled-with-gray table. I'd bought the Formica-type table dinette set at a great price at the secondhand furniture store. It had a hint of elegance without the pomp and without the price. I was pleased with it and admired how it contrasted the rustic wooden floor, brick wall, and the dark brown, metal trim of the screen porch.
My 13-year old son and my 15-year old daughter sit with me. We are eating lunch together as we do most every day.
I really want to go to Borders and journal after lunch. But I feel guilty, like I am being selfish and leaving my kids without enough structure for the afternoon.
I journal a lot these days. I spend hours at a time at Borders. Reading. Journaling. Talking with someone I meet there, sometimes another journaler. It's magic to meet another journaler; we have an instant connection.
"Is that a journal?" one of us might ask. Usually the answer is a somewhat timid, "Yes." And then a light in both our eyes dances. And we share how this act of pen to paper, this scribbling on parchment, is changing our lives. We share about books we've read, types of journals we've kept. "Do you index? Do you go back and forth with different topics? Do you start off nice and neat and end up messy? Do you write in shorthand? Do you ever write with your other hand?"
It's like journaling is an entity of itself. These strokes on the page are life changing.
I really want to go to Borders and journal after lunch. But I feel guilty, like I am being selfish.
Why do I write so much, especially about me? I'd asked my psychologist if I was a narcissist. He replied, "No. You are far from a narcissist. Your writing is a help to you."
But why? What will I ever do with it? The only one I share this stuff with is he and sometimes Dr. Piva.
Dr. Piva had been my Osteopath. In the past few years, he had shared with my son his collection of baseball cards. I later stated to Dr. Piva, "I don't collect anything." He replied, " You collect thoughts; you collect solutions." I was rather stunned with his remark replying, "Oh."
I don't collect things; it's all temporal anyway. All that really matters is the Word, the Word, the Word, and the legacy I leave by doing God's Word. Yet, sometimes I feel a part of me is missing; my life seems irrelevant.
I really want to go to Borders and journal after lunch. But I feel guilty, like I am being selfish.
As is our manner, my children and I talk much during our meal. We have the most entertaining mealtime discussions, from subjects such as the death penalty to how can one tell the difference between a male or female toad.
I share with them my desire to go to Borders to journal, and my dilemma of feeling guilty about it. My 13-year old son gets up from his chair and walks around the rectangular table to where I sit.
"Mom, would you stand up and come with me out on the deck?"
"Sure," I reply puzzled.
We walk to the screen door and exit out of the screened enclosure onto the exposed deck in the sunshine, the roof of the porch no longer covering our heads. My son is almost my height in stature. He puts his arm around me and we start walking to and fro along the rustic wooden deck.
He says, "So you feel guilty for wanting to go to Borders?"
"Yea..." I answer, feeling guilty for feeling guilty.
"You feel like you're not a good mom and that you are neglecting us by journaling?"
"Yes," I sigh.
We walk, his arm around me. He gently pats my back as he speaks, asking me questions.
"Do you know what a great mom you are?"
"Sometimes."
I'm wondering what he is up to.
"And we know you like to journal. You like to journal don't you Mom?"
"Well, duh..." I chuckle lightly, quite curious as to what he is getting at. Then I ask, "What are we doing?"
He answers, "We are going on a guilt trip, until your finished feeling guilty and can go to Borders and have fun." He smiles.
My heart is warmed. We laugh. My daughter laughs. My son and I walked to and fro a few more times.
Maybe I wasn't such a bad mom after all.
****
Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).
****
My 13-year old son and my 15-year old daughter sit with me. We are eating lunch together as we do most every day.
I really want to go to Borders and journal after lunch. But I feel guilty, like I am being selfish and leaving my kids without enough structure for the afternoon.
I journal a lot these days. I spend hours at a time at Borders. Reading. Journaling. Talking with someone I meet there, sometimes another journaler. It's magic to meet another journaler; we have an instant connection.
"Is that a journal?" one of us might ask. Usually the answer is a somewhat timid, "Yes." And then a light in both our eyes dances. And we share how this act of pen to paper, this scribbling on parchment, is changing our lives. We share about books we've read, types of journals we've kept. "Do you index? Do you go back and forth with different topics? Do you start off nice and neat and end up messy? Do you write in shorthand? Do you ever write with your other hand?"
It's like journaling is an entity of itself. These strokes on the page are life changing.
I really want to go to Borders and journal after lunch. But I feel guilty, like I am being selfish.
Why do I write so much, especially about me? I'd asked my psychologist if I was a narcissist. He replied, "No. You are far from a narcissist. Your writing is a help to you."
But why? What will I ever do with it? The only one I share this stuff with is he and sometimes Dr. Piva.
Dr. Piva had been my Osteopath. In the past few years, he had shared with my son his collection of baseball cards. I later stated to Dr. Piva, "I don't collect anything." He replied, " You collect thoughts; you collect solutions." I was rather stunned with his remark replying, "Oh."
I don't collect things; it's all temporal anyway. All that really matters is the Word, the Word, the Word, and the legacy I leave by doing God's Word. Yet, sometimes I feel a part of me is missing; my life seems irrelevant.
I really want to go to Borders and journal after lunch. But I feel guilty, like I am being selfish.
As is our manner, my children and I talk much during our meal. We have the most entertaining mealtime discussions, from subjects such as the death penalty to how can one tell the difference between a male or female toad.
I share with them my desire to go to Borders to journal, and my dilemma of feeling guilty about it. My 13-year old son gets up from his chair and walks around the rectangular table to where I sit.
"Mom, would you stand up and come with me out on the deck?"
"Sure," I reply puzzled.
We walk to the screen door and exit out of the screened enclosure onto the exposed deck in the sunshine, the roof of the porch no longer covering our heads. My son is almost my height in stature. He puts his arm around me and we start walking to and fro along the rustic wooden deck.
He says, "So you feel guilty for wanting to go to Borders?"
"Yea..." I answer, feeling guilty for feeling guilty.
"You feel like you're not a good mom and that you are neglecting us by journaling?"
"Yes," I sigh.
We walk, his arm around me. He gently pats my back as he speaks, asking me questions.
"Do you know what a great mom you are?"
"Sometimes."
I'm wondering what he is up to.
"And we know you like to journal. You like to journal don't you Mom?"
"Well, duh..." I chuckle lightly, quite curious as to what he is getting at. Then I ask, "What are we doing?"
He answers, "We are going on a guilt trip, until your finished feeling guilty and can go to Borders and have fun." He smiles.
My heart is warmed. We laugh. My daughter laughs. My son and I walked to and fro a few more times.
Maybe I wasn't such a bad mom after all.
****
Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).
****
2 comments:
First, hugs oneperson. I noticed how the narrator is feeling. :-(
Second, thanks for linking to the "Guilt Trip." Incredible insight for a thirteen year old. I journaled as well. I ended up destroying all of them when I feared everything I wrote would one day be found.
I love what Dr. Piva said, "You collect thoughts; you collect solutions."
Thanks Zoe. :)
Funny how the depression came on Sunday...and then other odd things happened Monday. Must have been premonition depression. Haha.
I have two wonderful children. (I know you have a few yourself, if I recall correctly.)
When that same son was around 4 years old, we were sitting at a table at a restaurant waiting for our meal. A candle flickered in the center of the table. He asked, "Where does the flame go when the fire goes out?"
I looked at my husband and said, "Why don't you answer that one." ;)
Hmmm, I don't recall the answer.
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