(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
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non-subject: "a time cut off from time"
october, 2009
I know I am afraid to approach the subject. I wonder that if I write what I really feel, what I really felt, what really happened; I wonder if I am gossiping. Or distorting. Or breaking confidences. It scares me so; to the point I tremble and cry. Why does it scare me so?
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It was Friday afternoon. The responsibility of dreaded paperwork had arisen to the top of the to-do list. I excel at procrastination, especially when it comes to paperwork and even to correspondence. Sometimes I feel detailed to death; so many god-damned details. Such a part of modern life.
Paying bills, catching up on correspondence, and such; I like to do those tasks on my screened-in back porch. The openness of the porch eases the tension of the sealed envelopes which I neatly open with my silver letter opener. Sitting on the porch I can peer across the deck and out into our back yard with its fig trees; the giant pin oak; the once beautifully tended landscaped areas with hostas, various perennials, and now naturalized black-eyed suzies and (considered by most) weeds because I suck at yard work; the two garden plots now home to weeds and grasses and volunteer blackberry bushes; and the tile-roofed shed surrounded by mint, a huge butterfly bush, and a couple azaleas. Zoysia grass, the kind of grass that feels like the grass of a golf green or thick lush down, covers at least 1/3 of the back yard. The rest of the grass is just grass, and clover sprinkled with some tiny wild strawberries. I like clover.
The backyard slopes slightly upward as one walks the 200-feet from the deck to the wooded area with its tall swaying white pines amidst oaks and elms and dogwoods, some wound with poison sumac. The woods are thick with brush under the trees, scattered with poison oak and ivy. Birds abound in the treetops. An occasional deer makes itself known even though we are in the city; well a city for North Carolina. Our property goes another 150 feet or so into the woods, to the street of the next neighborhood.
I walk out onto the porch. It's around 4:00 on a beautiful mid-October Friday, 2009. Darcy isn't up yet, at least that I've been aware of. I was up from around 8:00 AM until 10:00 AM, then fell back to sleep until around noon. I've not heard Darcy rumble since I've been up. I'm not concerned as, like me, she has sporadic sleeping patterns.
The Formica-top porch dining table where I do my paperwork needs wiping. I always clean it and the vinyl seated metal chairs before taking my perch to embark upon the onerous task of bill paying. On the table sits a left over 1/2-drunk cold cup of coffee with a spoon in it; beside it a few stain drops of the liquid lay on the cream-colored Formica. A few ashes have landed as well. We don't allow cigarettes in the house.
I take the leftover cup of liquid into the kitchen, pour out the remains, and place the green soup-sized coffee mug in the top rack of the dishwasher. I wipe down the Formica table top, my pre-paperwork ritual. I don't mind cleaning up the coffee cup, its remains, or the ashes. I straighten the chairs.
An old brown wooden end table sits between two metal outdoor chairs next to the brick wall behind which lies the dining room. The brick wall is the only solid wall of the porch. The other three sides are lined with screen with a metal roof over top. Wind chimes of various varieties play a harmonic symphony when the wind stirs strongly enough.
On the wood end table are remains of Darcy's cigarettes. In the small decorative china saucer I found for her to use as an ashtray are two to three butts with their ashes. On the wooden shelf beneath the wooden table top is a china bowl. Eight to ten cigarette butts with ashes are in the bowl; there are lots of ashes, too many it seems for the cigarettes. Darcy didn't ask if she could use this bowl. No big deal; it's not a good bowl. Still I'm somewhat surprised she hadn't asked to use it.
Beside the bowl are two open packs of cigarettes and a 6-inch long, 1-1/2 inch diameter, 1/2 burnt bundle of sage. Ah, that must be where the abundance of ashes came from that are in the bowl. Earlier in the week, Darcy told me she had burnt some sage. There are some ashes spread a bit about the cheap wooden table. No biggie; I'll just wipe it clean.
I close two cigarette packs. One pack is empty, but I've learned that Darcy is very particular about her things. I'm never sure what to throw out and what to keep, or even what is permissible to touch. So I close it and place it neatly under the pack that is 1/2 full.
I empty the ashes and butts from the saucer and bowl, except for one cigarette that looks like it was prematurely snuffed and maybe is going to be puffed again later. I clean and sanitize the two pieces of china that held the butts and ashes. I place the prematurely extinguished ciggie on the edge of the now cleaned decorative small saucer; I place the 1/2 burnt sage bundle in the now freshly cleaned china bowl.
Darcy has two papers on top of the wooden end table. I don't read them; they are not my business. I move them to wipe the table and then neatly put them back using a candle and the pretty saucer with the 1/2 smoked ciggie as weights to keep the papers from blowing on this breezy fall day. I place the china bowl, with the sage in it, beside the two cigarette packs on the shelf just beneath the table top.
There, all feels good. Time to dive in.
I bring out my laptop, my paperwork, my portable plastic black file caddy, the ceramic outgoing mail container, and the recycling box for paper. There is always lots of paper to recycle; I hate junk mail. I set up my computer to catch up on some emails and to maybe chat on Facebook, if someone is online who I want to chat with.
It feels very pleasant and fresh, the breeze adding to the mood. I sit down and check Facebook first. My friend James from Australia is there. It's been over a month at least since we've chatted; he's always fun to chat with. James is an ex-Jehovah's Witness and has been a great help to me. We've even talked on the phone, all the way from Oz.
Shortly after I get settled Darcy comes out. She has just gotten out of bed and is disappointed she has "wasted another day." She again said she didn't sleep all night and has been laying in bed. I comment that I'm sorry she had another rough night.
She looks at the table and sees the leftover coffee is gone.
"Where is my special coffee?" Her voice is angry and accusatory. "I made that earlier this morning and was going to finish it."
I feel myself internally tighten, feeling I again have done something wrong. "I cleaned up the porch. I'm sorry; I didn't know it was special. I thought it was simply left over."
Darcy turns. Irritated she walks back inside the house, into the kitchen. I hear the percolator being assembled.
I dismiss my feelings....it's just coffee; she'll get over it.
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March 8, 2012
I like the deep tone of buffalo drums...
AWW ~ march 7, 2012
non-subject: a place
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May, 2005.
On a weekday morning, I enter the First Baptist Church in the town of King. Just like any other week, I am here to sing and dance with little people, children ages 2 to 5. Once a week I haul my twelve hand drums in a big dark blue nylon bag with beige webbed handles and a beige webbed shoulder strap. A cover-flap flips over the top and attaches with Velcro to the side of the bag. I have a love/hate relationships with Velcro. I'm thankful it was invented, but I much prefer zippers or latches or snaps or buttons or tie laces.
The big blue bag is left over from the late 1980s when I sold Tupperware. I use to haul the big blue bag filled with plastic Tupperware to home parties. For a period of months during my almost-two-year Tupperware career, I ranked among the top ten Tupperware sales persons in the southeast United States.
Now, in 2005, the big blue bag carries synthetic-headed, wooden, hand drums: six pancake drums, three bongo drums, and three buffalo drums. Buffalo drums are my favorite; they have a deep sound. The bongos have a muted sound. The pancake drums have more of a tinny sound. I love teaching the children about rhythm and pitch.
"Melody is rhythm and pitch, you hear it in a song like this. Melody is rhythm and pitch; you hear it in a song like this. Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap) Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap). Do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-dooomp (slap, slap)"
The daycare teachers often chuckle the first time we sing that song. They know it is the tune for "The Adam's Family." Usually when I make up a children's song, I have to pick a tune I know; or else I forget the song
Along with my big blue bag, I carry other tote bags. One with rhythm sticks. Another carries an array of percussion instruments. One more bag is loaded with stuffed animals or puppets or some sort of visual aids and probably a book or two from which read or sing the story, a story in sync with the theme we are singing about. I like themes, but not rigidily so. If the kids are excited about a song not related to our theme, we sing it. But I can usually find a way to tie whatever song we sing in with our theme.
On this particular day in May, 2005, I enter the office at the church and pick up my folder in which parents leave me payments and notes. I carry it with me to the magical music room where I set up to welcome the first class of the morning.
In the few previous months, I'd been investigating how to leave The Way. Where would I go if and when I left?
Mainstream denominations and churches were distasteful to me. I could never believe that Jesus is God or that the dead are alive; so how could I go to a mainstream church? The Way Ministry had taught me the truth; and I still believed that truth. But The Way had become so fossilized. I felt so dead inside. I wanted genuine fellowship again; I wanted that sweet, caramel, chewy center of God's heart.
But I didn't know where to turn, or who to trust, or how to move beyond the spiritual dearth and hollowness that haunted me every day, the hole in my heart and gut.
That day, in May, 2005, an envelope awaited me in the music folder. But the envelope wasn't from any of my students' parents. It was from my past friend, Linda, whom I had marked and avoided as was standard practice for Way believers when someone left the Way Household, which I had believed was the true household of God.
Linda lived in Ohio at the time. She and her husband and their family had left The Way sometime around 2000, I think. Linda had written me at the time and let me know about their decision to leave. I had never responded.
After music classes that morning, I open the envelope from Ohio and read Linda's letter. We connected by phone within a couple months.
I never imagined that within a few years of that phone call, Linda's two daughters and I would be working together in North Carolina side by side, packing miniature art to ship around the country, and even across the oceans.
None of us stayed with The Way.
****
Related Post: To Hear with Different Ears
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non-subject: a place
****
May, 2005.
On a weekday morning, I enter the First Baptist Church in the town of King. Just like any other week, I am here to sing and dance with little people, children ages 2 to 5. Once a week I haul my twelve hand drums in a big dark blue nylon bag with beige webbed handles and a beige webbed shoulder strap. A cover-flap flips over the top and attaches with Velcro to the side of the bag. I have a love/hate relationships with Velcro. I'm thankful it was invented, but I much prefer zippers or latches or snaps or buttons or tie laces.
The big blue bag is left over from the late 1980s when I sold Tupperware. I use to haul the big blue bag filled with plastic Tupperware to home parties. For a period of months during my almost-two-year Tupperware career, I ranked among the top ten Tupperware sales persons in the southeast United States.
Now, in 2005, the big blue bag carries synthetic-headed, wooden, hand drums: six pancake drums, three bongo drums, and three buffalo drums. Buffalo drums are my favorite; they have a deep sound. The bongos have a muted sound. The pancake drums have more of a tinny sound. I love teaching the children about rhythm and pitch.
"Melody is rhythm and pitch, you hear it in a song like this. Melody is rhythm and pitch; you hear it in a song like this. Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap) Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap). Do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-dooomp (slap, slap)"
The daycare teachers often chuckle the first time we sing that song. They know it is the tune for "The Adam's Family." Usually when I make up a children's song, I have to pick a tune I know; or else I forget the song
Along with my big blue bag, I carry other tote bags. One with rhythm sticks. Another carries an array of percussion instruments. One more bag is loaded with stuffed animals or puppets or some sort of visual aids and probably a book or two from which read or sing the story, a story in sync with the theme we are singing about. I like themes, but not rigidily so. If the kids are excited about a song not related to our theme, we sing it. But I can usually find a way to tie whatever song we sing in with our theme.
On this particular day in May, 2005, I enter the office at the church and pick up my folder in which parents leave me payments and notes. I carry it with me to the magical music room where I set up to welcome the first class of the morning.
In the few previous months, I'd been investigating how to leave The Way. Where would I go if and when I left?
Mainstream denominations and churches were distasteful to me. I could never believe that Jesus is God or that the dead are alive; so how could I go to a mainstream church? The Way Ministry had taught me the truth; and I still believed that truth. But The Way had become so fossilized. I felt so dead inside. I wanted genuine fellowship again; I wanted that sweet, caramel, chewy center of God's heart.
But I didn't know where to turn, or who to trust, or how to move beyond the spiritual dearth and hollowness that haunted me every day, the hole in my heart and gut.
That day, in May, 2005, an envelope awaited me in the music folder. But the envelope wasn't from any of my students' parents. It was from my past friend, Linda, whom I had marked and avoided as was standard practice for Way believers when someone left the Way Household, which I had believed was the true household of God.
Linda lived in Ohio at the time. She and her husband and their family had left The Way sometime around 2000, I think. Linda had written me at the time and let me know about their decision to leave. I had never responded.
After music classes that morning, I open the envelope from Ohio and read Linda's letter. We connected by phone within a couple months.
I never imagined that within a few years of that phone call, Linda's two daughters and I would be working together in North Carolina side by side, packing miniature art to ship around the country, and even across the oceans.
None of us stayed with The Way.
****
Related Post: To Hear with Different Ears
****
Caretaker, with ten minutes to go
AWW, 3/07/12
Non-subject: caretaker
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January 12, 1988. My husband, John, and I paced the Valley Hills shopping mall hoping I wasn't in false labor...again. My pains and so-called contractrations were mainly in my lower back, in the same area of my back where as a teenager I suffered horrid menstrual cramps.
I stopped walking and pressed my back into one of the large indoor columns along the wide corridor on the 2nd floor of the mall. Pressure felt good.
At some point I decided it was time to go to the hospital.
My first child, Sarah, was born on January 14. I'd been in labor for 36 hours. John and I were both exhausted. I imagine Sarah was too, but she couldn't tell us.
Sarah had had a rough time in the womb. The maximum sleep I ever got while pregnant was four hours at a time. At four hours, I'd awake in the throws of an asthma attack. Sarah must have felt my anxiety and heard the wheezing while nestled in the amniotic fluid. We must have taken at least two trips a month to the hospital emergency room.
Every living thing has no choice about his or her or its birth, nor a choice about where he or she or it is born.
Once born, every thing becomes a caretaker of something.
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Non-subject: caretaker
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January 12, 1988. My husband, John, and I paced the Valley Hills shopping mall hoping I wasn't in false labor...again. My pains and so-called contractrations were mainly in my lower back, in the same area of my back where as a teenager I suffered horrid menstrual cramps.
I stopped walking and pressed my back into one of the large indoor columns along the wide corridor on the 2nd floor of the mall. Pressure felt good.
At some point I decided it was time to go to the hospital.
My first child, Sarah, was born on January 14. I'd been in labor for 36 hours. John and I were both exhausted. I imagine Sarah was too, but she couldn't tell us.
Sarah had had a rough time in the womb. The maximum sleep I ever got while pregnant was four hours at a time. At four hours, I'd awake in the throws of an asthma attack. Sarah must have felt my anxiety and heard the wheezing while nestled in the amniotic fluid. We must have taken at least two trips a month to the hospital emergency room.
Every living thing has no choice about his or her or its birth, nor a choice about where he or she or it is born.
Once born, every thing becomes a caretaker of something.
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