Friday, March 25, 2011

Courage – A Mother’s Message

Marion Halloway sat alone at the small cafĂ© in her town. Her cooling coffee with swirled of cream on top was her only companion. That is, except for her thoughts. It had been over a year now since she lost her mother. She sometimes got so lonely and missed her mother, it was a tangible thing. Arlene Shoemacker hadn’t been the easiest person to have for a mother, especially when Marion was a child. The life that molded Arlene wasn’t always the easiest of lives either.


Arlene was born during hard times. The youngest of seven children, always struggling to survive, she had to become tough. Her parents had little education, as did many working families in the 1920’s. Though Arlene had dreams, they were not meant to come true for her. A child of the depression, she fondly told stories about walking to the local grocery store to salvage what good produce from the trash she and her mother could find. Close bonds between parent and child were forged during times such as these. Picking berried wasn’t a recreational activity, but one of trying to find some sweet treat for free. Arlene and her two next older sisters were very close. They were only two years apart from eldest to youngest. They shared everything; clothing, food, and a bed. Although there were older children, the bond between these three was a special one.


Arlene met a boy at the tender age of thirteen. Neither of them knew it at that time, but it was to be a love that would last a lifetime. Warren, also a child of his time, at seventeen, was a working man. Having left school at thirteen, he had to find work to help support his family. Each morning he would pedal his bike fifteen miles to a farm that had enough work for him to do. He earned very little money, but it gave him an opportunity to make a contribution.


It was at this time, Arlene and Warren met and began a love that would, for each of them, be “that special one.” But time was not to be good to them. W.W.II began taking young sons from families all across the country. Since Warren was one of four sons, he left for Germany to do his duty to preserve the values of this nation. Arlene, with childlike innocence, wanted to follow her love to the war. Nursing was the job she felt was her calling. Being the baby, and having a father that wanted to protect his youngest child from the horrors of war, she was forbidden to sign-up. Her love left her, perhaps for the last time.


Arlene left school to find work so she could help the family. This put an end to all the childhood dreams that Arlene once held so dear. She began the hard life of an adult without ever really having the luxury of a childhood. Such were the times of the depression.


Arlene was soon the only sibling still living with her parents. She took a job in the textile mill in her town. She made netting that was to be sent to Europe to aid in the war effort. Her father, too, worked in the textile factory. One day, while performing a job with chemicals, he was exposed to a large amount of toxins. Later that day, Arlene found her father in the barn, slumped over the engine of his car, dead. Arlene and her mother struggled to make ends meet after her father’s death. It was at this time Arlene began drinking. She was only seventeen.


Being a working girl, Arlene felt she was entitled to certain freedoms. She began to go to out bars and meet new people. A man entered her life. He was handsome and expressed great fondness for her. She felt little for him, her heart still belonged to another. As months went by, Arlene gave in to her suitor and agreed to marry him. At first their life was wonderful, but that soon changed. They lived with Arlene’s mother so they could all survive the economic times. Arlene became pregnant at eighteen and had a daughter at nineteen. Little Joann was the light in the lives of the entire family. Arlene’s husband, she soon realized, was an alcoholic. He would drink and then beat her, and on occasion, he would beat her mother. Arlene took a stand when he came home one night and woke up the sleeping baby. To make her stop crying, he hit the child until she stopped. The very next day, Arlene contacted a local attorney and filed for divorce. She didn’t know it but the attorney and her husband’s family were old friends. She received her divorce, but her husband got a very lenient visitation order. He came anytime he wanted and took the child, returning her whenever he wanted. One day, when the girl was two and a half, her father came to pick her up. He clearly had been drinking. Arlene and her ex-husband fought. Her mother attempted to remove the child and hide her. He insisted he was going to take her. He took the crying child out the door and began to cross the street in front of the house. Arlene ran outside at the same time. He allowed the child to slip from his hands. At that moment, a car came at a high rate of speed around the corner. Arlene watched as he child was stuck and throw into the air. The little girl landed not too far from where Arlene was standing. In horror, she saw the toll the accident had taken on her precious baby. Her husband was, in fact, too drunk to drive them to the hospital twenty miles from where they lived. So the man who hit her daughter, also drunk, drove them to the hospital for help. Arlene struggled to keep the child’s airways open. There was blood covering both of them. The child survived only eighteen hours in the hospital. Arlene never left her side. Before the baby died, she opened her eyes and told Arlene she loved her.


At the funeral, the driver of the car, who took Arlene’s daughter from her said, “Don’t fret too much, you’re still young. You’ll have other children.” Life was certainly not kind to Arlene, and neither were the people in it.


Arlene, now devastated by her loss, returned to a wild life. She threw abandon to the wind. Luckily she met a very kind man from a good family. He rescued her from herself and helped ease the pain of her loss. She agreed to marry this man after he courted her for almost a year. They too, moved in with Arlene’s mother who was struggling with health issues related to tuberculosis. Arlene’s precious mother was the next loss she would need to endure.


Her mother’s death, the third loss in ten years, left Arlene devastated. She and her husband moved to a very small apartment in the town. For the first time, Arlene, at twenty-seven, was living away from her family. It was at this time that he husband was diagnosed with a life threatening kidney disorder. It was genetic in nature and was sure to take his life early. Arlene had few supports. Her husband suffered a nervous breakdown as a result of his diagnosis.


It was at this time that Arlene’s sister ran into Warren. They talked about times before the war, and what had happened since. Warren had returned to the United States from Europe. He looked for Arlene, but found out that she had married. He too married, and was now the father of three sons. When he heard the tragic turns that Arlene’s life had taken, he wanted to see her. His feelings for her were unchanged. He hoped that Arlene still remembered him and would see him. Arlene’s sister went immediately to her and shared the conversation she had had with Warren. As wrong as they both knew it was, their love was unchanged by time, war, tragedy, or the marital commitments they had both made to another. They had a second change and they took it.


They began to see each other every Friday night. Neither spouse knew what was going on. It was during these secret meetings that Marion had been conceived. Arlene’s husband was delighted by the prospect of a baby in the house. The thought provided him a distraction from his illness. Marion was a much loved baby. For Arlene, Marion represented another chance to raise and nurture a child. For four years, Marion was the focus of Arlene’s life, as were her Friday meetings with Warren. Arlene became pregnant for a second time. This time her pregnancy was ill-fated. Her husband suffered another nervous breakdown and needed to have additional support. They moved into a small one bedroom apartment above her husband’s mothers. He began to threaten Arlene, and became aggressive with her. During her seventh month of pregnancy, Arlene knew that something was not right. She became concerned when the baby stopped moving. She told her husband she needed to be checked. He reminded her that, ‘she was only pregnant,’ while he on the other had was dying. He refused to take her to the doctor. When she began to hemorrhage, Arlene was finally taken to the hospital. She gave birth to her only son. He was two months premature and born anoxic. He had been deprived of oxygen for a prolonged period of time. If he lived, Arlene was told that her son would be retarded. The doctors didn’t give her much hope. She was to bring home and try to preserve the life of her poor baby. It was at this time that Marion was emotionally abandoned. The focus was always on her brother. “He’s special,” was what Marion felt to be the hideous catch phrase for all the lack of care, love, and support she once possessed. She was to understand, but Marion was only four years old. She had needs and began to express them with defiant and rude behavior. Arlene was at a loss. She was nurturing a child that she felt responsible for damaging. If only she would have insisted on getting the help she needed, this child would not have been harmed. Why was her daughter being so difficult? She had a husband who was suffering a terrible illness, a child who needed her undying devotion, and her daughter who was being miserable. Arlene didn’t know how to deal with it all. She began to hit Marion to try to gain control of at least one of her challenges. Still each Friday night, Arlene saw Warren. It was the one moment preserved just for her and the love that sustained her.


Two years passed in this way. Knowing he was near his end, Arlene’s husband wanted to be sure he provided a home for his family. Still with little money, they bought a home in need of a great deal of repair. Two weeks later, Arlene’s husband passed away. She was left with a home that had no heat, plumbing, or electricity. She had no means of support except a meager Social Security check that came once a month. Her son was still very ill at two years old, so Arlene couldn’t leave him to work. Marion was just seven. She had needs too, but they want unnoticed. After the funeral, a man appeared at Marion’s house. She was missing her Daddy and was just miserable, crying uncontrollably. Arlene, with the backside of her hand hit Marion off her chair and informed her daughter that the man who had died had not, in fact, been her ‘Daddy.’ This new stranger was her father and she just better get used to it. At seven, Marion knew about the ways of the world. It was a lesson delivered much too early in the life of a child.


For the next five years, her Grandmother lived and needed to be lied to. Gram was Arlene’s mother-in-law and now Marion knew that she was not really her grandmother. It didn’t stop the bond between the old woman and Marion. She was the only person who really showed Marion any attention and concern. Marion loved her and hated to lie to her. She also had to cover for her brother who by this time was talking. If he let any information slip, Marion was told she had to conceal it. When Gram died, Marion experienced a deep remorse, but also relief. Her days of lying were over.


Marion developed a true hostility for her mother and Warren, too. She now called him Dad. Marion was twelve. Her behavior at home challenged Arlene every moment. When she could endure no more, she beat Marion with a board that Warren provided from his contracting business. Arlene was to break many of the paddles over Marion. Her ‘special’ brother never saw a minute of the abuse. Marion realized her only escape was to be through school. Marion was a very bright child. Because neither of her parents finished school, they had extremely high expectations, but could in no way support Marion’s efforts. In school, Marion tried to always do her best, but was limited by her shyness. She had few friends. Sharing was hard when your whole life was about hiding who you were, feeling like you were a defective piece of humanity, a child that no one really cared about.


Warren never divorced his wife all those years. She found out about Warren’s other family, but knew she couldn’t change it. Trying to be responsible to two families took its toll on Warren. The first Christmas break from college was a good one for Marion. Begin away relieved some of the tension at home. While waiting for Warren to come on New Year’s Eve, Arlene received a phone call from the hospital. Warren had suffered a heart attack. He wanted Arlene to know, but because she was not immediate family, she couldn’t go to see him... Warren died five days later. Arlene, Marion, and her brother had to visit the funeral home while the flowers were being set up. They couldn’t go and grieve with the rest…they were not his family…they were nobodies.


Marion married while at college and after graduation moved away with her husband. It was at this time that Arlene was left with the ‘special’ monster she had created. Her life never seemed to have any smooth spots. Marion moved back to her hometown after being away for three years. Her relationship with Arlene still suffered the strain of all the years of abuse and emotional neglect. Marion had gone off and created a life for herself. She knew she had done it with no support from home. She wasn’t always kind in her response to Arlene.


The relationship between mother and daughter was not good. This changed when after sixteen years of marriage, Marion had her children. She could then understand the loss her mother had suffered all those years ago. She began to reconcile her anger and try to understand just what long endured trials her mother had faced. When Marion’s children were just two years old, Arlene was diagnosed with lung cancer. She went through chemotherapy and radiation. Only once did she shed a tear when her hair fell out. Arlene had surgeries and nearly died several times during her treatment. She lived with Marion during this time. A bond was forged from the rubble of what had been their previous relationship. There had been a time in her life that Marion probably wouldn’t have cared if her mother would die. Now the thought of it terrified her. Arlene wanted to live long enough to see her grandchildren start school. That was not to be. In September, the twins turned three years old and Arlene was declared cancer free. In January, one year after her cancer had been diagnosed, Arlene developed pneumonia. Her lungs were weakened from all the radiation and unable to fight the infection. She signaled to Marion from her bed that it was okay to unplug the ventilator that was breathing for her. She had reconciled her life and was prepared to be rejoined with her daughter, her mother, her father, and her love. As Marion left her for the last time, her mother, her precious mother, smiled and waved a goodbye. Her spirits were high, and she was at peace.


Marion spoke at her mother’s funeral about how she had been a difficult child. Many nods of recognitions and agreement were to be seen in the crowd of people who attended Arlene’s funeral. Marion shared that although she always thought she knew more than her mother and let her know that at every turn, it was her mother, in the end, who taught Marion something. Arlene had finally reached her daughter with a message of courage in the face of adversity, a need to have faith and trust that God will ease all suffering, and to live until you die. Marion was proud of her mother. Who she was, she earned through all the hard knocks life could send her way. In her early years, toughness seemed to elude Arlene. In her life, she learned that to survive, you needed to find within yourself the courage to go on.


It’s this message Marion holds dear to her heart. She is thankful that she had a mother she could learn from. God granted Marion children, so she could finally see through a mother’s eyes the life her mother had lived. Marion will miss having her mother to share with all the events in her grandchildren’s life. She will grieve everyday in loneliness the relationship she was able to forge in the end with Arlene. Marion knows she is lucky to have someone she misses this badly, but she will have the courage to go on. It’s an enduring gift from her mother.






Chickapea ~ June 30, 1999


This was the first personal narrative I wrote. It was written a year and a half after the passing of my mother. This is her story. I wrote it with invented names because at the time of its writing, it was still too raw an experience. I hope you enjoy my mother’s gift. Dedicated to my mother, Eloise. I am Marion.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

My New Home


~She sits quietly wondering about the footsteps she will need to tread.

~Her world turned completely upside down.

~Life once secure now is a constant mystery.

~What are they saying? What are they thinking? Are we so different, you and I?

~Feeling alone on foreign soil, she can see what they think by watching.

                               Their words are really no secret. We may be different.

~I brought with me hope for a better life. I came with great courage

                              in my pocket. My heart is kind, my eyes and brain work just

                             fine. See me…be patient until I own enough words to tell you

                             who I really am before you make up your mind about me.

~I don’t need your judgment, neglect, or this constant isolation.

                              I am tired of living inside my own thoughts.

~Can’t just one of you open your eyes and your heart to me now

                              before I am broken?

~I would really like to know you and hope you’d like to know me, too.


Debbie

* This is dedicated to my new ESL students. When they arrive, they come with such possibility, for those willing to see.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

The Measure of a Life

People often realize too late that they failed to live. Our children’s lives serve as a backdrop to these missed opportunities. Our children’s lives help us mark the time of our own passage.



I was determined to not miss anything when my children were born. They were such a miracle to me. From the time I was a small girl, I knew that I wanted a crack at being a Mother of the Year candidate. I wanted to influence my children in positive ways that would enhance the people they were to become. My own role models were not good, but I’ve come to appreciate their role in whom I’ve become. We can learn something in all situations and I can attest to the fact that I learned how NOT to be from my early years. Life is a choice at each critical decision-making point. We can’t always choose well, but it requires awareness of what can be gained or lost.


With my children, their needs and desires, what was right for them…not necessarily the popular choice, always came first! I was able to remain at home with them until they were fourteen months old. I longed to be an “at home” mom, but I HAD to return to work to assure they were taken care of. Consequently, knowing I lost precious hours with them, I devoted my evening time to them. Playing, creating, reading, and imagining were our evening events. We would build makeshift tents and imagine ourselves in the desert, or paint on the side of the bathtub and become famous artists, or their favorite time was story time with invented characters or even better the real characters of our lives.


Then school…their lives were being handed off to someone else for the very best hours of their days. Being a teacher was always important to me, but now, as my children were in one of my colleagues hands, I felt a much deeper sense of purpose and protection for those ‘someone else’s babies’ loaned to me for the day. I choose to give my students the kind of school experience I hoped for my own children.


I entered graduate school as my children entered their elementary grades, further squeezing precious minutes away from our time. Somehow I managed a Summa Cum Laude performance that paralleled their beginning school times. We were a hit!!!


Initiation in the world of sports began sometime around the twin’s sixth or seventh year. We began with two seasons, fall and spring sports. My daughter cheered for her brother’s football team. In the evenings, with school work, house work, homework and sports, time together suffered another pinch. The tighter the pinch, the more I found myself working to share those moments. I sat through practices, tryouts, and games, dragging school work along so I had a hope of getting it done. Springtime brought sunscreen, bug spray, folding chairs, late dinners, and even later homework. All willingly given in loving devotion to seconds shared.


Around fourth grade, we added a winter sport to our lives. Basketball became a very long winter marathon. I sat through practices for each twin, doing homework with the other twin while waiting, or we would simply sit and spend time. It was at this time, I began knitting again. Before long, we had a mom’s knitting club; squeezing minutes with our kids, doing something productive.


For all of middle school, the twins and I spent seasons in the chase for time, academic success, and athletic prowess. We managed fairly, but I must believe that through it process, the kids became diverse, used to a variety of personalities through exposure to teachers, and coaches, and friends. Being young, they struggled along which made their successes sweeter. I made sure that although free time was almost non-existent, to be apart of each squeezed moment in our day.


Upper middle school meant a change of fall sports for my daughter, but the time expense was just as great. Long hours spent standing along fences watching in wonder as my children were growing into teenagers. Other parents seemed to loose interest. I never understood how they would rather watch a soap opera rather than watch the nuances of their children’s growth and development.


High school years began and practices were suddenly closed to parents. I found myself resenting the loss of time. I had to find something to occupy myself with through this new shift. At this point, the kids naturally began needing me less. It’s a painful blow, yet a necessary step in their growth – this time away from me. I still watch in wonder how they are always in a state of ‘becoming.’ This sophomore year has brought huge change to bodies and hearts and minds. I find I now have to police them more and more as they try their fledgling legs. Instead of enjoying time together, they want to be anywhere but with me. Throwing iron around, bowling with friends, time at boyfriend’s house, laughing with ‘his’ mom, time chatting on the computer or texting on their phones is the time they choose. My purpose in their lives seems to have been fulfilled. They don’t remember all the time I spent on hard bleachers, in foul weather, standing at the fences of their future. I guess its good they forget, but I know I never will.


Amazingly, other members of their immediate family, who attended perhaps one or two events, for part of the time or no time at all, for all the ten years of year round sports, missed all that growth, development, and change. Four seasons times two children times ten years or eighty seasons of wonder…how can they live with themselves? Do they know what they missed? Do they really care? Have they really lived?


Kids are forgiving. The neglectful ones say, “I’d like to come see you play,” and there is great excitement at the thought. Perhaps the twins don’t care if I’m there anymore, but I had those ten years. This may sound like resentful jealousy, but it truly isn’t. The others have the glory of their long awaited time in the stands, but I have the memories .


I have lived.



Debbie ~ 4-15-10


But for the grace of God…

What must it feel like to have grown up under an oppressor and suddenly been given the gift of knowledge, rights, and freedom? I’m looking at a beautiful young girl on the cover of Junior Scholastic Magazine. The title story is, “This is my home.” This young lady is a child of Afghanistan and the article profiled her need to have the United States as an ongoing force in her life.

Her eyes express fear, and anguish, her olive skin glowing behind green gauze attire common for her people. Behind her is a mountainous area with military vehicles on alert. I wonder what this beautiful child is doing so close to a location where violence waits to erupt just around the corner. Why isn’t she in school, giggling with other girls her age, bent on an afternoon of teen girl discovery? How could anyone look past the pleading in her eyes? This child, but for the placement of her soul at birth, could be anyone’s child; strong and beautiful, with hope and promise.

I will pray for this young lady, so that she may live a long and productive life, one with a chance of flourishing amidst the ever present danger of the terror network alive in her land.

I’ll pray for her to receive the necessities of life and the gifts of an education, human rights, and good health.

I’ll pray for her new transitional democratic government to uphold its position and continue to fight against the danger the Taliban presents to her nation.

As moral human beings, can we do less? Can we continue to be uninformed and ignorant about the world? The time to respond is NOW to the needs of those who are helpless and oppressed, OR how can we live with ourselves?



Debbie ~ 4-15-10

Happy Birthday!!!

April 6th, 2010


This day my father would have been 88 years old. He has been gone since January 1977, just months before his birthday that year. He was only 54 years old. At the time he died, I was 18 and thought 54 was old. I knew I’d miss him and it would be a long life without him.

Well, here I am just months from my 52nd birthday. Being in my 50s sure doesn’t feel so old to me anymore. I wonder if Dad had ideas and plans, hopes and dreams for the years when he could retire. Did he hope his life would somehow resolve and he might someday find peace and happiness? I wonder if he felt these feelings that are so much a part of my everyday thinking.

It would be so wonderful to be able to bake him his favorite rich, strong black coffee in the chocolate cake recipe with whipped peanut butter icing today, sing the birthday song, and search high and low for a gift for my dad. To sit across the table from him and see the sparkle in his aging blue eyes, would be a gift to me. I know that the woman I’ve become would be able to reach through some of his protective layers. Perhaps seeing the family he helped produce would have brought him some measure of joy.

Happy Birthday, Daddy…I wish you peace at last.





***Side note…My father died on January 6th, his birthday was April 6th.

                    My mother died January 23rd, her birthday was March 23rd.





Debbie ~ April 6th, 2010

Friday, March 12, 2010

Forbidden Language

       This morning demands I examine the use of expletives in our language. Now, I’m no expert on the fine art of cursing, but I do know this…when you hurt yourself these words leap off your tongue like a the lead dancer in a ballet. It is not such a bad thing if you are alone when it happens, but there are times when you are in public. You end up being hurt and embarrassed at your rather skillful use of gutter talk.



       I awakened a few minutes late this morning. Having to pee and being tardy provided me with two good reasons to hurry to the starting gate of the morning race – the potty. (I’m back in the bathroom again…what is it with me and the toilet room???) As I posed myself for the quick approach, leaning forward, I propelled myself down the hallway toward the facilities.


       I must tell you this...I am not the tiniest of woman, so my linear force was something to behold. Midway down the hall, the window fan, which has been sitting quietly on the side of the carpet, suddenly leapt in the path of my right foot. Well, at least, I must believe it leapt or how else could I have missed it for two months and today suddenly forgotten it was there ?!?!?


       I know as human animals, we have all stubbed our toe at one time or another. This was NOT a routine, run of the mill, toe stubbing. This was like a nuclear attack on the metatarsals. I experienced a blinding pain, and I think I saw THE white light. (I did not go into the light, or I wouldn’t be here writing about it now!!!) At that moment, without any conscious thought, the word I try never to utter came ripping from my soul!! F*&) !!!


       I ponder – where did that come from? Does that word sit and wait for an opportune time to jump into the scene?  It spilled forth like an aria whose only lyric was, “Oh F*&) !!, Oh F*&) !!” As I hobbled the remainder of the way to the potty, the chorus of ‘Sh**, Sh**, Sh**” rang out in perfect rhythmic accord. Once I regained my sensibilities, and got my glasses to see the damage, I again entertained the thoughts of why these particular words spill forth subconsciously and without regard for your sense of decorum and honor.


       I managed to shower, the hot water causing new waves of nausea to ride on, but I had regained control of my foul utterances.


       As I now sit in my classroom writing this, I remember back to Super Bowl Sunday 1998. I remember the date well, because my mother passed away the Friday before the big game. I was on the phone planning Mom’s services for the following day. It was time for kick off. My three and a half year old twins were doing some dueling with little plastic swords they got while on a pirate cruise the summer before. There were many demands on my psyche and my emotions, so I only watched the sword fight with minimal attention. I noticed my son was getting the best of my daughter in the competition. He gingerly smacked her cheek with the flat side of the sword, and I knew from the teenage ‘Oh NO you didn’t!’ look that flashed from her eyes that some serious hurt was going to ensue. ( I almost expected a little teeny girl curse to escape her post-toddler lips.)


       The scene before my eyes was surreal. My daughter did a cross-body, bottom-to-top, swashbuckling move in Zorro-like fashion. The sword had a tiny piece of plastic edge that was protruding enough to act as a blade. From the far side of his right eye lid to the far left side of the other eye, this little sharp nipple opened a gaping wound in my beautiful son’s face. Blood began gushing from the wound. The site caused utter panic in all of us. My daughter began jumping up and down screaming, “I killed him, I killed him!!!” My son began running, as if he could out run the blood pouring into his eyes. I told the minister I needed to call back later and hung up the phone. I grabbed something from the fresh laundry that was waiting to be folded to apply pressure to the bleeding and called the neighbor to come watch my daughter while we went to the emergency room. He cried the entire ride there as his father held him. He kept screaming, “I want Mommy,” as I drove us at lightning speed to the nearest hospital.


       We arrived and the ER was empty. Thank God!! He was taken right in and they assessed the damage. It was determined he would need stitches, LOTS of them! They wanted to wrap him in a binding blanket, but we felt that would only make him panic more. His father decided to hold him down instead. A mother’s heart aches at a child’s fear and pain. I knew he was feeling both, as was my daughter who was still at home. The doctor approached him with the sutures and said, “Hold him still.” At that, my beautiful, blonde-haired three year old baby screamed at the top of his lungs, “Get the F*&) off me !!!”


       Time stood still. I remember the audible sucking in of air and the ‘OY!’ of shock escaped me. I stared at my son, then at his father, and finally at the doctor who was staring back. I asked his father, “Where did he learn that?!?!?!” I didn’t think he knew that word. His father made light of it saying the twins spend a lot of time in his auto repair job exposed to the customers and their fine grasp of the ten most popular English curse words. (I thought being home would be better than daycare?!?!)


       Well, it was embarrassing, but not the end of the world. His face healed as did our humiliation. I’m left still with the questions of the day… Why does that word seem so appropriate to our pain? Does it lie in wait for an opportunity to jump into our reality? Is there nothing to be done to restrain its frenzied onslaught? Why is this fact a truth in all languages? Why does it just feel so good to let it rip? I’m amazed, awed, and utterly distracted by it. Oh well, time to ice my toe and get back to work, so F*&) it! LOL






Debbie 3-12-10

Thursday, March 11, 2010

One More Daily Ditty…

Challenged to write just one more time,
I decided that I would like to rhyme.


I think I may, I think I might,
Try to push the pen again tonight.


What shall I write, I do not know,
I know for sure, it will not be snow.


This week again we turn the clock back.
I lose another hour sleeping in the sack.


To see more sun and longer days,
I pray, oh boy, let it be May.


Seven months have passed us by.
Only three months more, oh my, oh my!


The big state tests are yet to do,
When they are over, we’ll feel brand new.


Classes are over for today.
There is nothing left for me to say.


I’m going home, I can not wait,
Only to come back tonight from six to eight.  


Debbie 3-11-10


Mentoring

       This word had relevance to me before I knew the word existed. As a child, my life could be described as desperate, desolate, lonely, abusive, and silent. I did not share anything, was never non-compliant, or disruptive. As some point, perhaps I’ll have the courage to share here what only one other person besides me knows. I’m sure there were others who knew or suspected what was going on in my life, but no one had the inclination to do anything to change it.



       I was blessed to have a neighbor who reached out to me to bolster my reserve. She made herself available to me whenever I just needed a place to sit and ‘be’ for awhile. Her ability to affect a change was limited by her proximity, but she was there. She saw me. Sometimes that’s all a child needs. To be seen, recognized, and greeted – something so simple and free, gives a person a sense of being valued. I will always be grateful for this early gift in my life.


       My mentor welcomed me into her home and into her life. From her, I learned some fundamental cooking skills, how to knit, and crochet; I learned candle-making and all that entails. We spent hours sitting in the sun relaxing and talking, but we also gardened. She never asked me to do any of these things, but provided me a role model and willing instruction IF I asked a ‘how to’ question. I often found myself being a sous chef, garden assistant, or wrapped in the yarn of a craft project. Around eight years of age, she gave me my first paying job. I loved putting her candle room in order. She knew I had nothing, so she insisted she pay me. It was a small sum, but it created in me a sense of empowerment. If I worked hard, I could earn enough to care for myself, which is how I continue to be today. We sang together and she encouraged my talent by signing us up for community choral groups. I was always the youngest, but found encouragement from this new circle of song birds.


       Gratitude is not a strong enough word to express how important I feel about her contribution to my faith in God. She never said I ‘had to’ do anything. Her enthusiasm and love for things encouraged me to want to participate. She would say, “I’m going to Sunday school IF you want to come along.” She always allowed the decision to be mine. My life had no choice, no options, no open invitations, so when she gave over that power to me, it helped me grow and have a sense of importance. I went to church and Sunday school with her, participated in singing opportunities, went through two years of confirmation classes, and did it all without ever being forced or cajoled. Faith was an opportunity for me to be loved on a much deeper level and I ran with it.


       Through high school, I pulled back from my constant friend to test the waters of independence. I was comfortable venturing out because I knew my safe harbor was there for me if I needed to return to it. I would show up on her door step unexpectedly with a million things to share and I was always greeted with a welcoming smile, loving arms , and a kiss on the cheek. She was my home base; with an open heart, willing ears, a comforting shoulder, and a place where advice was offered only when asked for.


       As I left for college, I was amazingly ready for my escape, one I’d dreamt about since I was a child. I still had gaping holes of need exacerbated by my father’s death, but my faith was a part of who I’d become. I railed against it when my father died unexpectedly, turned away from it when making life changing decisions, and felt guilt and remorse. As much as I rebelled against it, it was firmly a part of me…of that I was blessed.


       After working away from home for a few years, I returned to teach in the district where I grew up. It was strange that I was returning to teach- never a career I ventured a thought about. Teaching the emotionally disturbed, as they were referred to then, in retrospect makes perfect sense to me. These are the kids I most wanted to help. Those abused, lost, forgotten, neglected, angry kids whose needs were greater than they had possibilities of getting met in their current living arrangement. Like me they needed to be seen and valued, recognized as worthy, and shown the world of possibilities that existed for them. I was poised and ready for that job. It was my turn to be the mentor to these kids who felt no one cared. The lessons of my youth were more valuable than anything I learned in all my vast educational experience. Looking a kid square in the eye so that they know you know and understand, smiling, referring to them by name, inviting them into your world, and just being available when they are ready are the lessons of love I learned in my childhood. They are free; easily given, and have been the greatest blessing to me.


       I’ve gone on to encounter new mentors, angels, who have left loving wing marks on my soul. From each, I’ve learned lessons that are surely better shared then kept inside. I live in gratitude for these gifts from God. It will be my mission to pay it forward with conscious awareness and love to those I encounter. Perhaps someday, someone will remember me as their mentor, too.






For Barbara, and my other angels…


Debbie 3-11-10


Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Dry Days...

       Unlike yesterday with my potty inspiration, some days it is difficult to put pen to paper and write. Ideas do not necessarily flow like water from the spigot. (Why are all my analogies in the bathroom?) You turn the handle in your brain and nothing, just nothing, comes out. The old idea well has done dried up!!! You lean down to examine the opening for the missing flow. Just nothing! Then, suddenly, a drip hits you in the eye. The drip blurs your vision demanding you clear it and take a closer look. You try to come to some agreement with that thought so more will come. You chew on it, ruminate over it, examine it with the eyes of a micro-scientist, turn it over and over, and realize it is just not enough of a drip to be worth the time it would take to tap about it.



       As your brain is engaged in the hard work of pondering…life happens and suddenly there it is – your idea for the day. Sometimes it is an event that stirs your soul, other times it is a moment that strokes your heart strings, and then there are those that make you laugh until you nearly pee your pants. (Not such a stretch for us over 50 chicks like me…and here we are in the potty again…geesh!!!)


       As a teacher, there are things we do on a daily basis that if given a nickel each time, we’d all be rich. (Those teachers out there reading this…I know you’ve used this line. Uh huh...) You know what I’m talking about; making circles out of masking tape, telling, retelling, reminding, then asking if homework was done, and warning the kiddies of the dangers of eating paste, paper, and rocking on their chairs. Do they listen – NEVER!!!


       So as I was lost on the vast plains of idea nothingness, I catch a glimpse of one of my cutey's chairs in rocked back pose, as if in full forward swing on a swing-set, or like a little child-sized pellet in a catapult. Being that I was lucky enough to scavenge upholstered chairs to go with my scavenged tables, we sit in relative educational luxury. This little guy’s chair antics hadn’t gone unnoticed by the other boys around the table. Now on any given day, a spill from these high-end, soft-on-the-tookus chairs is particularly a difficult event, because upholstered chairs tend to hold onto jeans and corduroys like Velcro on a space-suit. Well…this particular acrobat hadn’t considered the dangers of slippery workout pants on upholstery. Might as well have sprayed his tush with PAM. Slow motion in your head now. (Otherwise known in writing circles as Exploding the Moment) My head rotates slowly to the right. Eyes scanning the table to assure what I’d asked the students to accomplish was in fact being attempted. With African Tribal music providing background ambiance (I know there is a whole other blog there waiting to be written..), the gentle whirring of the fan rotating back and forth assuring the creature comforts of my boys, a serene setting was being enjoyed by all. At that, my wind-pants-wonder-child suddenly rocked forward slowly from his back swing and he disappeared from the scene. His chair snapped into position at the table as if it knew its place in our educations world. Back to normal speed now, if you please. Riotous laughter erupted throughout the room. Our acrobat found himself sitting in a slippery little pile under the table. Good-natured as he is, he just popped back up, inspiring even louder laughter and giggles all around. He looked like a little jack-in-the-box sans the corny song.


       After assuring no injuries to vital organs or his cranium had occurred, we continued to get the jollies over his skillful slippage. My class environment is very loving and supportive, and just like any family, it is full of teasing and good natured joking. He provided us material for many stories today. One such suggestion was to write a parody on Alice in Wonderland with this little guy slipping into a hole under the table, or being sucked into the sound of Africa CD so he might find himself among giraffes, gazelles, and lions. (Good thing he was wearing running pants, huh?)


       As the giggles abated - I, of course, jumped onto my dormant pen and thoughts and began to write. Thank God that we have a safe enough classroom environment where we can laugh at each other and ourselves knowing there is love, and support and good-natured fun. We are truly blessed.


Future blog topics to consider:


• Seat belts for work out wear


• Pratt falls 101


• Why do we laugh first, check for injuries second?


• What does the above say about our perverse sense of humor?


• African Tribal Rhythmic Dancing

Debbie 3-10-10

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Love


       My first thoughts this morning were of love. I sat on the potty laughing at my foolish thoughts, after all, who am I to entertain this kind of thinking, let alone at 5:30 AM. Philosophers, poets, theologians, script writers, couples writing vows, music lyricists, and a myriad of others much more knowledgeable than I have tackled this topic throughout all time. I’m sure even cave dwellers had a thought about it as it is so intimately a part of whom we are as a species. I laughed as I remembered a book I had as a young girl – “Snoopy says, Love is…” Even then, I was working on a clear definition that felt right and said it all.



       I remember the first boy that gave me that wondrous sense of butterflies in my stomach. He lived across the street from me, so the object of my childhood infatuation was in close proximity. My 7 year old heart ached with love for this boy. It also broke as he went off on loving adventures that didn’t include me. His mother was a mentor and confidant to me. I remember going to her as I grew up declaring , “I think I’m in love!” She would simply smile her smile and shake her head as she replied, “No, Dear, you aren’t in love.” This went on as I returned to her time and time again with my heartfelt declarations of a new budding amore. Each time her response was the same. My frustration grew and I felt like she didn’t understand, so I stopped listening to her. This was a huge mistake. One I’ve paid for dearly.  It wasn’t until much later that I would come to understand what she had been telling me all along.


       Love, when it is real, requires no declarations to anyone, although you feel like shouting it aloud to anyone who would listen….and even those who couldn’t give a rat’s patootie about your love life. Love simply is. You can not force love, make it happen, expect that it will be returned to you. You can not demand it and you can not measure your feelings based on those of another. If it is not there, it is simply not there.


       “Love is”…Snoopy had it right and so did my neighbor. You know it when you feel it. The verb changes from ‘I think’ to ‘I know.” Our thoughts always seem to have a desire to be voiced and heard, but that which is known takes it’s place on an easy chair in our soul and just rests there.


       Love is a gift freely given to another. It can not be denied. Once its beautiful melody has pealed in your heart and soul – it remains a bell that can not be un-rung, no matter how hard a person might to try to deny it. The resonation of this love so fills your spirit; that the world seems to still so it might catch a little twinkling of its beautiful sound.


       How many of us are truly lucky enough to find a love so pure, so unrelenting, so free…? Unfortunately, not many, I fear. Many settle for a version of ‘I think’ and then live lives of quiet, martyred desperation. A sense that there must be more burns inside them and scorches a mark on their soul and leaves a bad taste in their mouths. They work hard at doing the right thing, holding steadfast to vows taken long before they knew who they were or what they needed, doggedly being relatively happy or happy enough. These people seek moments of joy outside themselves trying to fill the gaping hole inside where love should live. Stubborn, determined not to fail or give up, they do not live, but merely exist.


       Love, when discovered, can patch those empty holes, breathe new life into spirits walking through life as if they were already dead, and show what living fully and completely feels like. How can someone deny such a love, reject it, and opt to remain dead inside? Does fear of what people will think, fear of change, fear of the unknown, a deep rooted cynicism based on feelings of never being good enough really hold that much power to keep them in the dungeon of poor choices? I can not understand that sacrifice of the human spirit and that of life and love that rests in a decision such as this.


       Our time on Earth comes but once. It is often too short a time. Love is the greatest of God’s gifts to us. We must be willing to open ourselves to it, recognize its beauty, and embrace it when it comes to us. Putting fear aside, we must walk in the beauty of God’s choice for us. God has a plan for us filled with love, peace, fulfillment, and other wonderful things. I will not deny Him.

Monday, March 8, 2010

A Reflection on Liberty

          Yesterday signaled the completion of the Iraqi elections. Insurgents still try to deter the fledgling ideas of democracy. They do not realize the nature of freedom comes from within a soul and once freed, can never be caged again. I watched with a new sense of wonder, the birth of a free nation. So different that the United States beginnings in some ways, yet the basic desire is the same, to live as a free people making choices and living with the rights and hope we have come to enjoy here. The new government will undergo growing pains and changes, but the core value of a renewed life will drive them on.


          Many died attempting to cast a ballot. Many United States soldiers have given their lives to this call. I wonder how many Americans, living a life full of the benefits our great nation provides us, would vote in an election if they knew they might die if they attempted a trip to the polling center? How many of us would lay down our lives to protect this country? How many of us would put ourselves in harms way in another’s battle?

          Today, I celebrate the Iraqi people and their courage. I pray for their determination to see through the challenges they will encounter in the formation of their new government. Mostly, I honor the efforts of our United States service people who have put themselves in the way of deterrents to offer this country their chance at growing a life such as we have. These service people work extremely hard and are often not only not recognized, but forgotten by this country for their efforts on the behalf of us all. We need to remember they are there so that we, too, are free.

Time

Lives of dedication,

The unity of calling.

Our lives crossing,

Perfect timing,

Mutual thinking,

Desires revealing,

A magical spark,

Long ago buried,

Re-ignited by you~



               Cutting across time and space,

               Our communion is sacred.

               Like ships gliding past each other closely,

               In the space where twilight becomes evening,

               And evening becomes a new dawn.



Precious moments,

Anticipated and longed for.

Time spent sharing,

Hearts desiring,

Bodies yearning,

Souls experiencing,

A magical spark

Long ago buried,

Set ablaze by you~



               Cutting across time and space,

               Our communion is sacred.

               Like ships gliding past each other closely,

               In the space where twilight becomes evening,

               And evening becomes our new dawn.







Debbie 2010

Friday, January 15, 2010

Life and Death, Honor and Glory

Today marks another sad day in the life of our home and school communities. We lost another of our colleagues. This year has been a difficult one.


Death has a way of making me reflect on life. When my father died, I was a child just 6 years old. I remember feeling as if I wouldn’t, couldn’t ever possibly understand why he was gone. Where did he go? Why didn’t he come back home? How would I spend my whole life not having him with me? I felt as if my heart was ripped free of my young body. The pain of that loss remains part of me still.

Later I discovered, he was not my biological father. It didn’t remove the pain, in fact, it added to my suffering. I then had to take in a new father. Feelings of betrayal spun with the feelings of loss. Could I love this new father? Would he be there for me? When would he die and leave me? Did loving him diminish the love I felt for my Daddy? It was not a long time until I discovered, you could grow to love a new person and mourn his loss as well. My father died when I was home from college my freshman year. Anger was the emotion I embraced…railing at God. How dare he take another man I loved out of my life? It was not fair; I had so little, why did he have to punish me in this way. I wanted to make it right, bring him back. There was no peace in my heart.

Later during that same year, a dear friend went home over the Easter break. He did not return, and it was during a class we learned that Pierre decided to take his life. He faced what he saw as a hopeless situation. Those same feelings of anger, loss, hopelessness, and fear boiled to the surface. How dare he do that to us? What gave him the right to take his life? Didn’t he know he was hurting us?

Life went on with its expected ups and downs. I continued to lose family members to this evil - death. Each one impacted me less and less. I sat at open caskets staring at the lifeless bodies of the people who once brimmed over with life, and humor. Tears stopped flowing and my anger waged at this death became complacency. Where did they go? Would I ever know their laughter again? Pervasive feelings of helplessness washed over me with each loss…but each hurt less. It is true that we can get numb to the worst things life has to offer.

After most of my family was gone, I began losing important in-laws; first Nana, then my wonderful father-in-law, Orion, Great Pop, and finally Uncle Jim. Each was a deeply felt loss, because each person brought something uniquely wonderful to life and was cherished in their own way. I stopped railing at God. It seemed like everywhere around me, death was winning the battle with life. It became expected, sad, but a part of the greater scheme of things in this life we are given.

Amidst all this loss, I dealt with perhaps the most difficult loss of all. It was my mother’s death that was the most profound in my life. We had shared a very rocky past. There was abuse resulting in hatred, and fortunately forgiveness which led to friendship. In our relationship, we grew as a result of new life, my twins. I could see my mother much more clearly through my eyes as a mother. She supported me through a period when I truly needed her. I learned that people never seek to harm, although it sometimes happens. It is often not their intention to destroy, although that is sometimes the result. I was blessed to have come to terms with our past before our future was cut short, again by the inevitability of death. My mother spent a year courageously battling lung cancer. She had a reason to live...her grandchildren and the love she found in them and for them. Enduring months of chemotherapy and radiation, a full surgery opening her stomach from chest to groin, Mom demonstrated almost super human courage and determination to life. She was fighting the good fight with this enemy death and was winning. When declared cancer free, we celebrated her return to her apartment and the life she had always led…independent and free. After all the battling she had gone through, death was not done with her and sent an ally to consume her and snuff out her bright light. Mom caught a cold just after Christmas. It turned quickly into pneumonia with her weakened lungs. She wanted no extraordinary measures to keep her alive, although if she could fight, she would. Given the fact that she was now a grandmother…a very coveted position…she agreed to have a ventilator to buy her some time in almost an overtime herculean attempt at a win. After seemingly good days, she experienced a bleed which signaled that death was in fact winning this battle too. I communicated the news to her from the doctors that she was not going to recover, that her time to fight was over, and that she needed to relax and welcome what was to be her journey on from this life. I was suffering the news, while Mom sat very calmly in acceptance of her fate. I bathed her. I caressed her hands and feet with lotion. I cried into her arm and I sat next to her holding her hand. It was a snowy Thursday night in January. The storm was going to grant us a snow day off school. I said, “I’ll come down tomorrow and be with you, Mom.”

She vehemently shook her head. Indicating the tablet and pen, she wrote that I needed to remain with my babies. They needed me. She was fine. Call if I needed to and do not worry. I left the hospital that night numb, helpless, so incredibly sad, and with knowledge in my heart that it was to be the last time I saw my mother alive. The next day, we did in fact not have school. I debated going to her, but knew that her words were wise. I left her the night before sitting up in her bed, knees bent…feet close to her bottom, with elbows on her knees looking like she was at the beach waiting to watch the waves roll in. I thought how peaceful she is...just waiting, knowing, and really ok with what was going to happen to her. With one last smile, I left my courageous Mother to engage in her last battle with death, with both of us knowing that this time, death would win.

As I reflect on the death of my colleague, I am touched by her courageous fight. Like my mother, she fought the good fight. She was determined to beat this enemy. In losses such as these, we all seek to find a positive. In my friend’s death and in my mother’s too, they both lived until they died…never giving in or giving up. I learn all the time that death is only sad for those of us left behind. It is understandable that we will miss those people we love. It is OUR grief. Death is the ultimate in terms of inevitable. The lesson I’ve come to learn that it is not about how we die, but how we choose to live that is important. These lessons are all around us. Do we give in to the negatives in our life, or do we seek to understand and forgive. Do we fold under pressure, or fortify ourselves with the love of friends and family so that we have the courage to fight our battles through this life.

Today, I experience sadness, but I know it is for me. I will miss my friend…and her bright light in all our lives. I grieve for her family, who has suffered so many losses of late. At the same time, I am learning about courage, determination, and fortitude. I am blessed to be able to have had my background of loss which allows me the numbness to stand back far enough to be able to see the beauty left behind after someone you love leaves you. Perhaps this is only my understanding, but I’m grateful for it. I thank God for the time I shared with each person I’ve lost. They were all special and unique and left deep impressions on my heart, a phrase I borrow from a dear friend of mine who knows this battle and who has fought with courage and a bit of luck. We never know what God’s plan is for us, but we must embrace what we do with this gift of life he gave each of us.

Debbie 1-13-10

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

i am popcorn

encapsulated in the warmth of your beginnings

promise of nurture and love


dawning of life, stark reality


a replacement for what was lost


there will be no legitimacy for you


 
        keeping secrets not your own


        lying to protect the guilty


        wanting and wishing and praying for more


        left with nothing and no answers


        there will be no security for you


                normalcy something experienced in media


                in large blended families and in song


                watching the lives of others with longing


                yet trapped in the life of your own


                there will be no family for you
 

                        a gift of thinking, one to exploit


                       used to plan and fulfill an escape


                        no resources to pursue the ultimate dream


                        resolved to settle for the expected


                        there will be no dreams for you
 

                                 with no understanding of unity


                                 no sense of feeling safe and secure


                                 reaching out to fill the hole in your soul


                                 used, abused, exploited, discarded


                                 there will be no honor for you


                                        hiding from a return to your past


                                        marriage full of hope, promises, fear


                                        aware too late the error of judgment


                                        ensnared in a life not willingly chosen


                                        there will be no fairy tale for you


                                               honesty shared becomes a barb


                                               meant to gore you through and through


                                               your heart’s blood spilled, wasted


                                               on a failed dream and promise


                                               there will be no romance for you


                                                          resentment turned against you


                                                          your soul under constant attack


                                                          verbal assaults meant to destroy you


                                                          in an attempt to control and manipulate


                                                          there will be no love for you


                                                                  in a life such as this


                                                                  where human needs for survival denied


                                                                  how does a spirit survive unscathed?


                                                                  how can hope and love still burn from within?


                                                                  there will be no peace for you 

 

 

 there will be none of these for you


 your life is forged in this fire


growth and expansion from this fire is


God’s gift bringing an understanding


There will be release for your spirit in the fire of God’s love.



I am popcorn.




Debbie 2010