writing and reading and just taking notes sometimes

Writing:
I like to write. I think all of us who blog have that in common. Unlike Jane Austin -I am sure she would have blogged, right? - I do not have a room of my own. I share everything with my husband and children. I have no place to lock myself away for hours or minutes on end to just ponder and write. I have even taken to saying, I am going to the bathroom now, don't anyone follow me! I find the best place to pull my thoughts together is on the treadmill at the Y. It was there this morning that the idea occurred to me to go ahead and list some of the things I will include in stories one day. Some writers have files of notes they can refer to, I will have my own blog.
Reading:
On Mothers Day, I will be reading a rare (and therefore, valuable) story from my own life as a mother. The event is called Listen to Your Mother. Click on the link to see their blog, event details, and the list of women who were chosen to read at the event. I spent some time the other day clicking through the list to read the blogs there, and I can tell you this will be a memorable event. If you are near Spokane, bring your mother to hear us and laugh and maybe cry too. I am humbled to be a part of this.
Notes for today:
My own thoughts on domestic life-
A house is just a house. It's the people that make it an insane asylum.
If I hired a housekeeper, it would not save me any time, but I would have a clean house.
On Philosophy-The narcissist sees everything is about them.
The reflective person sees themselves in everything.
The deep person sees beyond themselves in everything.
The creative person sees other ways in everything.
Places I go where I am glad I no longer have pre-schoolers-
The YMCA
The grocery store
The beach
An airplane
The car
The shower
On being creative-
One word, Everyday

A Chilling Tale

Caution: if you have a weak stomach or a delicate mind, please don't read the following story. When I read this at writers group, I felt like I had just sucked all of the air out of the room.
Coming in from the garage, the house was eerily quiet. And dark. Must be the change of season. I am just not used to the early sunset. I flick on a light to guide me toward the kitchen. My eyes climb the stairs while I stand in the doorway. A habit I never would have noticed had it not been for the glistening deep red bloody stump of a severed head waiting at the top of the stairs. Looking back on it now, it's as though my brain sat pickling in a jar on the kitchen counter: the only witness to my body as it moved quickly to pack the grotesque head in paper and dispose of it in the garbage can. It was instinct that powered my limbs, not reason. My body acted in reflex. "Protect them," the auto-pilot of all mothers. From its sickening perch, my brain spoke to me: "It will be picked up tomorrow. No one will know. No one has seen."
As in a dream, my brain watched as I washed my hands and began preparing dinner. The knife rocked over vegetables on the cutting board. I blinked hard to erase the vision of cutting off my own fingers. Butter, garlic, carrots, onion and celery seemed a mile away in the bottom of the stock pot. The boys will be home soon. Some hot soup will do us all good. I tried to act normal.
To be continued...
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Monday Musings Number 8

Hard to believe I am in my 8th week here of sharing from my writers group. We had some fun conversation after this story.
The waif who befriended Caleb seemed harmless enough. He invited her home as I was preparing dinner. She had a hungry look we could not turn away, and we welcomed her to join the family gathered in the kitchen. She gratefully accepted food, but not too much. Surprisingly charming and polite. Not needy as I would have guessed by her looks. Beautiful and well-mannered, but still a stranger. We allowed her into our lives a little at a time. We felt our home offered her a much needed rest. Over the next couple of weeks, this green eyed brunette became our house guest and occasional companion. Before any of us was completely comfortable with the situation, we had to leave her alone for the week end. Free to come and go in our home. Knowing a little of her wild past, I was not totally surprised at the state of our family room when we came home. The evidence of her revelry was quite obvious. Feathers littered the carpet, and in one corner, there was a sparrow's wing. Apparently, our new cat likes the dry food we give her, but she needs some wet food too.
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The Group Dynamic

I wrote something that describes the dynamic of our Writers Group. We all had a good laugh when I read it and we recognized ourselves. Cheryl-Anne tends to use food metaphors. After reading the touching obituary she posted the other day, I understand more. Here is my piece:
I feel like a big slice of ham, sandwiched between Julia and Mary-Anne's nourishing breads, Kathleen's juicy tomatoes, and Char's variety of condiments so essential to the flavor of an American life. Cheryl-Anne is here to remind us that salt and pepper are still the best spices. And there is not a cream puff among us. (I brought cream puffs to share with everyone that night.)
I look forward to Monday nights and sharing in the lives of these women. I watch as we all get to know ourselves better as we reveal our stories on paper. I accept that I am the ham. I see now that I always have been...
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Real Life with Teenager

Monday is my day to post something I wrote for writers group. This one is from last Spring. I enjoy reading my stories outloud to the group and hearing their stories read to me. Printing them here isn't quite the same. Cheryl-Anne gets to read hers on the radio. Tune in here. Imagine what follows in my voice:
First, I think I need to explain why I was in my son's drawers...dresser drawers. Where, by the way, I found surprisingly few articles of clothing - high waisted carpenter jeans and long sleeved tee shirts he hasn't worn since 6th grade. Library fines. Only library fines could have sent me on this particular journey. (I am not the kind of mother who would read her teenager's journal or go through his things. Honestly, I don't even want to step into his room.)$189 in library fines. I felt an urgent need to stop the metaphorical bleeding. This amount was not going to wait until he came home from school - the library would be closed by then, and who knows what tomorrow's total would be?
I called him on the phone. He told me the Cd's were in his top dresser drawer. I shuddered, thanked him, and hung up. I stepped gingerly while trying not to look at the floor strewn with clothes and books and papers (presumably school work.) There was a jack-in-the-box effect when I opened the drawer. "Pop!" goes the gum and candy wrapper collection. I am thinking they look like garbage to me, but they must have sentimental value for him. "Sweet things I have loved," or something like that. I have to dig to get to all of the Cd's. (Note to self: get shallower drawers.) As I was digging, I uncovered a stack of magazines, face down in the drawer. Oh, crap! I close my eyes and bow my head for a moment of silent prayer: "Please, Lord, don't let it be..." I take a quick snort of air into my nostrils, the kind that holds back tears. I move slowly, with one eye open, I turn the stack over... The New Yorker. Exhale. Big Exhale. Buried in his dresser drawer, my son of the maxed out library card, has 6 or 8 issues of The New Yorker. I gathered up the borrowed Violent Femmes, the overdue Bowling For Soup, the presumed lost Flight of the Concordes and took them to the library with a smile on my face. I am going to have to admit, he doesn't know squat about responsibility, but he is a class act. Oh, I love him.
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Lists

I wrote this a few years ago for a newsletter. It has become one of the favorite stories I have told at writers group. With the kids heading back to school this week, I thought it was a good one to share here now.

It was late September, the kids had been back to school for about a month, and I was
relishing the quiet hours between 9 and 3. Time to work uninterrupted. If the weather was good, I could even get an extra half an hour in as I sent the kids walking to school and let them see themselves home. Why am I unprepared for the onslaught everytime they walk through the door at 3:15?
"Mommy, do you need to go to the store?"
"Sure." I answered, "You can come with me."
She wants a cookie, I thought. I can take a break from this in a while and take her.
Gabrielle offered, "I'll help you make the list." This was her way of getting me off of my project and out the door faster.
"Go ahead, hon." This was my way of staying on my project and helping my first grader become more independent.
"How do you spell asparagus?"
Oh, great! I can focus through a lot of background, but spelling requires all of me.
"Why don't you just write down the first letter of the things we need, and we will remember when we get there?" My idea satisfied both of us. Aisle by aisle in my mind, I named the things we needed, and Gabrielle marked their initial.
When we got to the store, my plan seemed to be working: "A" asparagus, how could we forget? Another "A" for apples, "M" mushrooms, "B" bread, but then she came to a "W." We stopped.

"W," "W," what did we need that started with "W?" Watermelon was out of season. We stood in the aisle between the bakery and the produce wracking our brains. Suddenly, Gabrielle turned toward the deli, and with her finger in the air declared, "I know, wunchmeat!"

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At the end of a Summer day forever

I look up to this young woman. Her uniform is a dirty red bikini with a fanny pack full of first aid supplies. She stands on her platform and makes the last announcement of the day through a megaphone. I feel a big "whoo-hoo!" rise up out of me, as dirty red bikini gathers her things. Nine year old Atlantis and her little brother, Roman are visiting from the Eastcoast. I see my smile reflected back at me through her shining blue eyes. "What is it?" Atlantis asks, "What did she just say?"
"The lifeguards are gone," I say. "We can dive off the dock." Roman had been called out of the water earlier by the lifeguard. I watched in amusement as the stocky 2nd grader was made to read the rules. He looks up at me now like I had just handed him a pirate's treasure chest. "We can do whatever we want? Whoo-hoo!" We all run across the sand from the lifeguard stand to the water and swim to the floating dock. First, we rock the dock. Then, we dive. Some kids do flips. The dock is in the shade, so I dive off and head for the log. At 6 o'clock, something magical seems to happen to Lake Pend Oreille. The water, which had been so refreshing all day long, feels warmer. The beach gets quiet as parents leave with their little ones and old people go home to dinner. The lake gets calmer too, like all of those boats just ran out of gas at 6 o'clock.
I pull myself up on the floating log that is loosely anchored to pilings demarking the border between the swimming area and the boating area. I sit facing West, soaking up the sun that will not set until 8 o’clock. I watch the kids playing king of the dock. There is a lot of pushing and a lot of laughter and no injuries. Someones mom makes an alarmed sound from the beach, but no one can make out what she said. Horseplay reigns in that golden hour. I watch some Russian boys with big smiles balancing and knocking one another off the log next to mine. There are signs posted "no standing on logs." Therefore,that is all I can think about: standing tall and diving off this log. I make several unsuccessful attempts to stand on the slippery log before swimming back to the dock. It's Sunday after all, no need to try too hard at anything on a Sunday. Roman has a twinkle in his eye. "I am going to push you off," he says. "Oh, you wanna wrestle with me?" I ask. We lock arms and smile at one another. Rory catches my eye from the beach. "Caleb and Gabrielle, Dad is waving us in. We have to go now." I say. Gabrielle is disappointed, "Aw, mom!" A tall girl who had done the majority of successful shoving on the dock looks at Gabrielle and asks incredulously, "Is THAT your MOM?" "Yup, that's my mom!" Gabrielle gives me a squeeze. Roman manages to push me in as I prepare to dive. Splash! I come up to see Roman jumping up and down, cheering for himself. “You got me!” I said. And I meant it, he got me. They all did—dirty red bikini, Atlantis, Roman, the tall girl, the Russian boys –they got a piece of my heart where they will live at the end of a Summer day forever.
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War Stories

This is what I wrote for writers group last week. Tonight, we are going to see Eat Pray Love together. Did I mention, I love this group of ladies?

Women have our version of war stories. We tell the tales of our children's births(and adoptions too) with relish. Years may have passed, but it all plays over again like a home movie when the opportunity arises. Whether our tale is cautionary or celebratory, we share with our women friends. Birth stories are our oral tradition. We teach the young mothers, and we commiserate with the veterans through our common experience.
This morning, as I was cooking sausage and eggs, my 2 youngest sat at the kitchen counter, hungry for their stories. I never imagined how pleasurable it would be to tell my 3 birth stories to my 9 and 11 year old children. They sat in rapt attention and delighted in the details. Everything about their circumstances pleases them. Caleb, being Mondays child, fair of face, always the joyful, smiling one, looked serene and satisfied that his birth was easy. Gabrielle, aware that she is Tuesdays child, full of grace, was unfazed by the lack of grace displayed by her mother during the occasion of her birth. (I had the flu and told my doctor - If I am not already in labor, make me be in labor NOW because I am not doing this pain twice!) She is okay with knowing that the wild-eyed woman with the dry heaves demanding an epidural was her Mama on the day before her birth. Then they wanted their big brothers story too. The sacred first birth full of surprise and wonder. We all secretly envy Christian, the child born on the Sabbath day is fair and wise and good and gay. Okay, so with me it's not so much of a secret when I shake my fists at the heavens and say, why wasn't I born on Sunday!? Guess what? Saturdays child works hard for a living. Oh, well. Back to work...

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Monday Musings

Some of you know I am in a writers group. I look forward to our Monday nights together in my friends studio, reading to one another. I look forward to the laughter and tears shared with this handful of women I have grown close to over the last year. Their stories have enlarged my world and changed my heart. I decided that Monday should be the morning here, on my blog, where I share a piece of myself out of writers group. This is something I wrote and shared this Spring.
The bacon sizzles, the dishwasher sloshes and hums, the car starts and roars through its gears, another day has begun. Time to do. Time to go. I know I used to be a human be-ing. But in my rush to achieve, I became a human do-ing. My life's rhythm changed from doo-be doo-be do..., to Do! Go! Do! Go! Do, do, do.
I sent a message to a friend who had kind of fallen off the map. I had the feeling her life had turned to do do too, but I hoped she was glad in it. The story I heard back was sad. Her kitchen caught fire, she was okay except for a badly burnt hand. Her basement flooded. And her 3 kids all had the swine flu. Here is how out of it I am. I drove by the drugstore the other day and I read the sign: get your hini shot here. I thought, they don't give those shots in the rear do they? Are folks dropping their drawers in the Walgreens? Later I realized it said H1N1. Anyway, her kids are better now, but they all had it.
Her message was a wake up call for me. I made a mental note. Do not try to cook and sew at the same time. No matter how Rory complains at the lack of variety on the menu, DO NOT cook and sew.
Right after replying to her message, Rory and I went for a hike at Indian Painted Rock. At the spot where we look forward to acres of Iris later in the season, I caught the spicy fragrance of something we have never been able to single out. It is a wonderful scent that always makes us stop in our tracks and linger to breathe a little deeper. As I stood there, I looked down at the slope next to the path. New grass was coming up and the sun was warm, calling the earth back to life. I felt Spring inside of me too. I felt a need to connect my Spring to the larger one. I suggested we lie down on the slope and soak up some sun. As I lay there, feeling the cool of the earth on my back and the warm sun on my face, I opened my eyes just enough to see cumulus clouds in the distance amid a slice of clean, blue sky. A tear dropped down my cheek. That is me there, the human be-ing. Lying on the ground, next to my husband who is quite content just to be with me. Soaking up the sun. Fragile, and turbulent as the Spring itself. Ready to grow. Not sure I am ready to be, yet here I am.