and this, kids, is what you get when you combine too much time with a new camera.
Category: writings (Page 65 of 66)
last night found me at hippiefest with hubbie, daughter, daughter’s friend, and a friend of my own from long ago. as we trekked down memory lane, remembering through familiar songs sung by men who sang them back in the day – the names and the tunes familiar if not the aged voices.
i remembered a girl who not only loved to stitch and sew, embellish plain closet doors with collages of photos of things that captured her attention, repaint furniture to suit . . . i remembered a girl who loved to wear pretty clothes (and on whom clothes looked pretty)
(sorry for fuzzy picture – i’m auditioning new cameras, and this one is obviously not The One.)
i remembered a girl who read everything she could get her hands on, a girl who collected words and copied sentences she liked and wrote stories.
i remembered a girl for whom music was a jet plane, taking her wherever she needed . . . or wanted . . . to go in a mere measure or two, music that also provided an escape hatch, allowing her to vacate moods and memories that she wanted to leave. a girl who played colorful tunes on the piano like her grandmother before her.
i remembered falling in deep, instantaneous love with a man who has never once asked me to be more than who i am, accepting (if not understanding) that who i am is subject to frequent change, even while who i really am remains the same.
and then somewhere in the night, i found myself looking forward, thinking and wondering about the future, knowing i did not have to/would not leave the future up to chance. that’s when i decided to do what so many others have done before me: make a list of things i still want to do. so today i got out pen and paper and started My The List.
i was on fire – jotting things like this was my only chance, and in the end, i came up with a list of 3 things.
count them: 3.
oh, i actually came up with many, many more – it’s just that i got all hung up on what’s a real desire worthy of going on My The List and what’s merely a to do and what’s something i feel like i ought to put on My The List because it seems like it’s something i ought to to want to do.
maybe it’s the brownies from last night.
(i’ll explain the pose tomorrow.) (or the next day.)
laughter. that’s the language we spoke today. not just those silly giggles, but good old-fashioned bely laughs. the infectious kind of laughs to which no one is immune.
it’s been a day filled with moments i wish i could just freeze and capture – put in a jar somehow so i could pull them out on the days when i need a good laugh, a good memory. (maybe there’s an iphone app for that?)
there are 3 generations here, the idea is for my mother to enjoy a week with her 3 grandchildren with me along as . . . for . . . well, i’m just here. we’re one day into the plan, and so far, so good.
on the day spent with my cousin last week, it was memories of grandmother that segued from one topic to another. our favorite shared memory is how grandmother leapt out of her reserved demeanor every new year’s day. she’s sit in that god-awful piece of furniture under the telephone (i swear, it looked like some cheap souvenir one of the kids picked up for her at a roadside stuckey’s and brought home to prove to her they were, too, thinking about her while on vacation), going down the list of children and grandchildren:
she dialed.
ring-ring. ring-ring.
“hello?” answered the callee on the other end.
“is this 1-9-8-2? (or whatever the year was)” she’d ask, barely able to squelch her laughter before committing the unpardonable sin of hanging up without even saying bye.
it’s become one of our favorite shared annual rituals now, my cousin and i racing to see who can call the other one first thing on new year’s day, wishing we could be like her in more ways than this.
a friend once revealed that she wanted to adopt her granddaughter, and even though she didn’t ask my opinion or even my thoughts on the matter, i put on my best maxine-self and blurted ahead anyway about what a dang fool thing that would be, depriving that adorable child of an invaluable resource: her grandmother.
grandmothers play such an important role in a grandchild’s life. grandmothers don’t need glasses to see the best in each grandchild. grandmothers don’t need letters after their names to teach their grandchildren the most important things in life.
it was my paternal great-grandmother who taught me to like potatoes and cornbread. mimi lived in the cutest, most adorable house-for-one built especially for her by my daddy and his brother, gene. mimi took in sewing to create grocery and pin money. one of my most treasured possessions is the doll dress she made for one of my babies, all of it stitched by hand.
my maternal grandmother made quilts – one for each child and grandchild. these were everyday quilts – we used them for picnicking on the beach, for protecting precious cargo during moves, and mostly for comforting us when sick. several years ago, i held a family reunion and asked that everybody bring their quilts made by grandmother. my backyard was filled with boisterous relatives, and when the first quilt was taken to the edge of the woods and held up by its owners, a hushed awe filled the air. “she really was an artist,” someone said as we all took in the quilts – one by one – from afar.
distance is important to perspective – there’s no doubt about that. this week we’ve reduced the geographical distance, coming together to laugh the days away. we’ll spend the week creating memories that will grow soft around the edges with time, while comforting and warming us for a long, long time. it’s what i call a dream vacation.
(especially if we all come out of it alive.) (i’m just sayin’ . . .)
so much for planning. did see the favorite cousin. did not get new computer set up. just now finished transferring all files from the previously-used-still-loved laptop, am about to start testing all applications for usability on new computer, reinstall print drivers, etc. doing some digital nesting.
back tomorrow . . .
he danced not with the stars
but under the stars.
while others did the shag and something that resembled the jitterbug,
his arms flapped,
his elbows moved in and out as if wings,
his legs hoisted him up and down
on that one small spot of dance floor he claimed for his own.
he obviously heard a different rhythm,
and he danced to it with huge tenacious enthusiasm.
two women linked arms with him and began doing a modified can-can kick,
urging him to join them
but he did not succumb.
not for a second.
he bounced and flapped danced on,
losing himself in the music he heard, moving to the beat of his own drummer.
watching him dance
was worth the price of admission.
we met quite by accident on january 27 of that year, became engaged on april 1 of that same year, then married on july 31 – you guessed it – of that same year.
on a tuesday night so we wouldn’t mess up the weekend.
we were so young and so trusting. we knew the world would accommodate us. we were bulletproof as long as we had each other. we would never grow old or bored or infirmed. we expected the best from the world and each other, and we have not been disappointed.
we finished undergraduate school (and i, graduate school), birthed and raised 2 fantastic children, buried parents, developed individual careers and hobbies, and laughed at every opportunity. we have known fun; we have known sorrow. there have been spaces in our togetherness . . . and we have remained in love.
somehow.
(i think it has a lot to do with laughing more than complaining and having the same taste in wallpaper.)
being a woman raised in the south (it may be true for other regions, but i’ve only lived in the south so i don’t know), i’ve been on stage all my life: doing things to find myself pleasing to others and saying only nice, safe things that others would not find offensive or threatening. even now i still have a tendency to drop into my sweetest little non-threatening-me-jane-you-obviously-tarzan southern drawl – heavily peppered with self-deprecating humor, of course – when talking to men in positions of authority because i learned long, long ago that it’s the quickest way to get them to do what i know is the right and necessary thing to do.
well, anyway
somewhere along the way, i picked up on the notion that good girls focus only on the positive, turning a blind eye, deaf ear, and closed mouth towards anything that could possibly be construed as negative. it’s a notion that’s deeply embedded . . . which is why i’ve often apologized when talking about all the things that go wrong in a theatrical production.
but just last week, an amazing epiphany came to visit: just because i tell and retell the mishaps and bobbles that are a part of any theatrical production does not mean i’m focusing on the dreaded-and-always-to-be-avoided negative, and it does not mean i’m a despicable person. no, no, no.
how silly that seems now.
stories of what “went wrong” enjoy a tenured and prominent place in literature: the s/hero leaves home, goes out into the world, encounters giants and dragons and all sorts of bad and evil challenges, then – and this is the best part – s/he doesn’t just meet those challenges but overcomes the obstacles in the proverbial road, learning something invaluable and potentially life-changing at every turn.
that’s what we do in theatre with every single show. props can’t be found. entrances are late. cues are missed. lines are forgotten. zippers break. wigs fall off. divas reign (or try to) (onstage and off). and i tell, tell, and retell those stories not because i’m a horrid ole’ wolf but because they are stories of survival and triumph.
here i have been feeling quite guilty for focusing on the negative, frequently apologizing or at the very least balancing the story with something positive. i know that artists often turn boo-boos into part of the creation – i embrace the notion of wabi-sabi – i just never applied that to me. but now, finally, i realize that the negative is positive. these things that go awry, these trips, stumbles, and sometimes flat-out falls aren’t negative, they’re the most redeeming kind of positive because despite any hurdle, obstacle, dragon, vampire, giant, or diva divine, the show does go on.
i feel so much better now – a bit embarrassed that it took me so long to come to such a seemingly simple and obvious mindset – but oh so relieved.
now
did i tell you about the night when . . .
in the fall of 2005, my daughter started a community theatre company, The Twilight Theatre. the people who were going to help her on the top level, turned out to be less than honorable people, despite their public facade of being devout church goers.
anyway
i became involved to help my daughter grow her dream – a dream that was just plain too big for one person to grow. as the years have ticked along, others have stepped up to help in big ways – people who are dependable and responsible and honorable, so my role has been divvied out in parcels, but i’m still here. still involved.
though she prefers performing, moxie (my daughter) is a gifted director, and last weekend she proved it once again when the musical oliver! opened to great reviews. though not in the (huge) cast and not involved nearly as much at the show level as i have been in years past, i came onboard for the past 3 weeks to help out with all the details that can easily eat up 14 hours or more every day. details nobody thinks of until and unless they are not tended.
this week between shows, i get my feet back under me (even though another big musical, annie get your gun, started rehearsals last night and there’s another small children’s show opening in 2 weeks, those don’t eat up as much clock – at least not right now) and rejoin the world.
i flounder. am in search of something, though i can’t articulate it enough to recognize it. maybe words aren’t the answer. i try to identify what interests me . . .
i grab books and look there. i go on walks with eyes open (and usually find the most interesting things when i’ve gone off and left my camera).
a very good friend, somebody i have never met but know at that deep, satisfying level of connection (thanks, acey) reminded me this morning that when we don’t listen to ourselves, that wise voice dries up. is mine drying up? is it giving me one last beckon?
i long to jump into something. need to settle down. want instant gratification. crave something that develops and unfolds over time.
i think i don’t move enough. don’t eat well. (soda crackers with mayonnaise washed down with swigs of diet coke – is that okay?) it’s too hot to walk. i can’t drag myself to the cool, air-conditioned fitness room complete with elliptical trainer and cable television.
can’t (read: don’t) stitch often enough to maintain a blog, so what do i do? i launch a new blog and within 2 weeks, i’m back to stitch and tell.
i am a mess. this is beyond being a complex human being – that’s endearing, this is embarrassing.
okay, enough. i’m going to watch more reruns of law and order. there’s something about solving a life-and-death case in slightly less than 40 minutes (allowing for commercials) that is quite satisfying.
and enviable.
started my day out the old-fashioned way today, the way i once started every day out: i wrote 3 notes then walked to the mailbox to mail them. just brief little handwritten notes. emails would’ve been quicker and taken less time, but there’s just something about pen meeting paper.
one of the notes made me feel a bit on the uncertain side of things as it’s about the third note i’ve sent this friend. always telling her how i noticed something she did and how marvelous i think it is, whatever she did or said. but after a while i wonder if she’ll think me odd in the worst sort of way.
oh well.
when my chiclets were babies, i’d get up early to pen the 3 notes before they woke up, and during the winter when it was just too much trouble to bundle 2 babies up to go out in the cold, i’d sometimes lose contact with adult types and run out of people to write. when that happened, i’d go to the local newspaper and send a note to somebody i read about there. kinda’ felt like a stalker, but i went right ahead and sent it with the clearest of intentions and hoped it would bubble-up a smile on the recipient.
though i’d sometimes hear that the person on the other end of the mailbox enjoyed and appreciated the surprise note, it’s amazing how much it didn’t matter because it was so satisfying just penning and sending the note. in fact, i’d often forget who i’d sent notes to, and i often wondered if that was good or bad. did it mean that i was able to let go of any expected or desired outcome or did it mean i had early onset alzheimers.
i don’t know/can’t explain it, but starting my days this way makes me feel like i have control over my day.
probably a mere illusion, but it’s nice, nevertheless.
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integrity
This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
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