Tag: planet jeanne (Page 4 of 7)

Fine Lines

September 18, 2012 / jeanne / 6 Comments

It rained all night, giving us this view from here this morning:

Falls1

and this:

Falls2

Note: The preceding photos may or may not be visual metaphors . . .

_______

I got up, showered, washed my hair. Would’ve gone to walk except it continued to rain hard all day long. I stitched my way through the day, preparing five more Envoy packets to go out. (Thank y’all.) The up and down, back and forth of the needle soothes me, assures me.

I am not holed up in a small room with the blackout curtains pulled closed. I am not wallowing. I am not whining. On the outside, I look the same. If we talked, I would make you laugh, and I would laugh alongside you. “If my cat would knead my back and shoulders like he kneads my thighs and chest,” I posted on Facebook, “I would buy him the good food.” I am the same save for one important detail: I laid something down yesterday, and you held me. Your comments and your emails, they swaddled me in gentle support. I don’t know when I’ve felt so seen, so held. Thank you.

——-

Renae used the word “sorrow,” and that resonated deeply with my bones. I may laugh, but I still carry this sorrow. There is such substance in sorrow, in this deep, long, unnamed sorrow.

——-

Fine lines separate a pity party from authenticity, distinguish whining from honesty, keep sharing from becoming a stage. While my brain screams “You get over yourself and stop this right now, Missy,” my bones whisper “You’re okay, Sugar.”

_______

Happy feels like an obligation, something manufactured, something I do for others, something I am obligated to do for others, to make them comfortable, to make and keep friends.

Glee feels natural, organic, spontaneous. I can’t stop glee, and I don’t want to. It’s not heavy, not one thing I have to drag round. Its not scratchy or tiresome.

Sorrow feels, well, comfortable in a way. Like I’ve landed right where I’m supposed to be. And sorrow doesn’t exclude other emotions or other situations or other people. It’s inclusive, though not in the misery-loves-company-kind-of-way because I’m not actually miserable. Sorrow doesn’t assign blame but invites reflection and pondering.

——-

My brain is my aggregator, my protector, my assimilator. I need my brain for so many reasons, but somewhere along the way, it got the big head, my brain did. Thinks thinking is The Only Thing That Matters.

My heart is the home of my spirit. Childlike, playful, spontaneous. Heart is home to glee.

My bones are home to my soul. They connect me with my ancestors, with something ancient and unspoken. I am finally learning to trust them enough to let them speak. Bones are the voice of wisdom.

_______

My body is a cache of Knowing.

And of memory. All these voices, all these proverbial fingers wagging at me, they are remembered real. I have read them, heard them, interpreted them before. I have been baptized in them. Some come from well-meaning sources concerned with my well-being and safety. Others come from sources who don’t know me but speak with great authority. All promise a life of shame if I perform in a way that is disruptive, inconsiderate, inconvenient for others. Sadful is at the top of The List of Inconsiderate Inconveniences.

This avoidance of shame has guided me for so many years. For too many years.

Will You Still Love Me?

September 17, 2012 / jeanne / 29 Comments

70sunset2

Once upon a time I was a productive junkie. Just the thought of creating a to do list revved me up, charged my batteries, got me going. And the satisfaction of checking things off? Oh my goodness, nothing felt near as sweet as reviewing the day’s list at bedtime and seeing all the items marked through. Each tick mark translated into “job well done.” With enough tick marks, I could be sure I’d left my mark, made the day count, earned my existence.

That was then.

Now, I have to drag myself to the paper to create a to do list. Digital task management software proves too easy to procrastinate, too easy to slide things over to the next day, the next month, the next year. Plus the satisfaction level just isn’t there without the sound of pencil scratching across the words on the paper. Besides trying every journal known to woman, I’ve come up with all sorts of carrots to lure myself back into such a simple, definable, provable existence. One item per index card, color coded by category. Moveable sticky notes lined up by category inside a colorful file folder for each day. And the rewards? Oh my goodness at the reward systems I’ve created and laid out before myself.

But no go. Despite it all, I cannot recapture that sense of being a woman-with-a-daily-mission. It’s not the system. Checking tasks off a list no longer satisfies me . . . probably in large part because the tasks on the list no longer satisfy me.

I seem to be living in a state of generalized grief. Where I once prided myself on cleaning the house every single Friday so it’s be spic and span for the weekend, I have to force myself to give it a quick going-over twice a month. I set the roomba out in a different part of the house every morning, make up the bed (because there’s something quite nice about pulling back the covers, even if I do rather detest moving the decorative pillows back and forth), do the laundry, and call that enough. I don’t really grieve the to-do list driven existence. Not specifically, anyway, because I do miss that feeling of structure the to do list provided. I miss that feeling of accomplishment, that feeling of satisfaction.

I grieve things I haven’t even begun to articulate – I’m living the vegetable soup of grief and mourning. I grieve who I once was, who I could have been, who I am today, and who I might be One Day. I grieve for time squandered. I grieve things said, but mostly things not said. I grieve for my son and, in a different way, for my daughter. I grieve for the loss of my personal space. I grieve people I’ve lost due to death or miscommunications, misunderstandings, differing interests, or something else. And despite the fact that I’m an adult woman with adult children and though he died in 2000, I miss my Daddy like you wouldn’t believe.

And here’s the thing: I am fine with that.

I write about living in this state of generalized grief with great dread of the emails and phone calls that might come. Offers to pray for me, witness to me. Obviously I’m not a good Christian if I’m feeling like this. Others will want to cheer me up, urge me to talk to a therapist, tell me about what pills they are taking to feel better.

Here’s what I want to know: when did happiness become the ultimate desired state of being? Want to know the truth? I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve felt blissfully joyful . . . and that sorry showing has always been something that made me feel decidedly less than. Something I’m ashamed of. Something I ought to be ashamed of, given my circumstance in life. How dare me not be happy, know it, and clap my manicured hands.

Even with the to do lists and the structure they provided for me, I’ve had spells like this before. I’ve used every euphemism I could think of: I’ve been in funks and fallows. Had stomachaches, headaches, needed quiet time, all that. I’ve been known to run like hell, too. Escapism, I call it. Going out in search of distractions, leaving would-be reminders and wagging fingers behind, at least for a little while. I’ve tried. Lord knows, I’ve tried. Even when I didn’t put on makeup, I’ve put on my best, most cheerful happy face and did my best to make somebody else happy, happy, happy since I couldn’t always seem to do it for and by myself. I’ve run and I’ve hidden and I’ve denied in every way you can think of (though I’ve never even veered near the S-word) – not so much from the melancholy, sadness, depression, grief and mourning, acedia, or whatever, mind you, but from the shame, from the feeling of shirking My Responsibility, from the dread of hurting family, from the fear of being left alone because I’m no fun any more.

This time, though, I’m just sitting with It, sitting in It, this murkiness, this darkness as some might call It. And though it feels good to write this, I don’t mind telling you that I’m scared. I don’t just dread the folks rushing in to help, to fix me, to make me feel better. I dread the ripple effects this public display of negativity might have on my family. There’s still a stigma attached to not being happy, you know. At least around here there is. Will I need to sew every member of my family a special shirt emblazoned with a special version of The Scarlet Letter?

In days gone by, I feared parents wouldn’t let their children play with my children if they knew I was more sadful than joyful. I didn’t – and still don’t – want people examining my mother and blaming her for things done or not done in my upbringing. I didn’t – and still don’t – want to take a pill that will mask this, turn me into somebody else who, while the-new-she might feel foreign to me, will be found acceptable by others. I’ve lived most of my life that way without pharmaceuticals, thank you very much. I didn’t and still don’t want to talk to a therapist for a whole bunch of reasons we might or might talk about later.

So what if I’m grieving? So what if I’m sad? So what if I’m melancholy? So what if I’m living with acedia? Maybe grief is another lens to look through. Maybe melancholy is contemplation. Maybe sadness is a filter. Maybe acedia is a call to authenticity. Maybe mourning is another way to love.

I can still authentically be the life of the party – this is not the sum total of who I am. But it is very much me, too. And it’s not just the rainy weather talking here.

blissed

September 1, 2012 / jeanne / 6 Comments

Path

yesterday i was absolutely blissed.
broadsided by love.

Path2

by the path i’m on.

Lake3

Lake1

by the beauty of this rock we call Earth.

Lake2

by the dark clouds that waited their turn.

Lake4

by lessons
deep lessons
big lessons
important lessons
that far exceed just
getting up on skis
(they didn’t get up yesterday,
but today, by golly.)

Bythesea

by laughter.
(it’s my religion, you know.)

Bluemoon

by the clouds that finally parted
mere minutes before midnight
to reveal
the most exquisite
blue moon.

bigness.

If Mothering Came With Do-Overs, I Know How I’d Be Spending the Rest of My Life

August 28, 2012 / jeanne / 24 Comments

78Aug30BringKHome210

I try hard not to pine for days gone by because it makes my heart hurt too bad, but it’s easy to do when it’s my children’s birthday. So many memories – some I’d love to relive just for the glee of it all . . .

85OctKLosesTooth

I’d still treat your first stitches as a rite of passage, celebrating with the biggest of all big ice cream cones on our way home. No, no, I wouldn’t change that.

AK1982046DressUp

I’d still encourage you to dress up and take to the stage at every opportunity. (Ahem . . . by the way, when do you think you might get back around to that?) Like the first day of ninth grade when you just barely got the car door closed before the dam broke, your tears filling the car. You hadn’t been cast in any of the first school plays, and you were understandably devastated. I drove us straight home, and while you stumbled about your homework, I found an audition notice for To Kill A Mockingbird at a nearby community theatre. We shoved homework aside, gobbled down some supper, and drove straight over. After two nights of auditions and one callback, you landed the role of Dill, a role you’d put on your Dream Role List not too long before. That’s a keyper.

85AugAlKippGTPixDay

I would still move the earth and moon to find that Georgia Tech wallpaper you demanded as a condition of moving with us to the new house when you were six years old. And when we moved out of that house some 14 years later, I’d still hold a parting ritual for you. You with your keen sense of place. We’d probably still sit on the front stoop laughing and crying and telling stories . . . but on a do-over, I might plan it ahead instead of having it be a spur-of-the-moemnt-we-can’t-leave-without-marking-this-occasion event.

KippDancingAda1205

83OctTrainKippCarCar140

I’d still say “Yes” when you, a four year old, asked if you could walk to see YeaYea and CarCar who lived just out of sight, waving you off then rushing inside to call and alert them that you were on your way so they could just happen to be working in the yard when you arrived for your surprise visit.

AlKippIrene0481164

I’d still let you stay with Aunt Rene as often as possible so she could hide cheese balls in the azaleas and pecan trees, leaving them for you to find and enjoy before going inside to a feast of peas and bacon.

AKAndySlidingRockNC310a

And those swimming lessons? Oh, you bet I’d still sign you up for lessons with Mr. Bob, even though the memory of it still gives both you and Alison nightmares. I’d still make you go even when we were late causing us to literally miss the boat, requiring me to walk you to the other side of the lake – you with all four limbs wrapped around my leg, hanging on tighter than awful (but comfortable) spandex leggings we once wore under oversized t-shirts. And later after swimming lessons, when you stood on the very end of the diving board, turned to me and said, “I guess you’re just gonna’ have to push me in,” I would still walk over and give you a nudge, knowing it would be the only one you’d need.

83AlisonKipp002

I’d still let you dig up the boxwoods at the front of the house, damn near killing them as you re-enacted tales of The Boxcar Kids. (Thank you, however, for not getting that involved in the Firebrats series.)

AlisonKippPowderKids1979

There was the time when I turned my back for a split second, giving you just enough time to crawl off behind your sister to her bedroom and, at her command, pull yourself up into the rocking chair so she could douse you from head to toe with baby powder. That’s one I’d do over just for the joy of witnessing you and Alison in your first act of independent thinking. You are a Southerner, you know, a Rebel through and through. And I don’t care where you live (well, I do, actually – just using a figure of speech here.) don’t you ever forget that.

AK1978059

Other things I’d like to do over so I’d have a chance to do things better, to do things right . . .

Like the day you were diagnosed with diabetes at 11 years of age. They delivered the diagnosis, then left us alone in the exam room. You were mad and scared and loud, and I shushed you thinking that if you proved difficult, they wouldn’t take as good care of you. I know – it looks really stupid. It was really stupid of me. If I could do that day over, I’d tell you to scream, to rail, to rip the paper off that exam table, to turn over the stool, to rip those stale magazines to smithereens, to kick the trashcan – whatever you needed to do to respond with honest, raw emotion in response to the news you’d just been given. I wouldn’t shush you and I wouldn’t rush you. And if they didn’t take good care of you, I’d go after them with teeth bared and fangs showing.

80sKipp001

I’d love another chance to take action when the first grade teacher stuck you outside the door, setting you up with a table and an extra chair so you could teach the slower students. What would I do now? I’d probably commence homeschooling that very afternoon or sell my soul to raise enough money to send you to a private school seven years before I actually did. (Send you to a private school, I mean, not sell my soul.) I’m not real sure what I would do, but I can tell you what I am quite sure of: I would not stand there while she responded to my complaint about your needs not being met with her “Well, he’s smart enough to get it on his own, so what are you fussing about?” No siree. I wouldn’t sit still for that again. Not on your sweet patootie.

84TgivingAlisonKipp001

And the Thanksgiving you brought your college girlfriend down to spend the long weekend with us? Though I then only suspected what you’ve since confirmed, on a do-over, I would act on my suspicions, and instead of just taking her aside and talking to her about the nature of the good kind of love, how it brings out the best in both of you, I’d snatch her hair out by the roots, show her the door, sell the house, and move so she could never find you again.

(Another thing I’d do-over about that Thanksgiving: When your former girlfriend appeared, taking everybody but you – the one who invited her – by surprise, you’d hear me say “Whatever possessed you to think this was a good idea?” on the outside instead of just quietly thinking it to myself.)

KippHawaii

If I could go back in time to the day you left for Los Angeles, I’d hurl myself into the back of the truck as a stowaway, without giving a rat’s ass about what psychologists might say while wagging a finger at me. (I would have, you’ll be happy to know, flown home.) (Eventually.) Another thing I’d change about that day? I’d tweak my parting words to you as you hopped into the rental truck that was taking you and your possessions all the way across the universe from me. Instead of saying “You were the best mistake I ever made,” I’d say “You are the best surprise I ever had.”

I call you Slug, a nickname taken from Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, a word that refers to the hottest coal that keeps the fire burning so the train can move forward. I love you, Slug, with every fiber of my being. Though I’m quite sure you have other plans for how to spend today, I desperately wish we were closer so I could get my lips on you when I tell you Happy, happy, happy birthday, Slug. I love you more than my vintage suitcases.

Kipp122004

Everything I Need to Know About Life, I Learned from My Boat

August 27, 2012 / jeanne / 4 Comments

Boat2

You have to pick up speed so the boat will plane,
allowing you to see where you’re going.

Boatphoebe

When you need to pass
– and you will –
always pass on the Right.

Boatwake

The faster you go, the less wake you leave.

Boat3

You have to be in gear to steer.
Neutral just won’t get you anywhere.

Boatview

Sometimes one battery is enough.
Other times you have to turn the button to the “all” position
and give it all the juice you’ve got.

embodiment

July 30, 2012 / jeanne / 3 Comments

do it just for today
then tomorrow
then the next day
and the next.
do it for as long as it takes
till you no longer
need a sticky note
to remind you:

be the character you want to play.
be the apology you want to say.
be the song you want to sing.
be the partner you want to love.
be the verb you want to enjoy.
be the dance you want to do.
be the walk you want to take.
be the letter you want to write.
be the altar you want to create.
be the ink you want to spill.
be the tree you want to hug.
be the friend you want to have.
be the life you’ve always imagined.

it’s simple, really

July 25, 2012 / jeanne / 7 Comments

when i say yes, please
or no, thank you
or even just yes or no . . .

when i speak without pre-qualifying
or apologizing for what i’m about to say . . .

when i lay down the need to defend
what i know to be True . . .

when i simply show up and live
my one wild and precious life,
the life that has my name
and nobody else’s name
on it . . .

when i create “just because”,
without worrying a single wrinkle
about the ability gang:
marketability
sustainability
credibility
or if it’s a good use of my time or not . . .

when i live as though living is the only thing that matters . . .

that’s when i know glee
that’s when i know ease
that’s when i know play
that’s when i know free
that’s when i know full.

~~~~~~~

inspired by today’s skypeversation with my friend and writing partner, julie daley
whose birthday is tomorrow, 7/26.
all together now: happy birthday to you . . .

Of Martyrs and Moochers

July 24, 2012 / jeanne / 0 Comments

Jeannepop

I’m over at Bridget Pilloud’s place today, pondering prosperity and wondering why it is that you can’t loan family money or help in other way, for that matter. I mean, really. Just seems to me that with all the people in need, I’d prefer to help my family first. But is that possible? And when does helping turn the corner and become something else, something decidedly and glaringly NOT helpful?

It’s easy enough for me to wag a finger and answer these questions from what THEY ought to do or what they ought not to do, but this time I stood in front of the mirror and looked in my own eyes when I asked some hard questions.

Maybe you’d like to drop by and say hey? I’ll leave the light on.

Will the Real Jeanne PLEASE Stand Up?

July 23, 2012 / jeanne / 17 Comments

PhoebeCools

Our dog growls and barks and shows her anger when someone behaves badly or trespasses on our personal space. Our dog rolls on her back in the grass and smiles from rib to rib. Our dog sleeps and naps and just goes with the flow. Our dog lets her leg move uncontrollably to show her pleasure when we pet her in just the right spot. Our dog forgets and forgives when we ignore her or put her on a diet or don’t respond to her wants as expeditiously as she would like. Our dog says little, never complains, lives in the moment, apologies only when absolutely necessary then moves on, is always glad to see us, and holds no grudges (at least as far as I can tell).

[::]

I want to remain calm, despite what is happening to and around me.
I want to squeal with joy or bawl in frustration like the baby in the restaurant till people are holding their ears to make the sound bearable.

I want to be patient.
I want to act, act fast, and act NOW.

I want to accept everybody as they are.
I want to outlaw stupidity this very afternoon.

I want to connect with people.
I want to be left alone.

I want to be needed.
I want everybody to go figure it out for themselves.

I want to be nice and pleasant so people will want to be around me.
I want to snap peoples’ heads off and spit out the seeds.

I want to set and accomplish goals.
I want to play and saunter like there’s no tomorrow.

I want to offer guidance.
I want people to go find their own way and maybe (or maybe not) send me a postcard.

I want to think literally and logically and formulaically so you can see my brain shine, so I’ll be though of as smart, intelligent.
I want to leave the thinking to my bones. Maybe you’ll understand it, maybe you won’t, and I want to be totally okay with that.

I want to go to a party.
I want to go to a silent retreat. For one. (But I want you to bring me food periodically. Just leave it at the gate.)

I want to talk in parables.
I want to cut to the chase so there’s no mistaking what I am saying.

I want to be in control.
I want to let the breezes show me the way to go.

I want to be kind.
I want karma to kick some folks in the shins while I’m still alive to enjoy it.

I want to be able to sum myself up in a 6-word bio on one half of one side of a business card.
I want to cherish and indulge and honor my many and varied interests and talents and forget about labels to help you peg me in less than 60 seconds.

I want to trust that things will work out for the good of all involved.
I want to stay the hell away from groups in the first place.

I want to be confident and in charge.
I want to be blissfully vulnerable.

I want to trust people unequivocally.
I want to lock all the charlatans up and throw away the keys.

I want to overlook and accept.
I want to call out everything and everybody. Overlook? Blind acceptance? How do you think we got in this mess in the first place?

I want the Mona Lisa smile to be my lipstick.
I want to laugh and cry and sometimes be a non-committal blank slate.

I want to mince my words, saying very, very, very little so that each word counts.
I want to spill all my words – every last one of ’em.

I want to feel supported, so could I please get you to read this before I mash the send button?
I want to put it out there in its raw honesty and let the chips fall where they will.
In other words: I want your approval,
but I don’t want to want your approval.

I want to create for the sake of creativity, to do things just for the sake of planting goodness in the world – you know, like Johnny Appleseed and his seedlings.
I want to be paid for what I do, create, and am good at. (And I want you to think of that so I don’t have to ask.)

I want to be affable and easy to work with so people will want to do the things I’m paying them to do.
I want to take her head off because I’m not paying her to behave like a moron for christ’s sake.

I want to have a steady, predictable rhythm to my days.
I want to nap, write, stitch, and walk at will.

I want to make people laugh.
I want to make people cry.

I want to make people think.
I want people to stop thinking and start feeling.

I want people to look up to me.
I want people to look up to themselves.

I want people to follow me.
I want people to get off all bandwagons (including mind) and start thinking/feeling/creating/living for themselves.

I want to talk things out.
I want to settle this and move on.

I want to give people a chance.
I want to snap without planning or apology when I know I’m being lied to, tricked, mislead, manipulated, or any/all of the above.

I want to whet all my appetites.
I want to stop the overwhelm of taking in so much information and just go with what I’ve got.

I want to get answers from others who’ve already trod the path.
I want to rely on myself and my body as a cache of knowledge.

I have something to say.
I have nothing to say.

I want to know what it is I’m here to do.
I want to live in the Mystery Unfolding.

Hello.
My name is Jeanne,
and this is me in any given 24-hour period.

Maybe I should just become a dog.

OurMellowPhoebe

What’ll Ya Have: Knee Jerk Reactions or Thoughtfully-Made Responses?

July 20, 2012 / jeanne / 10 Comments

What happened in Aurora, Colorado last night is atrocious, infuriating, scary as hell, and I know it brings up all sorts of things in each one of us. My son, for example, has friends who were at that very theater earlier last night to see a different movie. They left the movie, walking past the lines of customers in costumes waiting to enter. Whether we know anybody that closely involved or not, there’s the stone cold it-could-have-been-us-or-someone-we-love realization that takes shape in a host of ways. Some of us will immediately think of how we want guns outlawed, others how we want the government to keep its hands off our weapons. Some will look to the government to initiate security measures to protect moviegoers everywhere, others will dread that further intrusion into our lives. Some will cry for the shooter to be brought swiftly to justice, others will send prayers for him and his family. Some will sit down in stunned silence and try to take it all in, others will head straight to the keyboard to post their ire and promote their causes. Some of us will feel all these things.

Questions will be raised, answers will be sought. Fists will be waved, hugs will be given. There’s no doubt about that – and those questions, those conversations, those hugs might ultimately be the long-term value we glean from such an atrocious act.

There’s a difference between being an opportunist and being an activist, I’m thinking, a fine line of difference with big implications. Instead of feeding on the frenzy we are reading and hearing, could we listen to news reports with a grain of salt and remember that they are getting information from a variety of sources and that they make money by capturing our attention? Instead of using this distressing-beyond-description event as a platform to gain votes or support for our causes, could we show respect by focusing on the personal loss sustained last night? Instead of thumping our chests, could we light a candle in remembrance of those who lost their lives, in support of those who were injured, in support of the families and friends involved? Instead of waving our placards in hopes of media coverage, could we say a prayer for those who were injured and the medical staff treating them?

The causes will be there months from now, but the people could sure use our heartfelt attention right now.

Maybe you don’t live close enough to commit a tangible act of support that directly benefits those involved, but good energy has far-reaching effects. Maybe you could take a meal to someone living near you who is tired from trekking back and forth to cancer treatments. Maybe you could find a nearby blood drive and make a donation. Maybe you could honor a pet who lost someone special last night by adopting a pet at a local shelter or making a financial donation. Maybe you could brush your teeth and hair and go share a glass of sweet tea on the front porch with neighbors you always say you wish you saw more often.

This is a heinous act for which adequate adjectives have not been invented. Let’s let it fuel us, but let’s not let it divide us. Let’s let it change us, but let’s not let it hold us hostage. Let’s let it motivate us to get creative in finding ways to show we care. Let’s let it encourage us to pay more attention to those around us. Let’s let it make us determined to create a world we want to live in, a world where we and those we love can continue to wander out in search of entertainment and enjoyment without fear.