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She leads a lovely, rather ordinary life. And, on most days she likes it like that. She is contented. More than that...she hopes that someday, when her children are older, they will know that this period of time with them has been filled with richness. Indeed, they are her lifeblood.
Her best poetry comes to her when she is doing the everyday tasks of caring for her family - preparing dinner, tackling yet another mountain of laundry, or catching a glimpse of her children playing outside. Even in rare snatches, it arrives within her head amidst the cacophony of sound emanating from the rear seats of her minivan.
There are times when she knows the day is not going well by 9am. When she has trouble formulating a simple grocery list. Something that is as familiar as sleep and brushing her teeth. And then, while in the aisle...stands there in a swoon, fondling the wine bottles as if they are close friends. The labels lilting her way ...vanilla, smooth, soft, velvety finish... A song to her tone deaf starved heart. And ...later, when she drives into the gas station, pulls up to the gas pump, gets out, and realizes that the gas cap is on the other side. Her mind has traveled further than the much needed tank.
Yes... sometimes, despite her children's undeniable lusciousness, she wishes to sling back a Jack and Coke at noon... declaring to all and sundry that IT'S JACK O'CLOCK! INDEED. She's ready for her own whiskey a go GO. Perhaps, if she really knew what was going on in the neighboring houses, she would find kindred spirits in her need for ...space. Room to breathe.
Days when the loud hum of the stove hood's fan is welcoming instead of intrusive. The noise, a usual annoyance, her friend. For it closes out the nearby shrill cant of Diego as she fixes dinner. Or...it is Word Girl? The DIN. Beating into her like clubs wielded by neanderthals. Yes, white noise...YOU are welcome here.
The greatest irony is that there is no one to blame but herself. Unfortunately. Her world of laundry piles, meals to make, schedules to keep ...are all in a disarray of her own making. Because. She hasn't scheduled herself any time. And she is a snarling, bitchy mess within. Occasionally oozing out around her edges.
What saves her is the blank page. Sometimes it taunts--> daring her to throw down words. Sometimes it lets her slide keyboard strokes across its snowy surface. And sometimes it stares, bored, yawning... into a silent void. Yet, whatever the blank page, she usually cannot leave it so. For it feeds her. Whether it is a self-conscious rant or careless phrase or hours spent upon one word, it is enough for today...
***"Shaken and Stirred" Painting by Chuck Gumpert.
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Wherever I turn these days, I run into another friend who is experiencing a rough patch in their marriage. Friction at best... talk of separation and hitting the skids...at worst. And sometimes that isn't the worst case. Some couples are just not meant to stay together. And some couples still love each other, but wonder what the hell happened to their partner. Is this the same person I fell in love with?! Who IS this person in my bed?
There comes a time when a couple has been married to each other for a while. A time full of life on the run with young children. And, kisses so fast in the morning you later wonder if your faces actually touched. Conversations started and stopped by the little engines that could, and can, interrupt you at every turn. Until, you stop trying. And you're depleted at the end of your days, so you each take to your corner of the world within the walls of the place you call home. Sometimes connecting in the dark, sometimes not.
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Before the inauguration...
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When last seen, JCK was hellbent on tackling her 2009 resolution #1...getting fit. So determined was she, that she had participated in a spin class. JCK actually walked away from that class with a nod and a wink. A nod to herself for attempting something that she knew would cause residual tenderness betwixt her buttocks, yet a wink as her parting gesture to the class. You GO ON then, GIRLS and three men!!! Have at IT! JCK was on to other pastures.
A few days hence, we find JCK ensconced upon a yoga mat, her flattish fanny perched upon a welcoming yoga blanket. She sits in the semidarkness soaking up the silence. The class begins. Once again JCK gives a little SHOUT that she is new, so that if she appears to be making any unique moves perhaps the instructor can help her. (JCK has taken a smattering of yoga classes over the years, so although she is not a YOGI, she is perhaps more than a gogurt.) There is a slight wave of bodies jerking back upon their mats when JCK SHOUTS her little announcement. After all this is YOGA, and one must have respect for the TRANQUILITY found there. JCK gets this. She gets IT down to her gluteus maximus and beyond.
So, she sinks back into the position of what is known in her circles as CRISS CROSS APPLESAUCE. And the class begins... It goes smoothly. The soothing tones of the instructor, coupled with music that appears to both soothe and nourish JCK's inner being, gives her sustenance. And more... For as she lays on her back and lets one bent leg rest over the other she begins to feel something. Something so...almost....naughty? Yes, naughty! A feeling of warmth sliding up her body and a tingling sensation settling in around her...her... nether regions. Could it be? Could it BE? By, GOD, YES! YES!YES! ....AAAAAHHHH.....Namasté, indeed. JCK believes that she WILL be back...
***Sculpture titled: "Contemplation" by Elaine Franz Witten
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I find myself these last few days on a wave of euphoria and then shedding tears - all while watching the pre-inauguration goings on in Washington, D.C., and today celebrating the great Martin Luther King, Jr. This morning, CNN played his I HAVE A DREAM speech in it's 17 minute entirety. It was incredibly moving to hear the whole thing, and to visually see through images where our country was just over 40 years ago. You can feel the change that is coming. A movement that has come about because all of us made it happen. Inspiration in the form of another man. Tomorrow Barack Obama will become President of the United States of America. And I shall cry yet again.
Before turning on CNN this morning, I talked to BOY & GIRL about Martin Luther King, Jr. and how life was back in the 1960's. In very simple terms I tried to explain. Of all the things I said, they were most shocked by the idea of African Americans having to ride in the rear of the bus and having separate water fountains. GIRL's jaw literally dropped open, mouth agape. Stunned by what didn't even make sense to her. The beauty of this is that I could truly see in her eyes the incomprehension. As if I was talking gibberish.
But, why mommy? Why was it like that?
And, I had no answers for her.
But, I AM lifted up by what I can answer. By the images passing across our television screen, and the words of hope spoken. By the beauty of our country coming together as a community. To heal, and to make our country better. And somehow, I think that the optimism that we are clinging to, this feeling of WE CAN DO IT, cannot be far from one of Martin Luther King, Jr's dreams...
***Video courtesy of CNN -film clip: From MLK to Today by Antoine Fuqua.
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The Boy with Two Dolls
He was a round cheeked child
soft of face and form
a mass of brown waves
covering the top of his head.
He carried two dolls
a boy and a girl,
clutched tightly in
his small hands.
It was show-and-tell
and what he wanted
was to share the two dolls
that he loved most.
His mother standing near
a hand resting gently
on his shoulder,
saying, this is my son.
She, honoring him
who he is
his very essence
so safe in her love.
***Note: The inspiration for this poem came from seeing a little boy and his mom this week at BOY & GIRL's school.
****"Iron Essence 2" Painting by Chuck Gumpert.
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This week I've been all off...out-of-sync so to speak. A week of frantic movement, driving from one destination to the next, and returning home to see a mountain of clean clothes to be folded. A river of clothing overflowing basket and chair, mocking me. One item on a long list of other things not done.
I had committed to making a dinner for a woman who is very ill with a relapse of cancer. Her three year old daughter goes to my children's preschool. I rushed BOY & GIRL out of the house yesterday afternoon with just enough time to drop off the meal and get them to their swimming lesson. As I pulled into the woman's driveway, I saw her through her large kitchen window. She appeared to be sitting alone at the table. I turned off the ignition, irritated by BOY clamoring to "GET OUT AND SAY HI!!!!" I stepped out, closing the car door, instantly shutting out the noise within.
This is so kind of you, thank you! she called out.
I turned to see her, clearly weak, standing at the front door.
Oh, you are so welcome, it makes me feel good to do this, I said.
And it was true. I had volunteered to make the dinner because it gives me pleasure to help someone who needs help. And I know how amazing it is to have a cooked dinner delivered to your door. Yet, I had lost track of that feeling yesterday, in my own inner dialogue, a diatribe of "poor me."
We introduced ourselves.
I handed the sacks to her, throwing out words: that I had two children at the preschool, warming directions for the lasagna, something about not needing to worry about returning any containers.
Are you sure?
Oh, yes, I said.
I'd hug you, but I am not allowed to touch anyone right now. (Radiation treatment.)
Oh, that's OK, I said smiling, trying to reassure...
I had an overwhelming urge to take her in my arms and hold her close, letting her feel my strength.
There was the unmistakable sound of BOY shouting something from within the van.
That's my son, I said. He wanted to come out, too, and say hello.
She looked at me for a moment.
People ask me why I don't have any more children. I can't...
Silence.
I got bad news today, she said.
What do you say? What can you say?
I'm sorry you got bad news today. Please know that you have so many people sending positive energy to you right now.
Thank you, she said.
Silence.
Be well, I said.
I'll try, she said.
I walked down the steps and across the path to my car.
Drive safe!
I will, I said, opening the car door.
I got in the car and backed out of the driveway.
Oh, BOY & GIRL, we are SO blessed, I said.
Why are we blessed, mama?
Because, GIRL, that mommy is very sick.
I took a breath and let it out, feeling it leave my body...
I still see her silhouette at the dining room table. It is etched in my mind. A room with the lights off. Mother of a three year old little girl. A woman sitting alone with her bad news...
*** Sculpture Credit: titled, "Comforted" - from The Sculpture Gallery.
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She had a skirted purple leotard, pink tights and a red sparkly head band. We picked out the outfit together at TarJAY last weekend. For days...she had been bubbling over with excitement.
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Being a stay-at-home mother and admitting a dissatisfaction with one's life in the all encompassing role of MOMMY is almost taboo in this country. Almost. There was a time when this subject was never talked about... A time when the only choice middle-class women had when they married and had children was to stay at home. There was not a question of loving it or hating it. It was just the way things were done. But, today we have that ability - to question our lives and the roles we play in it because of the groundbreaking women who came before us. It was 1963 when Betty Friedan's book, The Feminine Mystique, was published.
"The problem lay buried, unspoken, for many years in the minds of American women. It was a strange stirring, a sense of dissatisfaction, a yearning that women suffered in the middle of the twentieth century in the United States. Each suburban wife struggled with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, chauffeured Cub Scouts and Brownies, lay beside her husband at night--she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question--"Is this all?"***
Betty Friedan talked of women feeling trapped in their role as homemaker, and it was as if a casserole exploded across every kitchen in America. Today we are free to talk about this, to question it, but do we?
I like to think of myself as being candid with my close friends, openly expressing both my struggles and joys in being a mother. Yet, I find myself hesitating to discuss my own feelings of dissatisfaction, when I have them. Something holds me back. Shame? Worrying that I'll be seen as a complainer? I am not sure. So, it is easy to fall back into roles like "the harried mom" or "the exasperated mom," putting the onus on my children and what aggravating hi jinks they've been up to this week. But, that is not really what is at the core of the dissatisfaction.
Is this IT?
Really???????
Is this all there is?
Where have I gone?
Who am I?
I don't recognize that person in the mirror? Oh...that's me. But, IS it?!
Today we have online communities, friends a keystroke away, whom we connect with intimately. Perhaps because it is easier to reveal our own perceived inadequacies and shame to someone who feels safe...at a distance. Yet, someone who appears open and listens to our inner heart.
Being a homemaker is a valuable role. One that is often overlooked and undervalued - hence increasing a sense of loneliness and isolation in women. It is a complicated subject, with no easy answers.
I feel very lucky that mothering feels like a natural fit to me. It is something that I wanted for many years, and now I have the privilege of being a mother to two children whom I love with a passion and depth I could never have imagined. I am blessed that I had the choice to be at home with them. It was what I wanted. What I felt was most important for our family. And I don't regret the decision. But, I felt lost for a while. There are many things about mothering that feel cloying and suppressive. As if... you are one step away from the nearest psychiatric facility, or jumping on the back of some one's motorcycle and riding away, without looking back... Often, when I hear a story on the news of another mother who went over the edge, I nod silently, take a deep breath and feel lucky that it isn't me. But, I can relate...at least to some of it.
It is the writing that has saved me. Opened me up to a creative well that I had only dreamed of, yet never truly attempted - other than my private journaling and an occasional writing class. The irony is that if I hadn't gone to that dark place and muddled about in my own despair, I'm not sure I would ever have started writing. I'll never know.
Last night I saw a film. It will stay with me for days. Women, RUN...do not walk, to see Revolutionary Road. If you have ever questioned where American feminism came out of, or why it came to be...this film will turn you upside down. It is explosive, heart rending, and brutally honest. The performances are seamless. Kate Winslet is mesmerizing. Melissa Silverstein, from Women & Hollywood, writes: Revolutionary Road is a tough movie for a woman who grew up after the women’s movement of the 1970s to watch, but after watching it a couple of times I actually think that it should be required watching for all young women who think that feminism is irrelevant.
Seeing Revolutionary Road should have left me feeling depressed. But, it didn't. Instead I felt uplifted. And validated. Uplifted because we, as women, have more choices today. We. Can. Choose. Validated because being a mother is just a part of who I am. A big part. In the end, perhaps for me, the most important part. Yet...I am not only a mother, a wife, a homemaker. I am so much more...
***Quote from The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan - Opening paragraph, Chapter 1.
***"Fragmented Homemaker" painting by David M. Bowers
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If there was ever a life lesson that I keep learning about my son, it is this:
He will get it in time. In his own time. Finding his own path. He can be guided. But, truthfully, he is at heart an explorer. A creator. Someone who thinks outside the box. And suddenly, what has seemed so challenging and has been a struggle will just happen. It will seem dramatic. As if overnight. When in reality he has been parachuting down to earth, flying down, sometimes drifting off the path to the obvious landing strip - yet, always, always destined to navigate his own touchdown pattern.
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On Saturday we took a tour of the Tournament of Roses Parade Floats. It's a wonderful opportunity to look at the floats up close at your own leisure.
The artistry that goes into each float is phenomenal. Every kind of natural material is used. From flower petals to tree trunks to ... Here is a close-up of different flower petals squared off with black beans.
The fox below is made with the fuzzy part of palm trees.
Here are the spooky trees from the Wizard of Oz float.
For you Sesame Street fans...
And of course, Oscar the Grouch...
One of my favorites...the white egret. Reminds me of the Gulf of Mexico...
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BOY: Mom, can I watch a program?
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