Poor. Pitiful. Me. A Thanksgiving Post.

Poor. Pitiful. Me.

I often write blog posts in my head. It's a shame I can't telepathically send them to "Draft" mode. Earlier this week I had a good one cookin' as I drove to school. I was cranky and irritated and had worked myself up. You see, my parents divorced when I was 18. And though the first few years were a little rough, it was a pretty easy transition to being a 'divorced kid' (although technically I was an adult).

Until the holidays roll around. And then being a 'divorced kid' sucks hard, no matter how old I am. Surprise, surprise. Thirty isn't any different.

Laughter through Tears and a Little White Dog

This isn't a story about a dog. Not really.

It's Tuesday, a warm June afternoon and I'm sitting alone in my living room. Criss-cross-applesauce in the recliner, dreading the phone call I know is coming. Finally it rings, and reading my aunt's name on the screen, I answer. "You have bad news."

"Depends on how you look at it," she says, crying.

And then I'm sobbing, large shaking cries that actually make noise. Cries that give the "boo hoo's" their creed. I hold myself and rock, in a fashion done only by those who are truly devastated.

The Tree that Put Me at Ease

Back in February I had the good sense to attend a writers' conference offered on campus --- where I met many talented writers, bought too many of their books, and patiently began to nibble them in small, savory bites.


Except for Jennifer Horne's Bottle Tree. I devoured it that first weekend.


Which is interesting, because --- Horne being the only poet at the conference --- I expected to enjoy her the least. That sounds insulting, but up until that weekend most of my exposure had been to the big dogs --- Keats, Yeats, Frost, etc.  You know, the poetry that demands "work, work, work to understand me." I had the preconceived notion that Horne's would be much of the same.


But then she read her first poem, and I was spellbound.  I didn't know poetry could be like this! I remember thinking, I want to write like this someday. After hearing her speak, I wanted more. After finishing her book, I wanted more. Horne had given me the gift of poetic sustenance, when up until then I didn't know I was starving!  


Two months later I'm a regular in front of the single shelf at my local chain bookstore, picking up Alice Walker and Billy Collins. Thanks to Jennifer Horne I'm at ease with my pursuit of writing poetry, understanding that fancy words and complicated styles don't make a great poem. An open mind, a gift of words, and a sense of story-telling make a great poem.  At least it does in Bottle Tree.


With the author's permission, I've presented one of my favorites from the collection. Please visit Jennifer Horne's blog and/or click here to purchase a copy for yourself.  Trust me, you'll want more.


Monday Morning with Household Chores


Surprised into tears by an old song.
It's my mother, not a lover, I miss.
How she sang along happily. With abandon.
The words soothed her. Lifted her, too.
I stop in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor.
Nothing to do but sit down on the steps.
Let the tears have their way.


It's my solitude I weep for.
The never-again of it.
Changeable weather. A sweet old song.
Me aging with all these questions.
She not there to ask.


Isn't every motherless girl the same?
Still expecting her phone call.
Even after however-many years.
Mopping's regular rhythm.
Lemon oil on wooden chest.
Honor her with frangipani candles at Christmas.
Sing with abandon. Abandon. Abandon.




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Inspiration Comes in Raw Packages

There's nothing like finding inspiration in someone else. 
Thanks to friend Kyrsten from my creative poetry class, I've discovered Taylor Mali, a former-teacher-turned-slam-poet. I spent an hour watching youTube videos of him last night, spent another hour making my husband watch them, and after was so inspired I sat down and wrote something in under 30 minutes.

I love it when that happens.

So before you think, "Blah.  I'm not going to watch some guy recite poetry," I urge you to take a minute. Or three. Watch the clip below.

Listen.

If you like what you see (and I think you will), try these:

• On What Teachers Make
• The The Impotence of Proofreading
• Labeling Keys
• Defending American Interests

 But to tell the truth, I find his deeper stuff (listed below) to be breathtaking --- literally.  I found myself holding my breath. His willingness to bare his soul... I struggle with that in my writing.  I'm always aware of who I might hurt.  If I write about an ex-boyfriend, will I hurt my husband? The ex's family? If I write about my family, will it offend my grandmother? And so on and so on. My friend Mica tells me that I'm more honest than she ever could be, and perhaps that's true. (Read her guest blog, A "Clark Griswold" Holiday)

But I know it's not enough when I find myself censoring my pen.

Because when I read writing that's raw --- or hear it like Taylor does below --- that's what really packs the punch; they're the words that stick with me. Inspiration comes in raw packages.

• Depression, Too, is a Type of Fire
• Entire Act of Sorrow
• For the Life of Me

To sum up, it seems I recommend watching everything he's ever done on youTube.  I hope you find him as inspirational as I have.  And by all means, please share him (& this post) with your friends on Facebook & Twitter, too!


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I'm Not Ashamed to Mourn

Tomorrow is my husband's birthday, but today -- today I mourn a loss.

Yes, I've written about my aunt Sharon numerous times before.  I even questioned whether I should write about her again today.  But of course I should -- she was such an influence on my life.  Why should I sit silent because someone else may not want to read about it?

Is there an expiration date on grief?  After the first year, should we stop remembering the exact day? The exact place we were standing when we answered the phone?  Or is it five years? Ten?  Is it wrong to still weep for her sons' loss?  For my own pain?   Should my anger at the injustice of it all subside over time?  I can still hear her say to me, "Hey Em! How's math goin'?" and I wonder if I'll remember again next year.  I don't want to forget her -- I'm not interested in reaching the point where I don't grieve for her.  Yes, there are happy memories and I rejoice in them throughout the year.  But today it's okay to mourn, and I need that.

I'm okay with needing that.

Tomorrow I'll celebrate the birth of the most important man in my life, but today -- today will forever be a black mark on the calendar. I'm okay with that, too.  I'm not ashamed to remember a woman that I loved and to cry for her...

And I won't be ashamed next year.


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Two Months and I'm Still Grieving...

Today marks two months since Megan's death. Ironically, I spent the morning looking back through old photos and blog entries before realizing that today was the 2nd.

Shannon still knows her, which shocks me. The last time she saw Megan was at Relay For Life but whenever she sees a picture she cries out "Meg-meg" in delight! She is also quick to tell you who gave her the teddy bear (Meg-meg) and her Buster dog (Meg-meg). I guess it just shows how special Megan was to her.

Another surprise: We talk about Megan. We all do. A lot. After Sharon's death it was so difficult to talk about her without getting emotional, but I share so much now about Megan and Sharon in everyday conversation. My mom still has Megan as her voicemail, too, so everytime I dial my mom's cell I get to hear her sweet voice.

Part of me is still in denial... I know this. There were plenty of weeks when I'd go without seeing Megan, and I think my brain has tricked my heart into feeling as though I simply "haven't seen her." Another part knows that a lot of grieving was done before her death. Still... sometimes the lack of tears surprises me.

And at other times... like now... when they come unexpectedly... the grief overwhelms me.

I ache for the girl she was and the woman she could have been.

Some days are worse than others, a universal principle. Since I can't find a way to end this post on a positive note, I'll let someone else do it for me.

Say not in grief that she is no more
but say in thankfulness that she was
A death is not the extinguishing of a light,
but the putting out of the lamp
because the dawn has come.

- Rabindranath Tagore

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i think tonight i'll take the long way...

"there's a song that they sing when they take to the highway..."

Music is such a big part of my life, and my iPod playlist is always a reflection of my mood... On a normal day I usually just pick my "Favs" which encompasses everything I love... When I'm in a particularly fabulous mood, I click over to my "No Boys Allowed" mix which contains a large quantity of "sing-at-the-top-of-my-lungs" chick songs (which I sing at the top of my lungs).

"on the way home this car hears my confessions..."

With my job I find myself on the road more often than not, traveling to my different counties. It's not unusual for me to spend 2-3 hours a day driving, which oddly enough, I enjoy. In the past weeks, however, as Megan's condition has worsened, I discovered something interesting.

"i think the hurt set in and I don't feel nothin'..."

When I'm hurting, really hurting, I listen to the same music, the same set of artists and songs, every time. You see, ten years ago (at the age of 17) when my parents were getting divorced, it wasn't uncommon for me to drive around for hours on end - listening to Matchbox Twenty, Fuel, Alanis Morissette... Over the next several years I added a few more heartbreaks, and thus added a few more artists... there's no rhyme or reason to why these songs are in my "Mellow" playlist, except that at one point or another a lyric echoed an ache inside of me.

"another sun soaked season fades away..."

It's been almost four years since this playlist has made its way back to my ears, but about six weeks ago I welcomed it back with open arms. The power is still dynamic. There have been several nights in which I've cried myself the entire way home, but these artists, these melodies, these "lyrics" have assisted me in purging all the emotion that builds up throughout the day.

"and there's nothin' there to ease this ache..."

With that said, it's evident that I'll be listening to these songs for an undetermined amount of time. There is an ache inside of me that will only get worse before it gets better...

"there are days every now and again I pretend I'm okay..."

One of the best conversations I had with Megan was, ironically, on the way to Children's Hospital when I had to take her to the ER. We discussed music as she scrolled through my iPod and chose what we listened to during the drive. She had much to say about my lack of Toby Keith, Dirks Bentley, and other contemporary country she considered appealing - but we eventually found a few songs we could agree on (including the one and only Rascall Flatts song I like).

"You have stolen my heart..."

I told Megan that when she got a little older, I'd introduce her to Matchbox Twenty and Dashboard Confessional and some other cool bands. She looked over at me from the passenger seat with wide eyes and said, "Oh cool, so you know them?"

"this old world well don't it make you want to scream damn..."

I try hard not to dwell on the "what if's," but at this point in time they seem to just keep sneaking into my head. And damn them! they pop up at the most random moments, bringing tears to my eyes and clogging my throat. But that is what my drive home is for... I let out the day's worth of pent-up emotions, and eliminate all that I can in hopes of peaceful dreams.

"we all look like we feel..."

I fathom that many family and friends do their own purging rituals each night with similar intent... and I hope each gets the relief he or she so desperately craves...


** My cousin Megan passed away two days later

In Memory of Sharon

After battling breast cancer for the past seven years, my aunt Sharon died this past Thursday, February 22, 2007.

She left behind my uncle Gary and their three children, Ian, Bradley and Megan.

Sharon was a high school math teacher, and having been tutored by her through both high school trigonometry and college algebra, I can personally attest that she was damn good at what she did. I imagine she was a tough teacher, but her mark was made evident when 50 or more former students showed up for her funeral on Sunday.

Sharon was a mother. The past few weeks with her were spent listening to story after story of when her three children were born, experiences during their childhood, and advice for me, the new mom. If I take anything from her it will be the lessons in motherhood that she passed along.

Sharon was a wife. She and my uncle were both soul mates and best friends and they worked hard to make their marriage work.  Major family decisions were made together, right up until the end. I never heard either say a disparaging word about the other in all my life, nor did I ever see either of them angry. They took care of each other, and together took care of their family. In June they would have celebrated 25 years together.

Sharon saw the best in everyone. I never heard a negative word about another come out of her mouth. Ever. Despite whether she agreed with what others believed, she didn't judge, she didn't lecture, and she didn't criticize. She didn't gossip.  She loved unconditionally, which is the best kind of love. Her unyielding optimism, in the face of everything she endured, was a testament to the lovely person she was both inside and out.

So it is with an extremely heavy heart that I say goodbye to my aunt.  Goodbye to the woman who tried so hard to raise the math section of my ACT score; whom I named my pet rabbit after when I was five years old.  Goodbye to the woman who was just as ferocious as the rest of our family when playing cards; who for 20-something years always began our conversations with, "how's math coming?"  Goodbye to the woman who, during our last conversation, was so excited to hear that I was having a little girl… Goodbye to the woman who told me that I would make a fantastic mom.

What an amazing compliment from a truly amazing woman.  I only hope that someday I will look in the mirror and see my Aunt Sharon in myself.

Unconditional love. A wonderful wife. And above all else, a fantastic mother.