Happy Thanksgiving

What does home mean to you? A cottage?  A farmhouse?  A McMansion?

Certain houses from my memory evoke that feeling of "coming home."  As I crest the first hill of the long driveway and my grandmother's farmhouse comes into view, my soul floods with a sense of peace, that sense of "I'm home."

My generic townhouse on my quiet suburban street in my generic suburban town doesn't evoke that same sense of "I'm home." It's just a building with four walls and a hefty mortgage.

But what makes a house feel like a home?  Why don't I feel that "I'm home" connection the way I do with my grandmother's farmhouse?  Is it the memories associated with it?

Lately, I think I've been so preoccupied with looking elsewhere that I haven't paid attention to what I've got.  I have great neighbors, a quiet, safe street.  And even though I can't grow a garden in the backyard because of a lack of physical space and the lack of southern exposure, I can grow tomatoes in containers on the deck, which gets enough sun.  Lettuce likes shade and since I've got plenty of that, I can grow that too.

And this house has memories for Joseph and I beyond that it's our first house that we bought.  This is our boys' first home.  Wherever they end up on life's journey, their first childhood memories will be from here and they will remember it always.

So even though I still imagine myself writing in a little sunny room of an old, creaky farmhouse with a verandah, surrounded by rolling hills of pasture, what I've got ain't so bad.  I need to appreciate my house, the life I've forged with Joseph and the boys. Be grateful for what I have.  Right now.  In this moment.    

A tribute to Joseph

Once upon a time, this is where I imagined myself living.  I also imagined myself married to a big ol' farm boy who would tolerate my penchant for reading and writing but not insist that I, you know, work on the farm.

(Photo courtesy of morgueFile. Thank you.)

This is what I got instead:  a generic townhouse in a quiet neighborhood on a tree lined street.  I can't see the horizon because of the trees (which I'm grateful for.  I'd rather not see the horizon because of the trees instead of other buildings or smog or both. I digress.).

You see, I had Big Ideas and Big Plans, once upon a time (like the last century.  Think about that, dear gentle reader. The last century!). My Big Plans were to go to Frostburg State University in western Maryland, then keep on moving west after graduation. I wanted to get lost out there in the vastness of the wide open space and find myself. Or lose myself.

Then along came Joseph.

I stumbled into Joseph, who interrupted my Big Ideas, my Big Plans, at least in part.  I still graduated from FSU in western Maryland.  But that's where the Big Ideas, the Big Plans stopped.  I didn't find myself in the vastness of some not so populated state west of the Mississippi River after graduation.

Instead, I found love right where I was.  With Joseph. In Maryland. 

I can't say the exact moment I fell in love with Joseph.  It just kind of happened: a slow, stumbling into it, really.  By the time I realized I was in the thick of it, there was nothing left to do but accept it.  I'm not sure how I managed not to screw it up. Or crush it.  (Living with me ain't easy, let me tell you.)

Here's the thing I've learned over fourteen years of marriage: Yeah, it takes love, but it also takes equal parts compassion and forgiveness.  So that when our disagreements stretch into several days of not speaking to one another except to communicate about the neutral topic of our boys, Joseph and I trust that we can wade through that disagreement with compassion and forgiveness to rediscover the love that's been there the entire time.

Happy Anniversary, Joseph, my Beloved.

The Writing Life

I know I haven't been consistent about posting any entries lately.  I've been busy crocheting.  Yes, really.  Crocheting.  You see, dear gentle reader, I've got an idea about a collection of poems percolating in the back of my mind.  I keep a small composition book nearby to jot down any ideas or images that pop into my mind row after row of single crochet loops. The repetitive action, for whatever reason, seems to inspire ideas.  Or maybe it opens my mind so the ideas can move around freely to swirl together to make a clear image. These ideas are the scaffolding for these poems.  Soon, the ideas will be ripe enough to put down in poetic form.

Are you enticed, dear gentle reader?  Curious as ever?

Check back soon for more.

The Writing Life

I've always wanted to be a writer.  As a teenager, I imagined the writing life to be something like this: me hunched over a small, wooden writing desk in a cramped attic room with the weak winter sun streaming through a dingy window, dust motes floating in the air.  I would be wearing lots of bulky layers to ward off the ever present, nagging chill, a scarf draped around my neck and those funky knit gloves with the tips of the fingers missing so I could grip my pen.  I would subsist on tea and dry toast.  (Mind you, dear gentle reader, I said dry toast, not buttered toast.  It's an important distinction.)

Very Charles Dickens-esque, isn't it?  

Here's the reality:  I carry a little black journal in my purse at all times.  When an idea pops into my head, usually at odd moments,  I jot it down.  I scribble observations too.  Like the grocery store cashier who pursed and wiggled her lips like a fish as she scanned each of my items.  No doubt it was an unconscious habit.  But wouldn't that make an excellent character trait for a novel?  

I write in my journal late at night after the boys are in bed asleep (like now).  I find the hours of 10 PM and midnight to be rather productive writing hours.  I recently finished a manuscript--an entire novel--written entirely during stolen moments.   

I'm always thinking of characters, what they would say, how they would look, what they would do.  Ideas are constantly simmering away in my mind. (That's why I can be a bit absentminded.  I'm not thinking about the task at hand.  Instead, I'm thinking if a character would really say that line I just thought of.) 

Even though I dream of spending every waking hour writing, writing, writing, I don't think I would be as productive that way.  My mind works much more efficiently when I say to myself: you've got two hours--get something accomplished! 

As always, thanks for reading my posts. 

   

New Designs

So, even though I haven't added a new blog entry, I've been busy designing the blog itself.  Thank you to shabbyblog.com for sharing their beautiful designs and how-to instructions to make my blog pretty.  Bless you.  To all my friends and family: please let me know how you like the updates.  I'll be sure to add a new entry soon.  Thanks for reading.  

Because of fear

Because of fear.

Because of fear what chances did I not take for fear of the outcome?

Because of fear I regret more what I haven't done more than the things I've actually done.

It's not about creating a list of regrets, of fears.  Instead, it's the idea of what I won't do because of fear and how this insidious notion--fear--has reigned me in.  Influenced my decisions not to take chances, to close doors, so to speak.  

Because of fear.

How much time have I wasted? How many opportunities squandered?  How much power have I invested in fear instead of love?

My first job out of college

So, like, you know how you have these Big Dreams when you graduate college.  You think you can conquer the world with your Big Ideas and your Big Plans and then reality sets in way too quick.  Suddenly, you're in need of a deposit for an apartment and the fridge in said apartment is empty so you need money for food.  And gas.  And car insurance.  And beer.  And wine. When in need of money, get a JOB.

After we graduated college, Joseph and I had an agreement that the other would follow whoever between us got a job first.  In our case, Joseph got a job counseling middle schoolers at risk of failing (or dropping out, which is sad really when you think about it.  An eleven year old already to drop out of school, to give up.  At eleven.  But that's another story).  Joseph's brand spanking new counseling job was in Elkton, MD, which in the mid-1990s was podunk red neck town.  Just like the podunk red neck town of Winfield where I grew up.  At the time, I was very eager to leave that all behind. Maybe live in a place that didn't have so many large, jacked up four wheel drive trucks splattered with mud.  But there you go.  Here we are moving to Elkton, podunk, red neck town USA.

Armed with my Bachelors of Science degree in English with a minor in writing, I'm ready to take on the world.  The only job I manage to find is a temp job for $8.00 an hour at a bank in the consumer finance division.  You'll never guess what I did with my day at said consumer finance division of major corporate bank: I alphabetized documents.  Yes, you read that right, dear gentle reader, I alphabetized documents for about 6 hours a day.  Seriously.  I was actually told that because I had an English degree that I would be especially good at alphabetizing, that I would have a real grasp of that big ol' alphabet.

Being the enterprising, ambitious young woman that I am, I asked my manager for additional assignments because, you know, I feel that I can do more than just alphabetizing.  I am capable of so much more!  My manager liked my initiative and within months, I earned a permanent position within the department doing more, solving problems, doing things.  Important Things.  For example, one bright, sunny morning I walk into said corporate finance division of major corporate bank, and I'm told by my manager and his boss that the bank "misplaced" about one million dollars overnight, and would you be part of the team to find that million dollars please?

Um, sure, I guess.

Now, keep in mind that the bank didn't actually lose one million dollars the way you lose your left sock in the dryer.  All the transactions were electronic, so there was just a glitch in the software (or so they claimed) which once corrected, the money would be found. Viola.  I spent the day working with two others tracking down the missing money, fixing glitches, reassuring our clients that no, we didn't actually lose the money, we'll have it resolved by the next business day.  So much better than alphabetizing, right?

Wrong.  Here's the thing, dear gentle reader.  I hated that J.O.B.  Despised it.  It was so unimaginative.  So not creative.  I worked in a department of eight people.  One of those eight people was the manager.  Two others were supervisors. There was a rule about how many personal photographs I could have at my cubby desk.  (No more than two.)  There was a rule about how many sticky note reminders I could leave on my desk at the end of the day.  (No more than two.)  Although I didn't have to ask permission to use the bathroom, I did have to make a general announcement just in case someone else in our department was thinking the same thing and possibly risk having two people in the bathroom at the same time.   

So I hated this JOB as you can imagine.  On my drive home, typically twenty minutes or so, I would scream.  At the top of my lungs.  Scream like an ax murderer was chasing me.  I would cry.  As if my dog just died kind of cry.

Here's the thing, though.  I couldn't tell you why I reacted that way beyond a vague explanation that I didn't like my job.  I couldn't articulate that I found the job stifling, impossibly oppressive with all the rules about photographs and sticky notes, the micromanaging.  (Seriously. Was it necessary to have a manager and two supervisors for a department of eight.  Really?)  At the time, I could say none of this.  And that terrified me.  Being a writer, not being able to express myself was soul splintering.  I had published credits listed on my resume for God's sake, and all I was capable of doing at the end of the day was scream until my throat felt raw.  Then crawl in bed, hiding in shame.  Joseph was mystified.  I was stupefied into silence.  

Eventually, I left that JOB when Joseph got a teaching position at Catsonville HS and we moved back to central Maryland.  Despite the move and the change in jobs, the silence remained.  The writing silence, I mean.  Ten years later at a high school reunion, a former classmate, Carmella, asked me if I was living in a little farmhouse writing novels.  I was shocked by her question.  I had somehow forgotten that ambition.  That desire.  I wasn't even anywhere close to that.  Joseph and I lived in a suburban apartment.  I worked retail.  He was teaching.  I wrote in my journal periodically.  How quickly I let go of my Big Dreams. My Big Ideas. My Big Plans.  How sad.

Now, another ten years has slipped away.  Forty is on the horizon. It's strange how I can look at my reflection in the mirror and not know the woman staring back at me.  Oh, I recognize the features all right, but I don't know the woman.   I don't recognize who I allowed myself to become.  What do you do when you wake up and realize that your soul has a small, slow leak and that's why you feel like it's never quite filled up.