The Decades

I am 7:

What I remember: Not much except that times were tumultuous. I was forced to change schools between second and third grade because of redistricting. I was in an integrated school, and then, I wasn't. I'm sure the impact of that would have been felt seismic if my family wasn't imploding. My mom and dad separated between my seventh and eighth birthdays--as memory serves.

I am 17:

What I remember: My graduation from high school. It was a glorious time. Beyond the excitement of graduation was the elation of the next steps, being on the precipice of my future and freedom. Or so I thought. Long story short, my planned move to the dorm was cancelled, and I spent the next two years commuting to college and fighting to survive the onslaught of my brothers' antics and my mother's growing medical and mental anguish.

I'm 27:

What I remember: Kindergarten. My son had two orientations in two schools. The first orientation was rendered moot due to an argument his dad had with the landlord of our apartment building. We were evicted. Thankfully, another apartment, only a few blocks away, was available, so we moved in. Despite the second apartment being geographically closer to the first school, we were out of the district. Hence, the second orientation at the new school. My daughter was entering the parenthetical terrible twos. Twenty-seven was a blur.

I'm 37

What I remember: Upheavals. In the workplace, the CEO of the parent company died. Two years later, the executors sold the family of businesses, ending one era and beginning a new one (for me). On the home front, my marriage was crawling toward its eventual end. My 15-year-old son and my 12-year-old daughter had their eyes, hearts, and hopes trained on me for guidance.

I'm 47:

What I remember: Being in a relationship. My mind was falling in love with the idea (and the act) of falling in love. It was a long-distance affair, meaning it wasn't without its logistical challenges.

Dance Me To The End of Love

I'm 57:

What I remember: Nothing super specific; my mother died four years prior (my dad, five), and judging by my archives for the year, blogging was not a top priority. Between over-arching grief and focusing on the newish job in a new (to me) industry, I was putting one foot in front of the other and just moving right along.

One of the November posts from that year contained this quote:

"It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences."   -Audre Lorde

and creatives

I Didn't Want To Know Anything (More)

A couple of months ago, I decided to go out to lunch with one of my many cousins (Pam) from my father's side.  For context, we hadn't seen each other in several decades. Her mother and my father (both deceased) were siblings. My relationship with my father, his siblings, and their offspring suffered when my parents divorced when I was a kid.  There was, over the years, some effort to reunite the families, but mostly, they were all out of my life.  

Enter social media. Pam and I became friends in that realm. We exchanged phone numbers. We texted and IM'd every now and again.  She has tried to get me to meet face-to-face before this summer, but I always begged off, as we were, in my view, virtual strangers despite our ancestral heritage. 

Enter a death (Sqr), another cousin.  His sister (Dot) was in town for the memorial service.  Pam invited Dot and me out for an afternoon of reminiscing some days after the service (which I had missed).  I hesitated but eventually agreed.  On the day of, I discovered that Dot had begged off, so it was just Pam and me. 

      

 For context, we hadn't seen each other in several decades.  And while we are close in age, we have people and experiences in common, the second half of our childhoods and a large chunk of our adulthoods were spent in separate worlds.  Her memories and my memories did not align. 

She shared stories of her parents, our grandparents, and the epic family divide, most of which I had never heard or experienced.  It became clear that what she sought was someone to bear witness to the trauma and toxicity that permeated our separate but equally fraught-filled child and young adult lives.  

At the end of the afternoon, I told her I'd keep a good thought for her upcoming surgery (she'd shared a devastating medical diagnosis--I was the first cousin to know) and said our goodbyes, hugging it out.  

We haven't spoken since.  Enter social media.  Pam and I are still friends in that realm.  

Happy Autumn! 

Story in Drips and Dips

My daughter gifted me with a Hear Your Story book for Mother's Day.  I'm determined to complete the prompts and extra pages to expound, as one does, by her birthday (a milestone one) in five weeks.  My initial thought was that this was an easy assignment, which is why I didn't start right away. 

It has proven to be anything but.  

It wasn't long before I realized I hadn't said (a lot) out loud.  

Also, I realized that there were limbs of the family that are completely unknown to me and likely to remain so.   

Still, I'm happy to fill in these pages for her.  I hope she follows the nuggets to this space and perhaps whatever journals I still have on paper at the end, but she is not likely to do that.  It will be okay, she'll discover what may offer comfort, I trust.  

Me, Kindergarten

Happy September! 

hop skip jump

Amanda Gorman / The Hill We Climb

And just like that, it is July.  

The last several weeks since my previous post have been full on ...full. 

A few deaths, a few birthdays, a first international trip for my son, workplace goings on for him, me, and my daughter; in short, life. 

All that and then some, plus, well, you know, the dumpster fire that is this country. 

I am unable to report that I've worked on (or better yet, finished) the story of Janice*. 

I am unable to report any measurable improvement in Spanish.   

I am unable to report sketching consistency. 

On the flipside, I can report that I am still chug, chug, chugging along and still trying to tame my wild and woolly salt-and-pepper mane. 

Take gentle care, gentle folks.  

*Janice has been renamed Opal.  

And away we go.                                                           

Thoughts

*Photographs and memories 

Christmas cards you sent to me 

All that I have are these 

To remember you . . . 

May is my mother's birthday month.  Before my mother's death, the first part of May was always full of preparing Mother's Day celebrations and, of course, the impending birthday celebrations.  

Since then, the month is flooded with memories of times gone by.  

This year has had that same dynamic with one exception.  This year, I can't shake the sense of longing for the relationship I wish had developed between my father and me.   

He and I weren't close. We had made peace before his death.  

And since then, I've been able to... compartmentalize the mixed emotions.  

Or, so I thought. 

It feels weird to be weighed with memories of his presence (or lack thereof) while remembering my mom in the shadow of her 85th birthday. 

Photographs and memories...   

This song is about the longing for a loved one, a romantic partner.  It has always hit me differently, these last few weeks, more than ever.  

Photographs and memories 

Christmas cards you sent to me 

All that I have are these 

To remember you . . . 

Take very gentle care,  

*songwriter: Jim Croce

Happy Birthday

A cousin recently celebrated her 70th birthday.  Her three daughters hosted a grand party, with immediate family, extended family, and friends, from near and far were in attendance, lending to the festive vibe.    

There were games, food, music, dance, and lots of laughs.  

A joy-filled event.  

Love in action! 

A Story, Not (Yet)

 

Toni Morrison: Song of Solomon* 

Hello, 

I've been working on a story for the last few weeks, intending to craft it with tremendous care.  However, I seem unable to get out of the starting gate.  My mind wanders, my heart pounds, and my legs...let's not talk about the aches in my legs.  

Physical pain, mental and emotional anguish, I am in short, stuck.  Or rather, I feel askew. 

The story is about a woman who is on the brink of change.  She is excited, yet afraid; undecided about how or even IF to lean into the circumstances.  

My own lopsidedness is likely one reason I can't give voice to any definitive choice or action for Janice.  

Rest assured, I will work through my physical pain, find sustainable solutions for the anguish, and discover the crux of Janice's tale.  

In the meantime, let us have sketches; old and new.

Kindly, 

Middle Girl 

*you wanna fly you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.