Memory Speaks in Tongues

Identity Crisis

2011-10-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

"Nothing lasts.There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,now.I stood there once, on the green grace, scattering flowers."~ Mary Oliver, "Flare"

Identity Crisis

I am trying to comfort myselfwith Poetry
but not the way I used to create:
opening veins and
lettingpain make its mark.
I want the comfort of Poetry
without dying to it.
How do I live it?
What do Iopen if not a vein?
I wrote my whole life -now I come from a new directionand must re-learn my routes.
Different roads.
Will I arrive at the same place?
Whose tracks do I follow?

I am Goldilocks:
this page is too soft,
this too hard.
This porridge is too sweet,
this too sour.

Where can I accesswhat all poets
call forthand,

in the end,will it still
be calledPoetry?

*******************************
I have a day off. In olden days (like pre-May, 2010) I would go to cafes on my day off and write poem after poem about whatever horrible pain I was going through. I'd literally write four or five, maybe more, poems in one sitting. And boy, would I feel like a burden had been lifted. Sometimes, a few poems would end up being quite good and I'd submit them to this or that poetry journal. Last year was a rough one. I did things I never thought I'd do. I became a person I'd never thought I'd become. And in November of 2010, in the midst of family and personal tragedy, I found God. God raised me out of the muck and mire.But I hadn't written poetry since May of that year.

I thought about this. Was it a punishment for making very poor choices that hurt people? Did God take my words away?The more I learned about God, the more I realized that he wouldn't do that to me. What he MIGHT do is lead me away from the sort of poetry I used to write - which was written out of deep depression and despair - and lead me to a different kind of writing. Yes, that is what I think he did. Because as soon as I let him into my life, I began writing personal essay after personal essay, even getting published in the debut issue of Hippocampus Magazine - an online magazine of memoir/personal essay. It was my second personal essay to ever be published (the first was my first professional publication at the age of 18 in a Canadian journal, "Afterthoughts"). Post-November, 2010, I wrote obsessively in my new faith blog and connected with dozens of Christian mentors. I loved it.But I felt a sort of mourning for Poetry - I missed it so much. I missed the expression, I missed the releasing I felt, the burden lifted.

However, now I had found a new way of lifting my burdens. I no longer had to "open a vein," as I write in the above poem. I could express myself so much better in essays. But today I sit at a cafe. It has all the calling that my old poetry-writing-cafe-days had once upon a time. And I miss Poetry desperately. I brought poets with me: Mary Oliver (because she's able to write about nature and God so beautifully), Mary Karr ("Sinners, Welcome"), and the anthology, "Cries of the Spirit." I thought if I brought poetry that had a spiritual bent to it, I might be able to access my own better. But no dice. All I write is drivel. I don't like what comes out in poetry form these days.

So what do you suggest? I bet you'd say to write every day and read more poetry. And oh, I agree.But I must say, when? I work full-time, I am a full-time stepmother now and am struggling to juggle that with being a wife and my new-found responsibilities as a child of God. I can't find the time to sit down long enough to stare at my own navel. Is that what poetry is to me? Perhaps the old poetry I wrote. That was staring-at-my-navel-poetry. Granted, some of it was good. The North American Review thought so, as did countless other national and international journals. Various awards thought so. Friends and mentors thought so. The University of Wisconsin-Madison's Masters of Fine Arts in Poetry thought so as I walked on the stage to receive my diploma in 2005. And that was all for my navel-gazing poetry.

Oh, excuse me. I was a confessionalist. And now? What am I now????I don't think I'm a Christian writer. Not yet. And do I want to become that? Perhaps...but Poetry, oh, Poetry...I miss you, old friend. Why do I feel like I have to bleed for you to return?I refuse to go back to my old life. The struggles are still there, but I have a ground beneath me like I've never had before. Was my old poetry written out of desperation to find that ground? And now that I've found the ground, I don't know what to write?

What do I do, friends? Have YOU had a writing identity crisis? Please share. I feel like I've lost a piece of me.

I Love You More

2011-07-09T08:42:00.000-07:00

A long overdue post. This will be about memory and this will be about love, past love, love that transcends the "honeymoon" period, a love that grows into "married love."

This will be about a longing to be remembered by people in my life and the realization that I need to focus on my here-and-now, my everyday people, like my husband, Lee, and my stepkids.

About dreams - the nighttime ones that, for me, haunt me from when I wake up until nearly half my day is over because it pulls at my heartstrings and my vulnerabilities, that voice that tells me: they don't remember you. You didn't matter to them.

I need to name them. The men, the boys, the people I dream about who haunt me. I'm sure they don't even think about me anymore. How are they to know that a combination of a dream-affecting antidepressant and my need to be remembered pulls them into my subconscious?

I need to name them so they can leave my head. Leave the neurophysiology of my body.

In last night's dream, it was you, Jason Jay Siegel. So much packed in a short time, that was part of our story. And, in the end, it was my neediness and moods that scared you away. My fear of abandonment which I've always had since youth and which was amplified when my mother died. Jason, I wish you all the happiness in the world. I hope you have found the love of your life and bring her home to L.A. to visit with your family often. I hope you are teaching English somewhere and listening to classical music. We've already said goodbye, nearly four years ago, but I'm saying goodbye to you for myself now. To put that part of my life to rest.

Jake Corbet, so many unanswered things hang in the air like wires connecting one thing to the other, yet there is no connection any longer. I still worry about your health; I hope you have found what you need to have the best quality of life. I hope you have found love, but most of all, I hope you have found love for yourself. Goodbye to you, Jake. I put your memory in my head to rest now.

To go further back, I bring John Kaldis and Joel Ortiz and Andrew Schneider to mind. All great "loves" from elementary school and high school. You'd think as young as I was that I wouldn't have felt such strong feelings, but I was an intense child and teenager. I think they'd laugh if they knew how much their memories have stuck with me. I don't often pass their way during my day, but my dreams pull me to their doorstep so often that I sometimes get angry that I can't just let go.

But that is part of the pharmaceutical problem, you see. And I'd like to, right now, assure my amazing husband that THAT is the main reason these boys and men have been yanked to my dream time. It's the damn Cymbalta that I've been on since 2006, that awful year when Mom died. Who knew that a an antidepressant can affect your dreams SO much? Be so vivid, be so intense and dig down so deep into your subconscious?

So John, new with a son, and Joel, living it up in New Orleans, and Andy, also with a new son... I listen to the sound of the moving-on train. The horn sounds loudly and I've not wanted to listen to it until now. I thought if I just held your memory in my heart, if I just found a way to keep in touch, that I'd be remembered.

But now that I'm married, I've learned that he is the only man I need to think about, dream about. For I get to look into his eyes every day. He thinks about me every day, he remembers me every day. I am remembered. I am cherished. I will never fade from his view.

I shall use the Beatles' "In My Life" to go through this cleansing, this letting go.

There are places I'll remember

(Oh, Maine South Theatre Department, you have taken up residence in my dream-world ever since I graduated high school - before Cymbalta started its reign. Mr. Muszynski, you have been the ring master, appearing in my dreams the most often. I can still remember the smell of the stage, your voice calling out directions. As a young teen, I needed the attention you gave, feeling like a cypher at home, walking blindly through the start of severe depression and dangerous habits. This is a place I remember)

All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain

(And still, my depression took full force during high school, bringing friends to me in concern, pushing friends away in frustration. I regret that. I regret my neediness and manipulation. I have bad, guilty memories of sitting on the black marble bench and crying, sobbing, scars on my arms, people not knowing what to do. Hiding in the bathrooms and backstage dressing rooms. All that is gone now. I still have depression, but not that same kind. I pray that those who knew me in high school can believe that I am a different, better person today).

All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

(There is a time to remember and a time to let go. I recall my friends and "lovers" back then - Matt, Joel, Andy... how I hurt some, how some hurt me. Fast forward many years and there is Christopher who, in 2007, died of diabetes. There is Alex Bledsoe, keeper of three growing years of my life, witness to graduate school and falling down again and again. A relationship that wasn't always healthy, but it taught me a lot. And Stephen Vakil, who tried to understand me and my depths, but that, ultimately ended as well. But in my life... "I've loved them all." I use the word "love" in a different way, however... and I will explain that in fuller detail next).

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

This stanza belongs to Lee. Lee Auter, the man whose last name I share. There is NO ONE who compares with you, Lee. Even as I dream of others, due to some strange subconscious blip, you are the one I wake up to. The foggy dreams lose their meaning when I brush past the cobwebs and start my day, calling you at 7:30am to check in and say good morning to you at work while I drive my own self to work. I hope you can understand that "I'll never lose affection" for these aforementioned boys and men, and I may pause when I hear their name once in a while, but Lee, "in my life I love YOU more").

Lee, I love you more, I love the children more, I love our life more than every dream I ever dreamed of. Yes, I hold pain and regret and fear. But I am taking it to the cleaners, as they say. I'm letting go. I'm getting off of the Cymbalta, then getting off of all other psychiatric drugs and I will see what stability I have underneath these past 18 years of drug-induced living. I am quite sure that I am a better person.

“There are things that we never want to let go of, people we never want to leave behind. But keep in mind that letting go isn’t the end of the world, it’s the beginning of a new life.” – Unknown

Ars Blogetica

2011-02-27T08:53:00.000-08:00

Why do I have this insatiable need to share my near-every thought with you? You who are friends, some strangers. What is the psychology that goes into a blog writer? I'll attempt to look at what goes into this blog writer's psychosis/ology.

As a child, I was not heard. Hence, you find me self-injuring at fourteen. Self-injury is all about pent-up emotions spilling over the top. Not able to formulate feeling words or to express feelings. For a burgeoning writer, I did not know how to ask for help in a healthy way.

I started writing in a journal when I was eleven years old. I had dabbled in diaries, you know, the pretty ones with the fields of flowers on the cover and the lock and key. In first and second grade, I dotted my first diary with entries describing my overwhelming love for Gerald and how I did on my report cards.

But it was at the age of eleven, when I first read Anne Frank's journal, and my stepmother gave me a journal, that I decided to keep up with it. It's overwhelming to think on, but I have over 100 books filled with my thoughts and feelings: good and bad. And, sadly, I mostly wrote in the journal when I felt bad.

I've tried to return to these journals and re-read some, but it always leaves me in despair and longing to fix those days.

Fast-forward to 2004. I discover the blog. I'm living with my then-boyfriend, Alex, also a writer, and I start a blog named after my graduate school thesis title: "Romantic Circus Songs." It boggles my mind the stories that are kept on that blog, which ran from 2004 to 2010. Every mood change, so many life changes: break-ups, break-downs, job changes, marriage, stepkids, moving to our first house. It's all there, bare as bare can be.

Why didn't I mind being naked in my writing? I have one valid reason: especially when it comes to depression and things related to it, I was not ashamed and I wanted to share my experience so that others wouldn't feel as alone. Similarly, I wrote poetry that expressed my ennui and sought to befriend the afflicted.

But it was more than that. Soon, I began the habit of first writing a blog rather than going to my personal journal. It alarmed me, but I didn't think much of it. Thus, much of my more in-depth and juicy writing is in my blogs. My personal journal has lost some of its flair and first-time-thoughts.

Some people say that us bloggers are just conceited to think that others would want to read our thoughts and opinions. To that, I point you to the billions of blogs on the internet. More and more web sites are cropping up highlighting blogs as pieces of literature, as writing that has as much merit as a creative nonfiction piece published in a print journal. Why, the High Calling is highlighting my blog, The Dove Chronicles, as an "interesting" blog of note.

I see a future with me and blogging. I grow more confident in my prose-writing skills, which is a huge benchmark because I used to think I could only write in poetry. I feel words and sentences and cohesive thoughts being poured into me and I am so excited.

My church has picked up a column by me for our monthly newsletter. I regularly write blog posts on The Dove Chronicles. I'll be trying to write more on this blog, more memories, more hauntings.

Blogging is a wave of the future, I say. We've gone past conceit and joined the ranks of honest expression and a desire to share our thoughts with others in order to connect. It's all about connection.

And yet... as the writer sits behind the computer and reads replies to her blog post, is that distancing her from real people?

Oh, that's a whole other kettle of fish.

For now, blogging makes me happy.

Will it take the place of face-to-face conversation? I don't know. But my fingers are happy to move; my heart happy to share.

S-s-tut-t-ering

2011-02-26T13:37:00.000-08:00

I haven't seen the movie, "The King's Speech," yet, but I hear it's quite extraordinary. Everyone tells me, "oh, you stuttered? You must see this movie." As if I and the King of England were one being, sharing the same experience. I suppose they meant well. They wanted me to feel better about having such an affliction. Or having it when I was younger.

I once wrote an award-winning poem about my stuttering. I wrote it in 1998; it came to me through divine intervention. The poem is good and I was not that good of a poet in 1998. It has become my favorite poem of mine as well as my "signature" piece.

So in sixth grade I gave the longest two-minute report on
John F. Kennedy ever, stumbling over every consonant

dragging them like fingers across a radiator.
And at sixteen I boiled some hot water in my mother's kettle

and dipped my tongue in like a tea bag.
I took a breath, opened my mouth and watched the silent bird

escape into the repeating night.

My stuttering story is not my own, it involves my father as well. As a boy, he had a horrific stutter - much worse than mine ever was. His parents sent him to a "disability camp" - remember, this was in the 50s - and while he doesn't recall much about the camp, he remembers one counselor in particular who helped him the most. When he returned from camp, he was cured.

When I was ten I asked my father if I could go to that camp
but he said it wasn't there anymore.

In the Mediterranean, then? Surely they can cure this
in the Mediterranean, I said.
Anyone who can say that word surely can't stutter.

Dad always said that I "got it" from him, that it was hereditary. I don't know if it was. Mom said that she was always too busy to listen to me and so, at a young age, I developed a way of bursting out fractured sentences to get the most information to her.

Dad took me to his cousin, a speech therapist. I don't remember much about this, except her porch and a lot of white.

In grade school, I started speech therapy in the 3rd grade. The speech therapist was a good one, albeit a little strict. She left after one year and another one came in her place: a A beautiful long-haired brunette who challenged me in every way. She'd make me call up pizza joints on the telephone and order and then say to cancel the order, just so I could get used to speaking on the telephone. This TERRIFIED me and made me hate her for that day. Other days, she'd sit and listen while I'd droll on in tears about some boy who didn't like me or this or that. She bordered on a regular therapist at that point. I believe I stopped going to see her in 7th or 8th grade.

But I still stuttered.

I remember walking down the long hallway to the end room the first day of high school. I was walking to the speech therapist's office, to meet her for the first time. I had gotten involved with drama and, while, strangely, it affected me little there, I was still stammering and nervous and wanted to be rid of it. It's funny; I remember walking into the room; I remember how small it was, almost like a closet. I remember the woman not being very nice. And I remember deciding I wouldn't go back.

I had hard times with hard consonants. Butter. Can. Even soft consonants like L in Lisa. I couldn't say my name. Lisa was bad enough. Brodsky was enough to stop me cold in my tracks.

I learned how to talk around my stuttering. To avoid certain words and use other words in its place.

I still dread telling people my name, even talking at all.
Most don't notice it anymore; I've gotten good at hiding it:
the guttural swallowing I do just before I spit out the damaged sound,

the contorting I do in my throat, where no one can see...

I was in a box. I would've liked it to be soundproof so I wouldn't have to hear myself talk. And so I wouldn't have to hear the grade school taunts at my s-s-stuttering. I cried, I wailed, I holed myself up in my room.

I also talked very fast. Mom, again, attributed this to my wanting to get so much out so fast. She felt guilty.

Dad just got angry. I remember being over at his and my stepmother's house and saying almost anything and Dad would heave a sharp sigh and snap, "say it again but slower, Lisa. You've got to slow down!"

I felt helpless. I couldn't do anything right.

So...soon...I didn't do much talking at all. Oh, I had thousands of lines up on the stage and only ONCE did I have to ask the director to alter a line so I could say it better (that was when I was 15 and in "You Can't Take it With You"). He obliged.

Oddly, it got better as I grew older. I always had to struggle to introduce myself, to say certain words, but I found myself growing out of that box inch by inch. Little by little, I trusted my voice again.

I sang in high school and college choir and do you know that it is a proven fact that people with speech impediments do not stutter or stammer while they sing? It's true! Oh, how I sang.

So now it is today. The person I talk to the most is my husband and he says he doesn't notice my stuttering a lot, only once in a while and it's minor, at that. Perhaps I have grown into myself more, acquired more confidence. I can speak to a room of people now (not on stage). I can say my name.

That is the most important thing that I felt stripped of: my name.

my childhood name: Lisa Brodsky.
My 20-something name: Lisa Marie Brodsky.
My married name: Lisa Auter.

wishing I could be somewhere in the Mediterranean
with a myriad of birds perched on my arms, saying

"My name is Lisa. My name is Lisa. My name is Lisa" like a spoken song.

(all italicized text is from the poem, "Birds in the Mediterranean Speak Like Syrup" first published in "The North American Review" in 2001, copyright 2011 Lisa Marie Brodsky).

Searching for "Half in Love"

2011-02-02T12:23:00.000-08:00

Linda Gray Sexton, daughter of grand poetess, Anne Sexton, has a new book out. For those of you who live underground, Anne Sexton was a phenomenal poet who wrote "confessional" poems that had a great impact on me as a young poet - and even today. I found a woman who was writing her demons out and I certainly had demons. She was turning something as ugly as depression and suicidal feelings into poems - works of great beauty. I wanted to do that. Sylvia Plath is another confessional poet who killed herself, as Sexton eventually did.

But back to Linda Gray Sexton and her new book, "Half in Love: Surviving the Legacy of Suicide." She has a message board on her beautiful website and that excited me to no end. She wanted to talk about her new book and the writing process. She had just posted an introduction a few weeks ago and there was no one on the message board yet. I wrote to her with trembling fingers. Here was this wonderful poet and writer in her own right, opening the door on what most families of famous poets would keep closed.

Don't get me wrong; I don't want to pick Linda's brain on her mother. I've read the biography on Anne Sexton that Linda, herself, edited. I feel comfortable with how much I "know" her. I am interested, however, in Linda's life - she endured depression and suicidal tendencies as well. Thank God she never succeeded as her mother did.

I thought back to my early life as a writer. I had pictures of Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath on my desk in high school. My mother frowned upon this, saying I was raising them to be Goddesses in my mind. Death = good poetry and success. I heartily denied this, but looking at it years later, I do admit that I thought if I was depressed and lived through muck and mire, I would write great poetry.

This way of thinking is not limited to me. Many teenagers, especially, take this thought and run with it. Critics slam confessionalism, saying it is just "therapy" for the poet and of no literary value.

Do you know what I remember? I remember reading Sexton and Plath's poetry books, being pulled in by their honesty, candor, pain, willingness to place their demons on the page and wrestle with them right in front of you. I wanted to do that. I knew I had to do that or I would die.

I wonder how many depressed artists and writers are out there, really? I bet it's in the millions. I don't pretend to know why that is. Doctors have tried to figure it out; books have been written about it; all I know is that during those teen and early college years, I depended on women like Sexton and Plath to show me the way out of my darkness. I learned to turn something hideous into something beautiful. And I was proud of it.

Now that I'm older and my poetry has taken on a different form - still autobiographical, but not born solely out of pain - I see that my roots had to be sprouting from people like Plath and Sexton and other confessionalists who bared themselves on the page.

I know, too, that you don't have to kill yourself to be a worthy, good, successful writer. Did Linda Gray Sexton come to that realization as well? She must have because she is still here to write this book. And for that, I am mighty, mighty glad.

The Goodbye: God as Musical Director

2011-01-22T19:51:00.000-08:00

*originally published in "The Dove Chronicles," my faith-based blog.

Prelude: This post will be best enjoyed if you read, then listen to each clip (really listening to the lyrics) and then continue on reading until you come to the next musical clip, etc. I put these song clips in here for a reason because this is how I experienced them. I wish you to have a similar soaring experience.
************************************************************************************
I wish to share a night of intense loss and redeeming hope. Quite ironically, or, perhaps divinely, a series of songs by Casting Crowns' album, "Lifesong" is a perfect background for this night, for this drive to Lauren's house.

Let me first tell you of the miracle of my 7-year-old's empathy. She gave me a card that read, "I hope thte you fell batr." I hope you feel better. Wasn't that what Jesus and his disciples were saying (I'm paraphrasing and imagining)? My brother, my sister, I hope that you feel better. Listen to the Word of God.

I took her card with me and started my thirty-minute drive to Lauren's apartment. I turned on Casting Crowns' "Lifesong" and listened to the first track. It made me feel determined and hopeful.

So may the words I say
And the things I do
Make my lifesong sing
Bring a smile to You

It was a drive through dusk, the sun just beginning to grow weary of holding itself up. I could feel its apologies to me for providing the darkness I would later be enveloped in. Track two came on, "Praise You Through this Storm" and I got a pang in my chest. This was a painful song that transformed me into the song's narrator:

I was sure by now, God,
that You would have reached down
and wiped our tears away,
stepped in and saved the day.
But once again, I say amen
and it's still raining

as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain,
"I'm with you"
and as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise
the God who gives and takes away.

Chorus:
And I'll praise you in this storm
and I will lift my hands
for You are who You are
no matter where I am
and every tear I've cried
You hold in your hand
You never left my side
and though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm

I remember when I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry to You
and raised me up again
my strength is almost gone how can I carry on
if I can't find You
and as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
and as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise
the God who gives and takes away

Chorus

I lift my eyes onto the hills
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth
I lift my eyes onto the hills
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth

I sobbed and cried. I felt the loss. I recognized the desperate feeling from when Mom died. I tried to tell myself that Lauren wasn't dying; I would see her again, but my cellular memory knew this pain too well to listen to reason. I let myself cry while trying to safely drive.

Lauren and I met in January of 2001 at a support group. For what, it does not matter. The facilitator introduced us to each other, specifically, because she knew we were both writers. And sure enough, we bonded over writing. Therapy and writing. We both got jobs at an indie psychology bookstore and frequented the nearby Starbucks and Thai restaurant - both places where we gave each other prompts to write about. We'd have tea at the Thai place and tiny cucumber salads which were spicy and sweet.

That November, Lauren and I had grown close enough to decide to move to Madison together. It was in a different state, away from family. We had become each other's family, though - fast and furious - and we loved it. We were two peas in a nicely decorated pod. We went to open mic's together. I would sing a song (we preferred Tori Amos) and she'd do a "sign language dance" to it. Only she could make sign language into a dance. She got into home health care as a job and I worked at the local, hip, indie bookstore - the literary hub of the town.

I found that I leaned on Lauren to be many roles in my life. Sometimes my parent or my impetuous daughter who brought out the fun in me. Other times she'd be my conscious - warning me I was falling in love with someone too fast.

Soon into that time period, she met her husband-to-be. After I let my fingernails release her arm and my jealousy subsided, the three of us became good friends. Then the time came for Lauren and her love to move in together and I moved in with my then-boyfriend. I entered graduate school, Lauren and her man got married. All through that, though, Lauren and I remained the closest of confidants. I broke up with then-boyfriend and she supported me as only a true sister could.

I never knew the meaning of "best friend" until November 6th, 2006, when, at 1:30am, I called her sobbing, telling her Mom had died. She said she was on her way to me - a forty-minute ride, pregnant belly and all.

Learning to live without my mother, it was tempting to project that neediness onto Lauren and seek my mothering out from her, but she had healthy enough boundaries to prevent this. I was needy, though, and she provided me with great love and comfort.

When her daughter, A.B., was born, she called her my niece. I was so proud of that title. Here was this beautiful baby that I would get to watch grow up. I beamed at that knowledge.

A few years passed, Lauren lived with husband and baby in a nearby town. I met and married my beloved husband, inheriting three children, and suddenly, we both had families and less time to hang out on Saturday nights and watch "thirtysomething," for example.

This time of separating from each other, like two egg yokes separating into two distinct yellow blobs (not saying we were blobs) happened almost without me knowing. Lauren began to have trouble with her marriage and yet she was pregnant again. I had my own issues with being a new wife and stepmother. We stayed in touch, but roughly.

I began to feel her loss. She retreated to her own anxiety. She had so much to deal with. A failing marriage and a newborn: A.S. A beautiful baby girl, my second niece. Sadly, Lauren's husband walked out on them. He had turned into an unrecognizable man from when I knew him well.

Poor Lauren spiraled into anxiety and burdens beyond her capabilities. She had a household and her young kids to support, plus hold it together for them while her heart shattered. The decision to move to Texas with her girls was not an unexpected one, but it did punch me in the stomach when I thought about it selfishly. My Lauren, states away when she was always just right there.

I cried and cried, but I think it was over our initial friendship and closeness. The fact was, we had been living our own lives for a few years now. I made myself see the reality: Lauren would be going to a place where family could take care of her and her family. She would go back to school and all that was the best decision for her and her newly arranged family.

Still, now and then, I think selfishly. Lauren is a fixture I just always depended on, like a beautiful chandelier in my dining room that was always lit. I never thought the room would go dim.

The car ride seemed to take forever. Beautiful music played. Casting Crowns' "Prodigal" made me feel especially vulnerable. Read lyrics here and then listen to it. I always thought it interesting that the term "Daddy" would be used for God.

Help me get through the next few minutes...
that's just about as far ahead as I can look...

And just as I was crying out to God, as in the song, to "Daddy," I neared Lauren's home. The song, "And Now My Lifesong Sings" came on and I listened to the whole of it before I went inside.

I tried to soak my tears into my sleeve as I remembered the Bible verse from "To Praise You Through this Storm:"

I lift my eyes onto the hills
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth
Psalm 121: 1-2

I went inside and stayed for around two hours while she finished up packing. Friends came and picked up their cats, Francis and Sophia. Three-year-old A.B. cried with such heartache, "I want my Francis" as he was carried out the door (the process was much more well-planned and nurturing than I am writing here). My heart broke as I held A.S. in my arms. This niece who I wouldn't see grow up day by day or week by week. Soon after, I cried again as I told Lauren that I had to say my goodbye. We went into the hallway and hugged.

"I can't do this," I sobbed into her shoulder, my knees buckling.

"Yes, you can," she whispered and hugged me tight.

We clutched onto each other until I tore away, feeling too intense a pain to fully feel in public. I said I just had to go and left, sputtering tears all the way to my car. Once inside, all I felt was every loss I ever experienced. I yearned for my parents, I yearned for Lauren, for her constant constantness, her familiarity, the language that only she and I spoke. I felt the beginning of a meltdown; pieces of my heart started to scatter, pieces of my sanity began to sink.

I turned on the radio and prayed to God to give me a song. Never doubt your prayers, your raw aching calls. This is what I got:

"He Will Carry Me" by Mark Schultz

I took great comfort in that song. I'd loved it already, but it took on new meaning. I drove to a remote spot down the block and parked. I let go of my pain and felt God's arms encircle me and take me up. The song and His embrace reassured me I would be okay. If I doubted, God (as interventional D.J.) played this next:

"Voice of Truth" by Casting Crowns

I drove home listening to any quiet voices in my mind. His echoed the song's: Do not be afraid.

I arrived home much faster, it seemed, than it took to drive in the other direction. My husband was there to hold and comfort me. And I needed him and was grateful he was there for me.
But as we prayed that night, I thanked God, especially, for coming to me in song. In the poetry of lyrics.

I knew I would be okay as long as I kept my faith, as long as I knew who the ultimate best friend was: He who calms fears and eases burdens.

For my yoke is easy and my burden is light
Matthew 11:30

Goodbye for now, Lauren. I love you endlessly and infinitely. I will see you soon. When next I see you, you better have a tan.

I'm a Twit and Networking Musings

2011-01-19T09:54:00.000-08:00

Now... I twit, I tweet, I tweetly tweet, I fly...

sing to "The Sound of Music" line, "The sun...has gone... to bed and so must I..."

I'll find out how to get a tweeter widget, but until then, I'll be twittering at

http://twitter.com/#!/PrettyInkstain

I know I don't need any more blogs and social networking, but maybe I do.

I love to connect. I haven't always been that way.

In day camp during the ages of 8 through 12, I made few friends my age; instead, I befriended the counselors. Oh yes, you could have called me Teacher's Pet. Teachers loved me. I sat in the back and made no noise, no problem. Mom had to tell each teacher to "not forget me."

Me? Easily unforgettable? Maybe in classes at elementary school. Maybe at day camp. But perhaps day camp was where I blossomed.

1988: The Lisa Brodsky show -- I'm in 5 out of 9 acts. I dance, I sing, I play flute, I read a monologue. People start to tire of watching me. Some think I'm eternally cute and bold, constantly going up on stage.

I sing "The Wind Beneath My Wings" and a fly hovers around my left eye the entire time. I pretend it's not there. I do a good job.

As I grow older, I start to make more impressions. I get involved in theatre. People approach me and say, "you did very well." They hand me carnations after plays. I develop and ego and a passion.

I enter my early 20s and I decide to start a blog. I'm in graduate school for poetry and I name the blog after my graduate thesis, "Romantic Circus Songs." I write in it from 2004-2010. I bleed into it. I fall into it. I share my every vein and eyelash. I don't know NOT to. I just share. I become a share-er.

2010 I'm married with three stepchildren. Ex-wife tracts down suspicious blog entries and shows them to the court. Luckily, she has no leg to stand on, but I begin to worry about how much I'm "out there."

I come here. Start writing childhood memories. Memories start coming, speaking in tongues. I write it all down. I need to write something down.

2010-11 I find God. I start a new blog.

I close "Romantic Circus Songs." If you are interested in my six years of drama, tell me and I'll let you in on the few "invited" readers that remain.

Today I decided to start on Twitter. I was talking with my new friend, E.Victoria Flynn who is a constant Twit (Twitter-er?) - I mean, she isn't a TWIT in that she is a fool, but she tweets often and is versed in the secret language and tricks of Tweetdom.

A new dawn emerges.

Driving with Gramma

2011-01-03T06:23:00.000-08:00

When I was age three through seven or so, Gramma drove me to my morning destinations. At first, I went to my mom's best friend and babysitter's house. Her name was Audrey and she was petite and red-haired, stern but loving. But this entry isn't about Audrey. This is about Gramma and those car rides.

The above picture depicts an older woman driving in terror, but I assure you that Gramma was a good driver. At age five, I remember her picking me up from Mom's house (Mom was a working mother) and taking me to Audrey's. Once I became school-aged, Gramma drove me to Solomon School, where she worked as secretary.

What I remember most was the music during those car rides. She'd play a blend of NPR (not that I knew what NPR was at that time) and classical music. I called the classical music, "pretty music," and could consequently ask Mom to turn my radio on the "pretty music" channel to put me to sleep. Because I did fall asleep in Gramma's car on the way to Audrey's car or to school.

So we cheated a little on the school part. I wasn't in Solomon's district. We used a fake address. We just wanted me to go there because Gramma worked there. It was a great school - very diverse in the early 80s (unlike the school I would transfer to when I moved at the age of seven).

I remember dozing. I think I perfected the art of dozing in Grandma's little, brown Toyota Corolla (was it a Corolla?) as we rode the 15 minutes to a half hour ride to Solomon. I dozed to pianos and strings; I dozed to Ronald Regan talking, to so-and-so, the hottest commentator of the 80s, and to Gramma's breathing. She breathed loud, probably as a result of her years of smoking.

We didn't really talk. The car ride was, in my young mind, an opportunity for me to get more sleep. I don't know what my Gramma thought. Let me tell you, being awoken at 7:45am and ushered out of the car to go to school was not my idea of a good time.

But I loved my Gramma (she called me her "dolly") and her car smelled like her: Oil of Olay combined with cigarette smoke and the car was warm in winter and cool in summer.

To this day, it is rather easy for me to fall sleep in cars, but never have I felt more safe than in the car with my Gramma.

Gramma, cousin Brady, and me (around seven)

What Softens You?

2010-12-19T10:08:00.000-08:00

Last night I had a beautiful night of writing (I write a Christian blog as well which I don't advertise as much - if you want that address, email me or post a comment and I will give it to you) as I sat on my comfy couch and the soft lighting of the lamp overhead. I felt tender and soft. I love feeling that way. Safe, protected by my own self. So I ask, what makes you soften?

I'll start.

Mood lighting. In our new house, we have cathedral ceilings and from them hang lamps with beautiful hoods that, when lit, cast hazy rainbows on the walls and ceiling.

Fire in the fireplace. This is a recent luxury, courtesy of our new house. We had a fireplace in our old, rented house, but never used it, mostly out of fear. But we have used it in our new house and it is quite lovely. The warmth it emits is an experience unto itself.

Good music Lately, I've been listening to empowering and life-affirming Christian music...but before that, I listened to a lot of Neko Case, Mumford & Sons, and Florence and the Machine.
Lyrics that make you dizzy with meaning, melodies and harmonies that haunt you.

Poetry. I have to get back to reading books of poetry; I've fallen away from it. I love reading Olena Kalytiak Davis, Sharon Olds, Linda Pastan, Sylvia Plath, Amy Gerstler, Alison Townsend, Jesse Lee Kercheval, Beth Ann Fennelly, Jan Heller Levi, Beckian Fritz Goldberg...I could go on and, yes, they are mostly women for me. That's' just how I roll. Now reading poetry WITH lighting which makes rainbows WHILE listening to haunting music - that's the best!

My prayer shawl. No, this is not some Jewish thing (though I am a 3/4 Jewish), but rather a beautiful, plum crocheted shawl that a friend and her prayer group made for me when I moved here. I feel safe wrapped in all those womens' prayers and good thoughts.

Tea. Oh, give me any type of tea. Twinings: that stodgy yet wonderful, caffeinated taste of Brit culture. Tazo Tea: that funky tea with yummy teas like my favorite, Passion. Or Stash teas: tea that just gets the job done. Or - my favorite if I want herbal - Yogi Tea which is more Eastern and new agey than Tazo... my favorite being Women's Energy Tea

slight digression: in high school, when I met my sister soul mate, Anne, and we became kindred spirits and wrote notes back and forth to each other during classes, she introduced me to the then-called Women's NRG tea (get it?) and when finals hit, we'd drink that tea every morning before tests. We swore our good scores by that tea. Bless Anne and that tea.

Let's see... what else softens me? Oh, how could I forget! My cat!

Callie. She lies on my lap at the most inopportune and opportune times. I can't fault her for it; she is so gracefully beautiful and snuggly. She warms me up and brightens up my whole life. She likes to jump onto the desk when I am on the computer and walk in front of the screen. I think other cats are in cahoots with her because I hear this is a common thing. Does your cat do this?

And lastly, what softens me most, is my husband's love.

He sets me free and softens me all at the same time.

May you be reading this on a comfy couch, with good lighting, a cat on your lap (if you're not allergic), drinking good tea, listening to good music, wrapped in a favorite shawl or blanket...

heaven!

Driving Through Holidaze

2010-12-11T14:03:00.000-08:00

Maybe because it's close to the holidays. Am I thinking of her in a Christmas way back when she would listen to "Hard Candy Christmas" and cry over her loneliness?

Oh, remember that year when I was five or so, when I heard the distant music from my upstairs bedroom? I padded down the stairs, late at night, stepping toward the colors lighting up the living room, toward the distant music, to what I thought was Mom...and when I poked my head around the corner, I saw her back to me, shaking a little, a sound of sadness escaping her mouth. I padded back upstairs unseen, felt a sort of sadness I couldn't define and went back to sleep.

I think, now, what if I had an older, wiser heart and I went up to her and gave her a hug? What if I said I was sorry she was lonely, but that she wasn't really alone? I would say,

"Mom, you have me. I love you endlessly and our love will only grow and bloom from here for the next twenty-three years until you die and even after that, Mommy, I will come to love you in a whole new, evolved way. And Mommy, you will be in Heaven and not ever feel loneliness or pain, only love and, Mommy, may you know, truly, how much you have been loved by me and all kinds of people and guess what, Mom? Every Christmas you listened to that song and wistfully cried, God was with you, loving you."

Had I only known what to say that to her. Instead, I remember our epic battles in my fifth year - I was so angry at her for always going on dates with John and leaving me with an alcoholic grandma (Sorry, Gramma; I know you loved me). I felt abandoned. Was this when it all started? I don't know, but I felt left behind.

Maybe because it's close to the holidays, but I'm thinking of her constantly, like she was a road sign that appears repeatedly as I drive my now-country roads.

The first Christmas without her, her best friend told me that Mom never liked Christmas. It had to do with expectations, but I remember she always made my Christmas special. Parties, presents, a sense of magic, lugging me to church for the midnight mass Christmas service.

For years after her passing, both Thanksgiving and Christmas would stop me dead in my tracks. I didn't want to go on. But this year, there are signs on my road. They say to keep going, even though the terrain might be rough and while I will, no doubt, emotionally reach out for her, she is with me. Just look for the signs. Keep driving.

Tradition: Holiday Party

2010-11-27T16:21:00.000-08:00

It's not exactly Christmas yet, but I am inspired to write about my memories of it because we put up our tree today. This ornament is one my mother made. The baby picture is of me.

From third grade to my second year in college I had great big Christmas tree-trimming parties. It was a little house to have a big party in: a boxy house with a huge picture window in the front that let the whole world know what we were up to.

My mother loved this traditional party of mine. It meant that she didn't have to do any work of hanging up lights or ornaments. She'd happily sit in the kitchen and read a magazine while listening to the laughter and merry in the other room.

One year, probably around 5th grade, we made a gingerbread house from scratch. Well, scratch meaning graham crackers and icing. That party had only four or five guests, much like the first few parties.

As time went by, the number of guests increased until, the last two years or so, I bravely combined my high school friends with my new college friends. It was a nerve-wracking experience. Would they get along? Would the new people feel comfortable?

Luckily, a lot of bonding can occur while stringing cranberry and popcorn. Or putting the toy train together that ran around the tree. Yes, we had a train racing around the tree. Joe P. and Jenny C. named it "Little Booger." Don't ask me why. It's for one of those hysterical in-the-moment reasons I can't grasp today.

I loved my Christmas parties. I loved having tall friends (thanks, J.R.!) that could put the angel on top of the tree with no problem.

Then there was the music. In the beginning, we listened to the Cabbage Patch Kids' Christmas RECORD album religiously. Then we branched out to...Smurfs, I believe. Finally, we settled on the Carpenter's Christmas album which was played every year post-Cabbage Patch Kids. And we can't forget the best Jewish woman's Christmas religious ablum: Barbra Streisand's Christmas album. She could sing "Jingle Bells" like no other.

And the food: homemade Christmas cookies like fudge bars, toffee bars, rocky road, among others. Fruity punch. Yum.

It was an exciting year when I realized people were counting on my party to occur. I didn't have it one year and there was an outcry. I did feel pretty special.

What a wonderful memory those parties are. I'll forget the few trite times when cliques occurred and people separated themselves into groups (this happened in our middle years) and gossip abounded.

I won't get into that.

I'll remember the cranberries, the ornaments glistening beneath the lights, Suzanne bringing me a new ornament every year.

Peace and joy everlasting.
---
Note: in trying to find the Cabbage Patch Christmas album on youtube and failing, I found the other CPK album..... all with songs I TOTALLY remember now! I'll do a post about CPK's next. :)

Oolong Tea

2010-03-23T08:24:00.000-07:00

It's said oddly, with a lot of long o's -- oolong tea. Though it's Japanese tea, it reminds me most of Andy and back then I didn't drink tea like I do now - and Andy loved Oolong. I thought him quite foreign and sophisticated for such a thing. He read "The Hobbit" to me over the phone in our courting days - him 14, me 16 - imagine that! Me two years older and finding delight in a 14 year old's narcissism. His voice like a radio voice, I'd lay in bed and listen to "The Hobbit"... not follow it, exactly, but just listen to the cadence of Andy's voice and to know he was performing for me.

Well, it turns out Andy performed a lot. He escorted girls around the drama department hallways - first me, only me, and people oogled us, but I liked this 19th century gesture. Until he did it for other girls. And then I contracted Mono and he didn't want to visit me on my birthday.

Our breakup was anti-climactic, my first taste of not liking how a boy treated me. He was a teacher, so young in years, such fine hair and baby skin. Maybe he gave me my love of tea, every kind, stashed in my cupboard for later use.

Meet Sheila

2007-11-06T05:45:00.000-08:00

This picture was taken Xmas of 2005, a month before my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. Isn't she beautiful? She was of a petite frame and had coarse red-brown-blonde hair, the blonde only from being out in the sun so long. She loved gardening. She loved to decorate her dream house - the log home you see there, the home she and my step-father, John, built. She loved coffee in the morning.

When I was younger and we had our old cat, Puss, the cat used to lay down on the crossword puzzle clues so John could not see. Mom thought that was the funniest thing. Mom loved Thanksgiving more than any other holiday. She loved to invite people she knew did not have a place to go. I'd bring home stragglers from school and she loved it. She was a very family-orientated person. She loved her two brothers fiercely and she loved her nephews incredibly and she loved her daughter - mightily.

Mom always wanted to give me a good childhood. She always worried that I did not have a happy childhood. While that is true in some respects, it is untrue in other respects. I never lacked anything physical. I had food, clothes, shelter, love. Sometimes I lacked attention, and that would plague me in years to come, but that is neither here nor there.
I was always frustrated with Mom because she "let go" of the little things so easily. Our old neighbor used to take advantage of her friendship and I'd say, "Mom, tell her you're mad at her!" And Mom would say, "Why? It won't do anything. I'll just let it go."

Back then, I thought Mom was weak and spineless. Now I know that took more bravery than anything. To let go of that which you knew you could do nothing about. I'm learning that lesson right now in my life. Thanks to Mom.

Mom was raped when she was 27 (I was 3). My father says that when she called him at work, she said, "I want their balls!" She wanted justice. Sure, she had her fearful, depressed times, but she wanted them caught! And with her help, they were. And because of that rape, my mother met her soul mate: John, my future step-father. He was the police detective assigned to her case (my parents had divorced shortly before the rape).

When I was a pre-teen, Mom taught me the golden rule: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." She highly believed in that.
She also had a little plaque on her dresser that read,

After a while you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning,
that kisses aren't contracts, and presents aren't promises.
And you begin to accept defeats
with your head up and your eyes open.
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.
So you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul,
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you can endure,
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth
and that with every tomorrow
comes the dawn.

I have that plaque now. It's titled "A Few Words of Caring" and it sits on my desk. I made copies of the poem and sent it around to people at the wake. That's what she said to me: "with the grace of a woman, Lisa, not the grief of a child."

She wanted, maybe more than anything in the world, for me to let go of my childhood grievances. She wanted me to live in the present and enjoy my life. When "Simple Abundance" was published in 1995, Mom read it enthusiastically. I was 16, I believe, and she wanted me to read it. But all I thought, was "it's goody-goody-two-shoes-stuff, Mom, blech!"

Little did I know that I would be learning about gratitude a little more than ten years later in a big, big way. And Mom first taught me about gratitude. Abraham-Hicks is all about gratitude. But Mom was my first teacher.

Mom was also my first friend. I have a note she saved which says, "Mom did you know that you were my first friend?" I wrote it on my Victorian stationary sometime in high school. She thought to save it. And we were friends. She was my best friend. In junior high and high school, at 11:00pm I'd jump in bed with her and we'd inevitably have our "11:00 Psychology Talks" where I'd ask her, "Mom, why am I like this? Will I ever get better?" and she would explain to me where my traits came from. We had some very intense discussions, but she never made it sound like anything was wrong with me.... just that I had struggles.
Sheila read "Country Living," "Midwestern Living" and a host of other magazines. She loved inspirational stories, she loved Hallmark movies. Well, we both did. We loved to watch them together and cry together. Or rather, I remember watching a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie once and I was upstairs and she was downstairs for some reason and on commercials, I'd go downstairs and we'd cry together. Then, for some reason, when the show came back on, I'd go back upstairs.

John taught her how to shoot a gun. There's a great picture of her out in the country with a gun in her jeans pocket. She looks like a warrior, all right.

My mother was the strongest woman I have ever known. Writing all this out has brought me some peace on this morning. I haven't hardly slept all night, but I'm not tired. I wanted to write about her. I wanted to tell the world how wonderful she was. It is my honor to carry out her legacy of love and gratitude.

Mom, I love you. You are my best friend.

Where Is The World

2007-04-06T09:48:00.000-07:00

The tragedy in America - that is what they called it. I was barely listening as I sat in the crimson, cushioned seat of the train making its way across the midlands of Ireland. I was taking in the green: shamrock green, mulch green, grass green, stormy green. I was thinking about the man I left in Dublin, how our lives could not connect across the ocean to form a love we could call our own. I was swept up with emotion as I heard the men across from me mumble, “The American tragedy,” and hover over someone’s laptop computer. The train car was silent except for murmurings which I ignored. The train passed Tullamore, Athlone, Athenry, and finally stopped in Galway. I stepped out of the massive stone building to find a bustle of activity. This was the first time I was abroad on my own and while I was nervous, I was determined to do this alone. I found a taxi and stepped in.

“Where to, young miss?” the lilting Western Irish accent asked.

“Oranmore, please,” I said, softly, as to lessen my brash American inflection.

He looked at me for a moment and said, “You’re from the States, then? You might want to listen to this.” And he turned up the radio:

"Today we’ve had a national tragedy,” I recognized President Bush’s voice. “Two airplanes have crashed into the World Trade Center in an apparent terrorist attack on our country.”

I could hardly breathe. What was happening? Was this the “American tragedy” those men were talking about? Should I have talked to them? We listened to the radio announcer’s lilting but grave voice narrate the happenings in New York and Washington as we left Galway, entering suburbia, where my aunt lived. We drove to the hotel she managed. They’d have a television; I could learn more then, I thought. Yes. It would be all right. I wouldn’t be left out of the loop. I could still be connected to my homeland. Everything would be alright. I was alright. I was safe. My family was safe, no where near Washington or New York. But did they hit Chicago? My god, I thought, my family is in Chicago; my mother walks down State Street to go to work; did they hit Chicago? My breathing became shallow as I fumbled for pounds to pay the driver. He took my hand and said, “Bless you, child,” smiling faintly, his forehead wrinkles like lines on a first grader’s practice-handwriting paper, his large blue eyes looking up at me from under his dark-brimmed hat.

I walked into the ornately decorated hotel lobby. I told the receptionist I was looking for Shelagh and she said to wait on the paisley sofa while she went to find her. I thought about the Troubles in Northern Ireland. They had terrorists, bombs; what did they do? Somehow they managed to live day-to-day.

I stood up and began crying as I saw my aunt walk into the room. She took me in her arms and smoothed my hair out of my face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she cooed in my ear. “I’ll get you something to eat and you can watch the television, alright?”

I sat down with a ham sandwich and salad which I barely touched. I watched the television, seeing the first sights of what would later become known as “9/11.”

At the house, we watched CNN constantly. Men I didn’t know were speaking in a language I’d never heard: Terrorists? Bombs? On Friday, the Day of Mourning, all of Galway’s pubs and shops were closed and when the pubs are closed, you know something important has happened.

During my days in Galway, I walked along the streets with the musicians, puppeteers and sketch artists. I stepped into a sweater shop and said hello to the woman, a large-bellied grandmother with an intricate weave to her sweater. She rushed over to me and held me to her breast. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” she said into my hair. I wasn’t surprised; this was the reaction I got all over Galway. This parental care. Acting as if someone I knew had been killed. Perhaps because they also knew such trauma. “It’s such a travesty,” she said. I leaned into her hold, into her rolling ‘r,’ her rose perfume. I didn’t want to be back there, on smoking ground, in flaming skies; I wanted to stay right where I was: among mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers who took me in their arms and absorbed the shock, the hairsplitting silence of when I first found out. None of my family or friends was directly affected, but you’d think these people thought I’d lost both parents. The woman and I talked a bit, smiled a bit; she wished me well as I walked out onto the cobblestone street. I walked into the Quays Pub, my favorite pub in all of Ireland.

It used to be a church and was immaculately laid out in wood and glass. Built-in bookshelves upstairs, tables that seemed like a giant’s stall. I sat there writing furiously.
Those days were a blur. I would go from pub to pub, watching CNN and seeing the same grisly shots over and over again, listening to anchor Carol Lin say, “This just in. You are looking at… obviously a very disturbing live shot there—that is the World Trade Center, and we have unconfirmed reports this morning that a plane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center” over and over. President Bush on camera surrounded by nickel-eyed children and teachers: “Today we’ve had a national tragedy...” I was naïve, politically dumb. Who would want to hurt us so badly? I suddenly wanted my mother. In one pub, I looked up at the television as one 10 year old, who had been in a day care center the morning of the disaster, said, “Where is the world?”

Later that week, I went on a car trip with a friend of Shelagh’s. We traveled through Connemara - that rocky landscape with granite that looked like marble - Lahinch, Doolin. I managed to forget the fire and death for moments at a time while I stood at the Cliffs of Moher: majestic shoulders rising out of the Atlantic Ocean, seapinks on the cliff side. A Celtic harpist played “Song for Ireland” on the steps bringing us up to the observation dome. My friend and I sat in the grass and listened to her. I laid my head on my jacket, closed my eyes, and felt infinitely at peace.

The trip back to Oranmore and Galway was quiet. I didn’t want to go back to the television, to the radio, to the mourning country I had left behind. I wanted to stay in Ireland. I knew Ireland’s land and people now. Couldn’t I become a milkmaid? A quiet check-out girl hiding her American accent at the little convenient store? No, Ireland had its own problems. I couldn’t ignore that. It seemed the whole world was exploding. The 10-year-old was right. No, I couldn’t hide who I was. I was an American and I would be coming home to an entirely different America. It would take some time getting used to the fear, the paranoia, the grief.
When my flight touched down and I walked into O’Hare Airport, I noticed a profound difference, and not just in security. People talked to each other. They talked in a quiet, respectful way the way people who have lost a family member do. I took a bus home to Madison and yellow ribbons hugged every tree. American flags hung like Christmas ornaments on everyone’s front porch. I had never seen such red, white, and blue. Where was the world? That 10-year-old…standing in front of the blackboard… I would have to get to know this America like a new step-sibling.

**************************
copyright LMB 2007

Candles

2007-03-20T13:29:00.001-07:00

When I got off the phone with my step-father, his voice hoarse and scared, when I let the fact of my mother’s death settle on the first layer of my brain, I instinctively lit all the candles in the room.

I didn’t cry. I breathed shallowly and shakily struck a match and lit the first candle. A bit more frantically, I lit the candles surrounding her picture. Have some light, Mom. Have all the light I can give.

Suddenly, before the tears, before the full realization of an appendage cut off, lost to the tides, my room flickered with all the light I could conjure up. Perhaps I wanted to see her; light reveals faces which were previously hidden. No, I wanted to light her way; whatever road she was on I wanted her to see her way. Did I want to hold onto her so much that I kept the road back to the living lit? No, I loved her more than that. I knew, in the well of my subconscious, that I would have to let her go, let her walk her own path to the Otherworld.

So the real reason why I lit those candles was to treat her like the Goddess she was. A tea light on each side of her, leading her to the Light. But as the tears began to show up like rushed party guests, I said Mom, Mommy, just don’t forget me in the dark.

Memory Poem

2007-03-01T19:54:00.001-08:00

Heathens

Mom and I both got baptized
at the same time. I was a pre-teen,
she in her late 30’s.
We didn’t believe in Christ,
just community so desperately
wanting sanctuary, to get out of
our lonely house.
Somehow the old church ladies
could save our souls
with their pies and casseroles.
Never mind God, who didn’t
figure much into it at first.

Mom wanted kids for me
to play with, she wanted
substitute mothers for herself
and so I went to youth group
on Wednesdays
and she idolized Pastor Jim who
came over on Saturday nights
to give Mom bible lessons – for she
did yearn to believe and understand.
What she didn’t know was that
I came to hate Wednesdays

when the other kids would run
after me, spitting out staccato-d
words, mimicking my stutter.
And in Bible Study, how slack-jawed
they were when I didn’t know
what came after Genesis
or how the world truly began.
I was the pariah while Mom
searched for her spirit in a
pretend-lover who was off-limits,
her love for him purely appreciative.

Somehow it all ended, the way
a movie suddenly ends when you
rise out of a sleep.
Suddenly Wednesdays returned to
watching the Cosby Show
and eating Salisbury steak TV dinners.
Mom, too, forgot about her desire
for community, settling back into
the pair of us (heathens) out to
survive in the world with
just each other for company.

copyright LMB 2007

They Say the Neon Lights are Bright

2007-02-15T14:33:00.000-08:00

Ahh, Broadway. Mom, Uncle Bruce and I went to New York when I was fifteen and we saw three plays: "Les Miserables" (of course), "Blood Brothers" and "An Inspector Calls." I'm listening to a showtunes CD right now and "Blood Brothers' " "Easy Terms" is being sung by the great Michael Ball and I am drawn back to walking down Broadway with Mom and Bruce, in awe of the tall buildings, the marquees, the lights. Looking at the life-size pictures of actors in the windows and knowing that one day I'd be up there. Back then I thought I really would... now I know that's not meant to be, but I'm not about to take away that dream of so long ago. I didn't really like the rest of New York - too busy for me, too dangerous. The cab rides scared the sh** out of me, as I clung onto Mom for all of the rides.

But Mom, "Easy Terms" reminds me of you. Broadway reminds me of you the way everything reminds me of you.

Once upon a time I was going to be on Broadway. Now I am on Broadway in my bedroom as I sing "Miss Saigon," "Les Miserables," "Jekyll and Hyde" in front of the mirror (yes, I'm 28 and I still do that).

No matter what, I'll always be an actress in some fashion.

Mom

2006-11-26T08:54:00.000-08:00

I want to write something about my mother. She has passed away now, she died on November 6, 2006 and I write extensively about it on my regular blog, Romantic Circus Songs. But I want to write down memories of her. I want to bring her alive with my words.

The earliest memory I have of her is described in the following poem:
******************************************************
First Memory

I'm on her lap in a rocking chair
my earliest memory rocking
into my head
my head resting against my mother's
buzzing chest
her chest vibrating from
the song she sings:

"The hills are alive"

she sings into my ear
and into my mind flies owls
who aren't even in the song
but who land in my year-old head
on their own accord.
The river winds down among
the bushes.
I nestle into her cotton shirt

"and I'll sing
once more."
********************************************************

I remember her taking me to Indian Boundary Park in Rogers Park, IL (Chicago area). I remember her sweaters so vividly. Crocheted, knit, yellow, pink, white, beige. Nestling against her. How I long to do that now. How I long. I have a picture of her holding me on the swings; I can almost feel the wind in my hair.

I remember still living in the old Rogers Park house and it being Christmas and sitting on the stairs, hiding, when I was supposed to be in bed and I remember hearing her crying to Dolly Parton's "Hard Candy Christmas."

I remember how excited she was to find our house in Harwood Heights. The many months she put into finishing the basement with Audrey. I remember her adding on the back screened in porch and her building a windowseat just for me - like how I always wanted.

I remember our 11:00pm Psychology Talks as we came to call them in high school. I'd jump up on her bed and we'd talk about life, love, everything. She'd dispense much of her wisdom to me then. For some reason I was more open to hearing it then.

I remember her taking Brady and I to Lake Michigan to see the fireworks for the 4th of July. I'm jumping around in time now. Brady hated the noise. I loved the lights. The big, hard rocks we sat on. The way the water was so close to us.

I remember her painting Christmas houses for years. She always said she was so bad at arts and crafts, but for years she'd sit downstairs watching TV and delicately painting those Christmas village houses. I was amazed. And she was so proud. We'd put the bulbs in and golden light would come pouring out of the windows.

I remember going driving with her in the country and how much she hated curves and turns. Once, when I was young, we were driving to Michigan and she woke me up so I could talk to her while she did this one big turn. She was so scared. But so brave.

I remember her loving Barbra Streisand. I was raised on her. I remember Mom cleaning to her music and Mandy Patinkin's. I remember the smell of the Endust as I awoke Sunday mornings.

I remember endless phone calls. She was my sounding board, my counselor, my best friend. Calling, crying from Beloit, calling, crying from Hidden Valley, calling, crying from Loyola. She always encouraged me to stick it out. You can do this, she said.

She always quoted, "Never grow a wishbone where your backbone ought to be." That was on a quote calendar and she loved it so much she never let me forget it.

I'm going to stop now; I feel tears coming on that need to be expressed.

I remember - HVC

2006-09-20T15:52:00.000-07:00

I remember Hidden Valley Camp...I remember the phone booth where I called my mother crying, "I want to go home" nearly every night and her saying, just give it time. And I was not a camper, I was a counselor. I was 21 in 1999 and 22 in 2000, the summers I worked at Hidden Valley Camp. I had a hard time adjusting to this Maine wonderland. It didn't turn into a wonderland until later because I was just so shell-shocked in the beginning. Here was this little utopian island of a community...and I was so far away from home. I never went to sleepaway camp as a kid so I never was homesick. This was my first experience with homesickness. Being on that phone that had spiderwebs and moths around it. But then I'd walk back up the hill to my cabin (all during staff training) and the nicest people would be there. I remember blueberry pancakes, bagel day, an airplane flying overhead dropping candy onto the soccer field. I remember the loads of kids, ages 8-14, that ran out of the buses that piled in. How nervous I was knowing *I'd* be responsible for 12 nine and ten year old girls, as well as the kids in my classes. But I remember how good I was at it: sitting outside with a homesick girl talking her through it, empathizing with her, telling her I was homesick too, but I was sticking it out because there were so many amazing opportunities here. I remember what it felt like to have a child sit on my lap - to have more than one fight to sit on my lap. Hugging them. Not being able to sleep at night because I was so vigilant about listening to their breathing... was that crying I heard? If so, I leapt up and walked over to the bunk. I used guided imagery with some of the girls to calm them down after nightmares. I taught creative writing classes - many. I was one of the directors for the play. Ian and I co-adapted the play only to have the more "popular" director butcher it, but the kids loved it anyway so that's all that mattered. I remember sitting up in that barn loft with Ian going over the story, learning how to write a play. So grateful I got out of doing chores. I remember rainy nights and sitting down at the dining hall tables under the eaves... I remember days off spent in Camden, Acadia, Belfast. That ice cream shop. Sitting by the water - the ocean!!! I remember 4th of July fireworks in a teeny tiny town the 7 of us girls visited on our day off and us all piling into one single motel room for the night, surrounded by our delicious candy booty that we bought from the gas station down the street. I remember Meg's organic garden, and how she was everyone's mother. I turned 10 years old around her; I wanted to sit in her lap and have her hold me. She had sparkling eyes and sunshine hair put in pigtails or a ponytail. I remember realizing that (that first summer more than the 2nd) most of the girl counselors didn't shave their legs and I felt so liberated. I remember TP Hill and the bravery of the kids who went up there and stayed there for however many weeks it was. I remember the opening and closing ceremonies when we would all walk up to the Pine grove with candles and we'd sing songs, tell stories, hear from past campers... it was such a sacred and holy place. I remember notes in mailboxes. I remember sitting on the wooden swing during my off hour talking with my best friend there. I remember helping the Korean kids learn English...teaching astrological jewelry making with Sarah. Being amazed at that one 8 year old Korean boy who could barely speak English but came up with these great lines of poetry. "The day wished I would end," he said. Wow. I remember hard times, wishing *I* would end...I remember my injurying increasing...I remember making the decision to leave early, for the kids...they couldn't see me so sick...I remember all the crying...that day in the staff cabin that I read "The Alchemist" he had given me and how it changed my way of thinking. But still, I was on my way out. I cried to Peter and Meg that I had to leave and they understood, saying they just wanted me to be okay. And how wonderful it was of Ian to sit with me after I packed and talk to me, how he helped bring my luggage down and held my hand out the van window....Karen driving me down that long, gravel road, away from camp... to the Portland airport...toward Chicago...toward the home that had no cat...my mother's boyfriend had moved in... I did not want to go home but I couldn't stay anymore...too sick....and how, when I arrived home, I collapsed on the grass in front of my house... but no, I want to remember the good... I remember little Hannah always wanting to hold my hand... I remember the cards and pictures the kids used to make for me.... introducing them to magnetic poetry and delighting in their delight of putting together words that sound cool... and Mara.... that stubborn brat... the case I cracked... how she knew I wouldn't put up with her nonsense...and so she respected me more... I remember Elizabeth, the counselor, upon my first night there, hearing me cry in bed, calling me outside to listen to the bats. I could go on and on. Parents, send your kids to Hidden Valley Camp. It will be the best thing you could do.

Fin.

Drive -- Go!

2006-09-12T15:28:00.000-07:00

I remember driving to one of my therapist's offices back in 1998-1999...she lived out in the country-ish suburbs of Chicago; I forget which one. It was a half hour drive and I would always play the same tape: Celtic Romance. The music resonated with me in a way few music did. I could feel a past life vibrating within that song. I remember driving through snow...first I started out on Interstate 90...then I exited at a small town...then I drove off into the farmlands...it was like heading off into a different world. Cars slowed down while the Irish pipes played in my car. Silos passed. Radio towers. It was a half hour all of my own, all for me. I remember getting in the mindframe of Me-ness...with violins, pipes, piano accompanying. There was a horrible snowstorm one time and I just prayed and prayed that I wouldn't slide off the road. But while my tape was going, my heart beat was steady and rhythmic; I did not panic. I just drove very, very slow. I arrived safely and I got home safely. I remember that drive like it was yesterday. Now I try to treat the quick drives in such a sacred manner, no matter where I am going.

Fin.

Crickets - Go!

2006-09-02T20:21:00.000-07:00

The third writing exercise Lauren and I did today. We sat outside the cafe, at a large iron-laced table near the Wisconsin river. Notice how my train of thought goes all over the place but the strand of crickets remains constant.
*************************************************************************

It's not so much the sound of crickets I hate, but the actual beings themselves. The flat, shiny black backs, their rear legs going a mile a minute to make that sound and it's that sound that holds the memories for me, memories from Hidden Valley Camp and how nighttime was filled with a cocaphany of crickets, some quick stacatto sounds, seeming more like an instrument's note than anything else. Being in the evening hall watching kids sing and dannce while the crickets sounded so near I'm sure they were at the windows, watching. Lying in the grass on T.P. Hill with Ian, watching the fireflies and Ian saying they looked like falling stars, but of course fireflies aren't crickets, but I wanted to include that memory. And checking my cabin mailbox every day for mail for my kids, crickets sounding outside, and finding envelopes addressed: to Lisa, from Me and he similarly getting envelopes addressed: To Ian, from Me. We didn't want anyone knowing we were writing to each other. He had a girlfriend back home and we didn't want even the purest thing to be misunderstood. Crickets meant Norridge Day Camp when *I* was a camper. I didn't play with the other kids; I hung out with the counselors: Chris, Sharon, Steve. Even then I was ahead of my time. While I swam in the pool, noseplugs hugging my nostrils, crickets announced the heat. Heat seemed to accompany that long cricket crescendo sound. Crickets near lakes or rivers have shorter sounds. Even though it's cool today, Lauren and I are by the Wisconsin River and both types of crickets sounds can be heard. They surround us, these disembodied sounds. If you're lucky enough not to see them, the sounds mean to me: heat, secret notes, sprinklers, rivers, sandals, boardwalks, speedboats, picnics.

Fin.

The Breath - Go!

2006-09-02T20:12:00.000-07:00

Another writing exercise Lauren and I did today
*************************************************

It's a simple in and out. Diaphram control, not chest. Place your hand on your diaphram and love the expansion. Let your hand emit the love as if there was a child inside. If you cannot breathe for yourself, breathe for the child, for whether or not you are with child, there is a child inside all of us. When breathing in, imagine you are near a waterfall, the ions in the air cleansing and pure. Breathe that in. Breathe in a kiss. When I kissed...so and so...and our lips would stay locked together, I would breathe out my nose and he'd be tickled with air. He'd chuckle and I'd be tickled with his air. When you breathe out, imagine you are filling colorful balloons and watching each exhalation float in the sky away from you, balloons bouncing higher and higher into the sky. Embrace stop lights as a chance to breathe. Do not rush to pick up the phone; breathe through the first two or three rings. At work, take time to breathe in and out, take it gently, take it lovingly, take it purely.

Fin.

Ice Cream - Go!

2006-09-02T19:57:00.000-07:00

Today Lauren and I went to the Blue Spoon Cafe and sat and wrote, me eating ice cream, her drinking hot chocolate. The topic was ice cream. We did this a la Natalie Goldberg's teachings - just keeping our pen to the page for however long we could.

****************************************************************************
Gramma always liked Breyers' Prailines and Cream ice cream. It was sweet and crunchy, though I didn't like nuts. But I ate it because it was Gramma's favorite and that was enough. I also remember being entranced with Breyers' Vanilla Bean. Looking at the black bean specks making it that much more pure vanilla. I felt special, like I was hoity toity and eating vanilla how God created it. Every hospital I've ever been in has had those cups of vanilla ice cream, similar to the ones you'd get in grammar school along with your hot dog and chips on Hot Dog Day. Hot Dog Day at Pennoyer Elementary School was always exciting. I didn't eat many hot dogs at home and so I loaded my school hot dogs with ketchup and mustard and relish and ate it quickly because I had not yet learned the art of eating slowly to enjoy the meal. The ice cream, unless eaten beforehand, signaled the end of the meal, after the Lays potato chips, of course, and so ice cream made me sad. Jessica Jakubanis sat across from me eating her peanut butter and jelly sandwhich out of wax paper because she didn't want hot dogs. She carried wet wipes with her and the kids teased her for it though I secretly thought it was a good idea. I'm eating ice cream now to soothe my throat from a possible oncoming cold.

Fin.

More Drama Freaks

2006-08-25T20:21:00.000-07:00

pic below: I'm the one reaching out her arm to the girl on the left. I played "Alma" in Mother Hicks. Here I am beseeching the "town witch" to give me back my adopted daughter.

Here's a cast party for "Oliver!"

"This is the Moment"

2006-08-25T18:53:00.000-07:00

This is the moment!
This is the day,
When I send all my doubts and demons
On their way!

Every endeavor,
I have made - ever -
Is coming into play,
Is here and now - today!

This is the moment,
This is the time,
When the momentum and the moment
Are in rhyme!

Give me this moment -
This precious chance -
I'll gather up my past
And make some sense at last!

This is the moment,
When all I've done -
All the dreaming,
Scheming and screaming,
Become one!

This is the day -
See it sparkle and shine,
When all I've lived for
Becomes mine!

For all these years,
I've faced the world alone,
And now the time has come
To prove to them
I've made it on my own!

This is the moment -
My final test -
Destiny beckoned,
I never reckoned,
Second Best!

I won't look down,
I must not fall!
This is the moment,
The sweetest moment of them all!

This is the moment!
Damn all the odds!
This day, or never,
I'll sit forever
With the gods!

When I look back,
I will always recall,
Moment for moment,
This was the moment,
The greatest moment
Of them all!

~ "This is the Moment" from Jekyll and Hyde, the musical

I remember, 1994, I was in "You Can't Take it With You" - I was the lead, "Alice." And every night, before my first scene, I would be in the dressing room in my costume and make-up and I'd listen to that song over headphones. It was my ritual. It was what I did. A couple of the crew girls knew this and often asked, "did you listen to your song yet?" and I'd smile and say yes.

I adopted this song as my own because this was my moment. I had never before had a lead in a play before. This was my time to shine. This was the greatest moment in my life - as the lights shone down on me, as I shared lines with the other actors, as my heart quickened as the "kiss scene" approached...it was all magic. "And now the time had come to prove to them I've made it on my own" -- I had a lot of proving to do. As I've said before, I was a mere Sophomore... some of the actors didn't think I deserved the role. But *I* knew I deserved it. And I did my best to show them. I think I succeeded.

And February of 1994..."You Can't Take it With You"...that time would come to haunt me even to this day. I still dream about it. It is still with me. I have it on video, too. Sure, I watch it now and think: "talk slower! talk louder! more feeling here... and here..." but I'm always hard on myself. It was a magical time that I never wanted to end. Ironically, I couldn't take it with me except in memory and that is what I have done. And a huge memory is that of sitting in the dressing room listening to Colm Wilkinson (all hail Colm) sing that song.

Below: pictures of Brad Haak and myself in my favorite scene in "You Can't Take It With You" (Feb. 1994; I was 15 years old)

And here is me at home, with all my flowers and "booty." :)

Fin.

Assignment: Drills

2006-08-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

I remember the tornado drills at Pennoyer Elementary School. Mrs. Lau would instruct us to go out into the hall and kneel down facing the lockers, covering our heads with our hands, fingers interlaced over our scalp. It was always a drill, but I wondered how this would keep us safe from Dorothy's nemesis, the tornado. I imagined the lockers becoming loose from the angry wind and toppling over on us. Especially on Joey Colucci who always teased me and was snickering down at the end of the line. Maybe desks would be blown out of the room and tossed at us like the softballs I could never catch in Gym class.

Lined up against the lockers, the other kids always kneeled by their friends and chatted away; some of the boys would pick a girl to kneel beside and quickly pinch her butt, causing her to scream, causing the boy to chuckle, causing Mrs. Lau to give us a dirty look. And I'd be thinking, we're going to die and you're pinching girls' butts? But it was a drill, after all, though I kept forgetting that. The sun could be shining, the trees gently blowing in the wind, and I'd still think an actual tornado was coming. Because of that damn drill bell.

Imagine a 12 year old singing, "Somewhere Under the Rainbow" under her breath, calling upon Dorothy to protect her, hoping the pervy boy wouldn't choose to kneel beside her that day.

Fin.

In Homage to the Darkness

2006-08-24T13:34:00.000-07:00

Because of my restlessness, I spent the morning at Ancora not able to write. But I read some of my old writings I did before the hospital (July 5, 2006). Though I am a thorougly changed person now, I do wish to honor what I did and give you a "piece of the darkness" and copy what I did write. I also wish to use my scanner for the first time (thank you, Christopher).

June 3, 2006

Ghosts Want Out

The inside of my body is ravaged
with ghosts that want out.
Pulled in so many directions,
I'm headed to the garage
with the car running and tube
slipped through the lip of the window.

There are suicidal teenagers inside.
Sylvia pets their hair,
Ernest takes the bottle away.
Somehow I end up in bed,
my eyes trying to stay shut,
my mind trying to stay shut
because Mother says I just need sleep.

Mornings are made for people who wake up,
get ready for work with coffee and toast,
drive there and get through the day,
the way days are for survivors.
Nights are for the downtrodden,
the sadly desperate where loved ones
are home to call for help,
those day people,
nights are when the dark covers
the setting day.
When blackbirds come out,
couches swallow you and every
television show is just a reminder
of what you are not.

But leave the television and you
dare to enter the quiet
which is most dangerous of all
because you hear the ghosts who want out.
The guardian angels can't wrestle the fog,
you lay in bed, can't help but think
about creation stories, stories of where
you've come from, and me, I can't
get off this one track
where I let the train hit me over and over.
Each time I'm more weathered and torn
but dammit I still get up.

Daddy says I always land on my feet
but Daddy, my knees get chopped off each time
and so I land on my feet shorter and shorter.
The ghosts want out; they're on the train.
Now I'm so small the guardians that try to play
conductor can't see me there.
It's coming.

The ghosts prepare a seat for me,
my body the fighter
the fighter losing the fight.
The ghosts want out;
the guardians can't see,
the ghosts make me a picnic
on the tracks -
my last supper.
*************************************

**********************************

I Haven't Always

I'm not usually like this.
I'm waiting for a sign
to start up again.
My engine chugging along,
lights dying,
I'm waiting for the green light
to start living.
Green light to tell me it's safe.
Meanwhile, I have ink stains
on my middle finger
from fighting on paper,
my only arena.

Then again I've been like this
since before I changed the channel
to adulthood.
My teens have lived
in the smoke-filled tips of mountains,
my early adulthood has been hiding
in bunkers from old wars.
I still cover my head from thunderstorms;
I knit nuclear safe body suits,
sizes for each age.
I admit I see the same years down the line.
They tell me the war doesn't have to continue,
but I'm so used to the smell of gunpowder,
the flashing lights, the kaBOOM of exploding bombs
so I bet I've always been like this.

I told my dolls to look for another mother.
They held my finger
said don't go, don't go
and I looked into their shiny eyes
and said I'm sorry, so sorry,
Mommy just can't rock you;
she can't rock herself.
She's waiting for the green light
to die
and they surrounded the seven year old in bed,
held each others' tiny mittened hands.

Fin.

Heels

2006-08-22T12:55:00.001-07:00

Is there a prognosis, I'm asked?
and because I don't know, I say
I don't know.
Doesn't prognosis usually mean
she's going to die?
I also say I don't know because
I refuse to say she will die.

When I was school-age, I'd hear
her heels walking across the
kitchen, tiled floor, the living room
wooden floor each morning,
walking to put make-up on,
to grab her coffee, to pack her
briefcase I always marveled at,
thinking in my young mind:
that's the business world.

I'd lie in bed listening to her heels
click-click throughout the house
and she'd poke her head in my room,
say with frustration, "get up, Lisa"
and poke back out again.

She didn't know what the sound of her heels
did to me, what the sound of the front door
opening and closing did to me. The door opened,
wind collected my mother for the day, shut the door,
and I'd feel such sadness,
all alone in the house.

Ten years old, I'd get out of bed
and pad over to the bathroom to where
her make-up was strewn about. I'd draw
a line of coral lipstick on my hand.
The smell of coffee still lingered
throughout the house.
I dug around in my closet, got dressed,
drank a Carnation instant breakfast
like I promised.
My tennis shoes made the wood creak
as I did my own laps around the house,
putting books, homework, and my fat
Trapper Keeper into my bag.

7:45 and I'd let the wind collect me
as I opened and closed the door, and I'd
walk to the bus stop which began my
excursion into my business world:

the business of surviving Math class,
awkward lunches sitting alone,
raising my hand to all the questions
in English class.

And so would go my day.
And so would go my mother's day.
I wondered if she ate lunch alone, too.

Fin.

Back to Basics

2006-08-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

(written at Borders today)

Rarely do I feel like I belong with people. But here I sit, at Seattle's Best Coffeeshop in Borders and I look up from my writing and reading to see a blonde-haired, motherly-looking woman sitting in the corner near the window. She rests her lips on her fist and stares sadly out the window. I see tear stains down her left cheek. I look at her and feel such sadness. I want to know what is wrong. She looks like she'd be good to talk to, someone who could use a talk. I sigh and look around at the other patrons reading or talking with companions. Loreena McKennitt's beautiful song, "Snow" comes on despite the late August sun shining outside and suddenly I feel my heart open big - I mean midwestern-field-big - and I feel each person enter. I feel these strangers as my sisters and brothers.

A woman asks if she can sit at my table and instead of feeling annoyed, I say yes, please sit. She has a notebook, too. Perhaps we'll begin a conversation.

I know these are special moments. I do not feel like this often, though I'm wanting to.

A girl, 21 or so, sits outside with her parents and I recognize her as one of my old students from University. I wonder if she was in my creative writing class or my composition class. If composition, I regret my teaching then for it was merely common and even perhaps hapless. I just wanted out. If I was to teach now, I would try much harder. Yes, I think and laugh softly, she was in my English 100 class. Oh, the one I was back then - a year and a half ago. So clueless and self-conscious. So depressed and lost. I knew I wasn't making sense and I felt bad both for me who tried so hard and yet not hard enough and for them for having me as their teacher.

I don't beat myself up, though, I did the best I could under very difficult circumstances.

And so, mystery solved, I look at the other people here, all people who must love communication. From those of us who sit writing, to the man behind me who tells his friend about his father working at Taliesin as a gardener - we all love the same thing: words. Even the crying woman has returned to her book.

And that brings us all together.

Fin.

Drama Freaks

2006-08-18T07:50:00.000-07:00

In high school, who were you? Were you a nerd? A jock? An outsider? Insider? I was a drama freak. That's what we were called. It started in 8th grade when Mr. Muszynski came to my elementary school to talk about enrolling in summer drama. It was the summer of 1992. I was already involved in theatre - at Shabonna Park doing Peter Pan, in The Sound of Music and The Pied Piper at school. The theatre bug had bitten me. When Mr. Muszysnki came to talk to us, it was like God, himself, had visited us. Here was the man I would spend the next four years with. Here was the man who would decide my fate.

In summer drama, there was a musical and a straight play. That summer it was Doing Time in Park Ridge (a strange, unfortunate musical that the powers-that-be of the Park Ridge society had comissioned...Park Ridge was the town my high school was in)and oh my goodness, I can't remember what the play was.

I was nervous when I stepped into the auditorium lobby. Great big tan doors ushered me into the actual theatre. I sat down in the olive seats with a host of other kids, mostly upper-classmen/women who I would later idolize and fawn over.

I was so scared, yet excited at the same time. The stage had this certain smell: wood shavings and paint. It meant potential. It meant theatre.

I had some bit parts in Doing Time... and I remember having a line where I stuttered (I had a horrible stutter in my youth) and Mr. Muszynski was kind enough to alter the line so I could say it.

I remember the anticpation of waiting offstage for my cue. Heart beating a mile a minute, hands sweating. And then stepping onto that stage. Seeing the halo of the audience from the lighting overhead, those colored gels. Knowing my family was out there, ever-so proud.

Cast parties soon became the bane of my existance. Having a panic problem already, it did not help that I was asked to go to someone's house and "party" after the play was done. Granted, there was never any alcohol or drugs at the parties (alcohol occasionally appeared in later years) but it was the people I was afraid of. I was afraid of what they thought of me, as any 13/14 year old would feel. I felt like an overweight midget. Where was Mr. Muszynski, who always gave me such comfort? I would find a seat and sit next to him all night if he came. But he didn't and instead I would stay for about 10 minutes and then call my mom in tears to come and get me.

Over the years, cast parties became easier to go to - and not to go to. I wouldn't beat myself up if I didn't go and, occasionally, when I did go, I would have an almost-good time. My favorite cast party, I think, was for Oliver!, my Sophomore year. It took place in the cafeteria and perhaps it was because of that that I felt more comfortable. I think I even danced. There is a picture of Mat, Kate, Beth and I sitting in the prop casket and I had such a smile on my face.

My connection through those early years was Megan. She was one year above me and seemed to know everybody. I will always be grateful for her, though we are now out of touch.

I remember, my Freshman year, walking through the halls of Maine South, marveling at the trophy cases, checking the callboard now and then. The morning tradition was to get to school early and sit on the drama benches (see above picture). But not anyone sat on those benches. They were saved for the Seniors. Us underclassmen/women sat on the floor at their feet like Shakespeare's groundlings. Or we'd sit on the floor in our own circles, not interested in cliques.

Truthfully, though, cliques weren't that much of a problem in the drama department. Sure, there was the Techies and then the Drama Freaks... but we were all there for a common purpose: to perform. To create.

We were an incestual bunch. The other kids in high school used to make fun of us because we were all so damn huggy. We just laughed at them and sat on each others' laps.

In high school, I was involved in a number of activities: Student-to-Student (where we'd tour different junior high schools and perform skits about divorce, smoking, drugs and other areas of interest), Equinox, the creative writing magazine (I was on staff and I was published in it often), the Speech Team where I performed poetry and Dramatic Duet Acting where Megan and I acted together - all in competition. And, of course, the drama department.

As the years passed, I grew to have more stature in the department. My Sophomore year brought many surprises. I started out being a tree and a chorus member in Empress of China (which we took to the Illinois State Theatre Festival) and then, in the winter of 1993 and 1994, I got word that I had scored the lead in the play, You Can't Take it With You and not only that, but I was supposed to kiss Brad Haak (go ahead, google him and see what he's up to. He's famous now). Now Brad was no ordinary upperclassman. He was a Senior when I was a Sophomore and lord knows Sophomores weren't supposed to be getting leads in those days (Jenny Beacraft proved that wrong the following year when, as a Freshman, she got the lead role in Mother Hicks - I got cast as her mother...which would become a trend). I think Brad and his friends were a bit skeptical of my ability to play "Alice" but I think, in the long run, I proved I could hold my own.

Being in that play changed my life forever. It certainly changed my dream-life. For the past 12 years I've had dreams where Mr. Muszynski asked me to reprise the role, only I would forget the lines and have to adlib. Sometimes I'd succeed; sometimes I'd fail. That play seemed to work with me on different psychological levels.

But about that kiss... I had never kissed anyone before and although I would have preferred it to be with someone who actually liked me, Brad was a good first kiss nonetheless because he was gorgeous and talented. I remember rehearsing in PA 101 (a classroom) and the kiss part came and Brad came closer and kissed me but all I could do was laugh. When I get nervous I laugh and the more I try not to laugh, the more I do laugh. Take after take, we tried it again. But all I could see was Brad's face getting bigger as he moved toward my face. He whined to Mr. Muszynski about this and, finally, I said, ok, ok, go ahead...and then I had my first kiss.

During the actual play, I'm told my father timed each kiss on his watch (we kissed three times) and after the play, he shook his finger at me teasingly and said, "too long."

Oh! That time after the plays when the cast would come out into the auditorium lobby to greet their guests and friends was unbelievable. After You Can't Take it With You, bushels of carnations and roses were handed to me. I was in heaven. People I didn't even know complimented me. I never got a big head, but I absolutely loved it.

The way I remember it, my drama years were magical. I can't forget the depression, however. That I won't write about in detail, but suffice it to say, I had many emotional problems in high school and the people in the drama department did their best to take care of me, but, I admit, I made it difficult. I cried a lot in those days (still do) and owe apologies and grateful hugs to many people. But I choose to remember the good things.

(left black and white picture: "Mother" in Beauty and the Beast (summer drama 1993), top right: "Mistress" in The Good Doctor (my Senior year, bottom right: "Alma" in Mother Hicks, my Junior year.

Maine South had such a professional drama department that when I went off to college, I was sorely disappointed with its department. Nothing compared. My depression got worse and, eventually, after playing in Cabaret in Beloit College, I quit the theatre.

It haunts me still. In my dreams and in my waking life.

But I've chosen to focus on my writing, my poetry, and, indeed, I have my first book coming out in two years. I must have done something right.

But the smell of wood shavings and paint can still find me sometimes.

So who were you? The swimmer? The chemistry prodigy? I was a drama freak. And proud of it.

Fin.

Love, Look What You've Done to Me

2006-08-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

As a child, and I'm talking from the age of 7 and up, I knew every love song on the radio. I'm thinking specifically of Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me"

When I said I needed you,
You said you would always stay.
It wasn't me who changed but you,
And now you've gone away.

Don't you see that now you've gone,
And I'm left here on my own.
That I have to follow you,
And beg you to come home.

You don't have to say you love me, just be close at hand.
You don't have to stay forever, I will understand.
Believe me, believe me, I can't help but love you,
But believe me, I'll never tie you down

Left alone with just a memory,
Life seems dead and so unreal.
All that's left is loneliness,
There's nothing left to feel.

You don't have to say you love me, just be close at hand.
You don't have to stay forever, I will understand.
Believe me, believe me, believe me....

You don't have to say you love me, just be close at hand.
You don't have to stay forever, I will understand.
Believe me, believe me, believe me....

and before going to sleep, I'd lie in bed imaginging a boy... Gerald, Nicky, Joseph, John, Joel...

imaginging him knocking on my door one day... and I'd open it and he'd tell me he loved me. He'd say all the song lyrics to me that I heard on the radio every night.

How did I know about such love at age seven? I was deemed "boy-crazy" by my parents for I constantly obsessed over the need to be loved. Could I have been missing something from them? From anyone?

As 7th and 8th grade passed, I went to dances and the songs began to mean something: "this song was when Tom asked me to dance..." "this song was when John walked right past me..." My memory became an elephant's when it came to love songs. The old song, "Love, Look What You've Done to Me"

Hope they never end this song
This could take us all night long
I looked at the moon and I felt blue
Then I looked again and I saw you
Eyes like fire in the night
Bridges burning with their light
Now I want to spend the whole night through
And Honey, Yes, I'd like to spend it all on you

Love, look what you've done to me
Never thought I'd fall again so easily
Oh, love, you wouldn't lie to me
Leading me to feel this way.....

They might fade and turn to stone
Let's get crazy all alone
Hold me closer than you'd ever dare
Close your eyes and I'll be there
After all is said and done
After all you are the one
Take me up your stairs and through the door
Take me where we don't care anymore.....

Love, look what you've done to me
Never thought I'd fall again so easily
Oh, love, you wouldn't lie to me ...would you
Leading me to feel this way.....

Love, look what you've done to me
Never thought I'd fall again so easily
Oh, love, you wouldn't lie to me
Leading me to feel this way...

made me sob for I honestly thought, at age eleven, Love, look what you've done to me! I'm now a slave to your heartache!

So no crushes for me. When I loved, I loved hard. When Joseph told me he didn't want to be boyfriend and girlfriend anymore in the 5th grade, my heart actually crushed into millions of pieces. The only thing that helped to heal it was finding somone else to focus on.

Hhmm. One has to wonder how far I've actually come. Looking at my life today, not very far at all.

Fin.

When the Student is Ready, the Teacher Will Appear

2006-08-16T11:00:00.000-07:00

So this blog will be ... a memoir sort of blog. I've been writing since I was five but never thought of writing memoir. Today I decided to try to do it as a blog. So here we go...
p.s. Many of my memoir entries will start with "I remember" because that is a writing practice that Natalie Goldberg taught which I believe fully in.

WHEN THE STUDENT IS READY, THE TEACHER WILL APPEAR

I remember Mr. Bender, my elementary school art teacher. He had that teacher's passion, but what I remember the most is his breath that smelled like whatever sandwhich he had had that day, usually something with onions. I remember the colored construction paper was housed in wooden cubbies. I remember making a robot out of cardboard and tin foil, learning about Pointillism , perspective, how to draw three-dimensional objects. He never showed off his artistic talents; in fact, I wonder if he even had any. I remember we sat on wooden stools at wooden tables with crayon and marker marks all over them. Some stools spun round and round, some were on four stationary legs. I remember sitting with Jessica, and on some occasions, Suzanne, Ida, Suzana, and Aimee. We were the unpopular table. Wherever Jessica and I sat was the unpopular table. I tried to sit closest to Mr. Bender's desk, despite his onions, so he could interfere if any cruelty was thrown onto us like a wet, stinging blanket. I remember peeling rubber cement off my fingers, the smell of it. I remember, barely, the process of paper mache: dipping the strips of paper in the goopy liquid. I was never one to enjoy a mess, so I'd wash my hands soon after.

I remember Mrs. Luszcz and her animated ways. She was my 6, 7, and 8th grade elementary school English teacher, teaching us parts of speech in the most interesting of ways. When teaching us about linking verbs, she'd jump into a stance of holding her arms out on either side of her petite body. She'd get us laughing at participles, adverbs, and other parts of speech. We actually enjoyed dissecting a sentence. I remember she subscribed to a magazine that published student writing and I do believe she was the first teacher to urge me to publish my stories. I remember reading the play, The Phantom of the Opera aloud and being cast as Christine Daae and my then-love, Joseph, being cast as Raoul/The Phantom. I was thrilled beyond words because Joseph had to read the line, "I love you" and for a moment, in between lines, I closed my eyes and pretended he was proclaiming his love to me, Lisa Marie. Of course, this was ridiculous. Joseph didn't like me anymore, ever since he had begun to get teased by the other kids for liking me in the 4th and 5th grade. He had abandoned me except for that English period when he played Raoul/The Phantom and I, Christine. No matter, the "ooohs" from the other kids, Joseph had to say his line.

I remember Mrs. Lau, the most influential elementary school teacher and one that is up there with one of my best teachers. She and Mrs. Luszcz were good friends, but while Mrs. Luszcz was short and petite, Mrs. Lau was tall and elegant. Or at least that's how I remember her. She was gentle, but had authority. She taught Social Studies for my 6, 7, and 8th grade years as well as being my 8th grade homeroom teacher. She was the smartest woman I knew at that time. I remember when Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" came out, she played it for us with a guilty smile and I remember us 8th graders giggling as we watched our gallant teacher tap her feet and mouth the words. Mrs. Lau and rock music? She swore this was for educational purposes and, indeed, I did learn slices of history I had not previously known.
My favorite memory of Mrs. Lau was our secret. In Health class, the book's simple assigment one day was to keep a journal for one week. I was already an avid journaler since the age of 10 so I looked forward to this. I wrote about my unhappiness, my 13 year old ennui, my confusion and heartache at "loving" Joseph Monroe and John Kaldis, the ups, the downs, the rejection, being best friends with the class nerd and being teased by association. To my delight, at the end of the week, in her long, slanted handwriting, Mrs. Lau had written me back. What, exactly, I don't remember, but I know she suggested I keep journaling to her. And so started our secret correspondence. At a time when I desperately needed to feel heard, to feel special, Mrs. Lau gave me the opportunity to feel that way. I desperately needed an adult, female role model and there she was, writing encouraging words to a pre-teen too obsessed with love and acceptance. She never shared anything about her life; she only commented on my wrting. But I never told anyone else this secret of ours. I'd linger after class once everyone left on Fridays and hand in my notebook with a smile. Fortunately, I still have those notebooks of young wonderings, complete with her loving, empathetic responses. In high school, once out of the role of her student, we had a few lunches together and I could feel a deep friendship forming.

I remember other teachers, too. Miss Sterling, the ever-spinster librarian with no backbone or authority. She let us run wild because she knew no other way. Sure, she yelled and shouted and tried, but we were deaf to her. I'd obey, but one child to thirty is not a fair numbmer. Her awkward tics annoyed me, though, and sometimes I talked to my tablemates when I wasn't supposed to, but perhaps I never got yelled at because she silently thanked me for not joining in on the pranks, not running around the library, not going to the bathroom to socialize with the popular girls, although that was something I'd never do anyway. My friends remained at the corner table, engrossed in the Nancy Drew books.

And then there was Miss C. I won't publish her full name because I feel too guilty given my memories of her and what I am about to share. I'm hesitant in writing about her because there is still so much pain associated. Teachers can open your eyes to many things. This woman made me jump and tremble, made us all cry at least once at the blackboard. Even Bobby, the most popular boy. Even Suzanne, the girl everyone coudln't help but like. Miss C. taught Math from 6-8th grade and was our 6th grade homeroom teacher. She was a big woman who wore bright, garish colors. Behind closed doors, she was the scariest teacher we ever encountered. This was something that brought us all together - popular and unpopular. Miss C. spit when she yelled, which was often. I just didn't get Math and I was normally a good student, well-loved by all teachers. She'd make us go up to the blackboard and do math problems, something normal and common that all Math teachers do, but she'd step right up to us and hover over us as she checked it and if it was wrong, she'd yell and shout, spit; my childhood memory wants to say she foamed at the mouth, but I doubt that is true.
I feel both anger and sadness when I think about Miss C. now. I'm angry becuase it was in that class that my fear of making mistakes was born. How I thought, and even now think, that I'll get horribly yelled at if I mess up anything. At the age of 12, I learned to tremble in my shoes at authority, learned to dread 6th period. Walking into that room made my heart beat as fast as a chased rabbit.
Perhaps our greatest sin in Miss C's class was forgetting or not doing our homework. She'd write our names on the board and take our shoes so we'd be barefoot during recess.
Despite the intense fear she instilled in me, I am now convinced she did not know what she was doing. I don't know if my other classmates were as affected, emotionally, as I was; if anyone else grew up to be a fearful, jumpy perfectionist, but I am positive that she did not mean to do that to us. Perhaps she was treated badly as a child, too.
Because Jessica and I struggled with Math, she offered to privately tutor us after school. This froze me with fear until I saw how she was one-on-one. We'd take turns bringing in donuts, pretzals, chips, and she'd patiently go over the problems with us. Feeding the dragon (sorry)? I wonder what made the difference. What an anomoly.
And at parent-teacher conferences, when I thought she'd tell my mother I was the dumbest, most dense student she'd ever seen, in reality, she showered me with praise, saying how much she enjoyed me. Go figure.
Today, on my bad days, I still try to argue with her voice calling us all dumb and stupid. I want to cry at work when I make a mistake, not yet having learned that it is only through your mistakes that you learn. I wish I could have taught Miss C. that.

And there you go. The stories of some of my most influential teachers in elementary school. Maybe one day I will write about high school because that was when things really got interesting. That's when I found the world of theatre and choir and creative writing.

Fin.

Prelude

2006-08-16T10:57:00.000-07:00

[from my main blog, Romantic Circus Songs]

I spent a few hours at Ancora today, my new writing cafe (though I still miss the dim lighting and the quietude of The Perk) and I was influenced by listening to Natalie Goldberg reading her book, "Long Quiet Highway" on audiotape in the car. She was writing about her influential teachers. When I sat down with my mocha at Ancora, I didn't know what to write so I did what Natalie says and began to do writing practice, starting with

"I remember..."

I wrote pages upon pages about my elementary school teachers... work I'm quite happy with. And I thought...yes, I could write my memoirs. Not for publication quite yet, but I'd like to do a blog on my memoirs. So I will.

the name of the blog will be

Memory Speaks in Tongues

so I encourage you, if you are at all interested, check there. I will be supplying a link once I get it up and running.

I also wrote two poems about children, influenced by the children I saw at the cafe. One little girl brought tears to my eyes as I thought about having my own little girl one day and whether Mom will be around to meet her or not.

After Ancora, I stopped at a new bookstore: The Bookstore at the End of the World it's called...and I gabbed with the old man behind the counter who has 10 grandchildren living with him (parents, too). We talked for a while.

It's been a great morning so far... I thought this would be a dreadful day what with Mom's procedure and not having plans until tonight.

But I feel creative and productive. And that is good.

Fin.