i like bad boys...

Yes, it's true.  I like bad boys.  Have you noticed that they are always getting into some kind of unexplainable mischief.  Maybe to them living life on the edge brings a hallowed feeling to the everyday.  When you ride with a bad boy, the wind is in your hair; the horse is in a full gallop; and laughter resonates through the woods...the stars are out; the air is crisp; and the moon is bright.  Yes, give me a bad boy any day.  And give me a Sunday afternoon ride.  Who knows where you will end up?  If you're lucky, it will be someplace you've never been before.  If you're there with a bad boy, it is certain to be someplace you will never forget.  They just live and laugh.  Their eyes crinkle around the edges with a mystery you can't resist.  Yes, they are always thinking they have outfoxed the dame.  Maybe they have; maybe they haven't.  Time will tell.  Here's to all the (good) bad boys out there.  Don't ever stop.

live, do, dream, go, say, be, examine...

Folly River at sunset

...don't sleep life away...words from my journal dated May 12, 2000...almost twelve years ago.   I have been keeping a journal since high school. My very first journal was a little blue book with a key.  I have no clue where it is or what happened to it along the way.  I would love to chew on those words from long ago...try them on for size.  See if I have outgrown them.  See if the smile on my face is an easy one; if I am at home in this body; and if my soul embraces those in need of love and comfort.  I would like to see if the girl's heart has healed, and if the scars have made it stronger, and if I have been successful in unsticking myself along the way?  Would my grandmother, whom I adored, be proud of who I have become and the tough choices I have made?  Would her green eyes flash back at my green eyes with pride?  It is fair to say that I have lived too much of my life in my head and not enough of it in my body.  My move to Folly was an "out of head" experience for me.  I have adored every minute...even the minutes that gave me pause or coaxed a tear from my pretend brave heart.  To have done this one thing lets me know that I can do anything.  Yes, is the word of the hour.  Yes, yes, yes!

Hopsewee

"You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.  Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,  to arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, you must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. In order to arrive at what you do not know you must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.  In order to possess what you do not possess you must go by the way of dispossession.  In order to arrive at what you are not you must go through the way in which you are not.  And what you do not know is the only thing you know.  And what you own is what you do not own.  And where you are is where you are not."
-T.S. Eliot, “East Coker” from the “Four Quartets”

chain, chain, chain...

A friend recently proclaimed me exuberant...shock to me!  Of all the things I have wished desperately to be or have seen myself as, exuberant has never been on the list.  And I am sure that I can find numerous people (without too much trouble) who would be happy to testify otherwise.  I have always viewed myself as holding back, locked in the stall, tethered on a short leash, contained, biting my lip, quiet, sedate, invisible, stuck...anything but exuberant.  Apparently, not so.  I have had much sadness in my life.  If I'm exuberant, then it must mean that the sadness did not snuff out every little flash of joy.  The ember is there just waiting for the right someone to puff on it and start a fire.  Yesterday, I stopped on Folly Road to gas up on my way to a meeting at Trident United Way.  I started the pump and then the music started...Aretha was singing Chain of Fools.  I could not contain myself.  Yes, I did it.  I danced at the gas pump.  The morning light was soft, the promise of a new day was in my head, and my feet could not stand still.  No way!  Some guy came out of the Exxon...laughing at me. I laughed with him and then I laughed at my silly self and, oh, it felt so good.   As a matter of fact...maybe it felt a little exuberant!

to act...

"Not to act, is to act."  Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I'm sitting here wrestling with myself wondering how brave I really am, and how far I will go to get what I want...to live the life of my dreams.  My friends tell me repeatedly that I am brave, and that they could never do what I have done.  But bravery is a relative thing.  Yes, I have managed to do many difficult things on my own...more than they will ever suspect.  I have somehow managed  the minutiae of a move, but have I really been brave?  There is, I think, a difference between being brave and doing something because one has no choice in the matter.  A job just has to be done.  I wear the brave face and others often never really understand what goes on under the mask or behind the wall.   But there is a chunk of soul missing in my life.  I've been too busy being brave to be vulnerable...paradoxical thought, I know.  I'm wondering what would it be like to have Sunday afternoon rides through the wild countryside with no particular place to go, silly suppers, endless, toe-tingling laughter, and long debates with someone who can match the tenancity of a 'brave girl' with the famous stubborn streak.   Been wondering could there be someone, who, at last, would be happy with the girl I have become?  I crave the adventure.  Maybe to you the above list does not wear the glint of wild adventures such as hang gliding, parachuting out of planes, working a backhoe, sailing a sleek vessel, or riding the bull at the rodeo, but the things I chose bring closeness, and for me that is the biggest risk of all.  For you see, then I would have to take off my brave face and someone would see into my heart.  It has been tucked away for far too many years.  Maybe I will; maybe I won't; maybe I can't.  I haven't quite made up my mind.  But, I'm closer than ever to acting on an idea.  And if I do, it will be the bravest thing I have ever done! 

“She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.”    Jane Austen, Persuasion

holy moments...



September Song

I visited my Mom Sunday.  It was a golden October afternoon.  We sat outside in the sun.  She always has always loved the outdoors.  She did not recognize me, nor could she say my name even when prompted.  I sat with her...trying to process my feelings, trying to understand, trying to keep tears from welling up in my eyes, but my heart was screaming for some kind of comfort that would not come. It was a holy moment...my world stood still.  Alzheimer's has stolen my mother.  Her body looks the same, but her soul is locked away in some secret place we can no longer reach.  There were only two things she remembered that day.  She recalled my Dad's name and that of her mother.  Through it all, it seems we always want our mothers.  All else is gone.  I keep her photograph on my dresser.  As I walk by that photograph each day, I see her beautiful face.  That is the way I will remember her...standing by the man she loved...holding her son.  It will always be her holy moment.  In September, 2007, I wrote a letter for her birthday celebration.  I dedicate it to her again and to all those wonderful men and women who work day and night to find a cure for Alzheimer's.  God's peace.

                                                                       September 23, 2007

Dear Mama,

We are gathered here today to honor you on your seventy-third birthday.  I hope this celebration makes you feel special and that you will always remember how much we all love you.  It makes me so happy to be here with our extended family.  Circumstances prevented our enjoying that closeness for years.  Now, it is especially sweet to experience it.

You were a child of the Great Depression – born in 1934 – right in the middle of the hardest of times.  You were one of thirteen – a big family of brothers and sisters who loved each other.  It is hard to imagine, but Aunt Margaret was 14 when you were born, and you were about four when she married Uncle Tiny.  Now, it seems that time has come full circle.  We have had so much fun sitting around her kitchen table!

I always loved hearing the stories of your growing up…how you adored going to the fields, being outside, always busy and into something.  I remember the stories of Papa’s pigeons, his honey bees and his “black” cats.  Remember the peals of laughter when we went down the list of nicknames Papa gave his children…all animal nicknames.  The picture of Papa sitting out at the woodpile is etched in my memory.  I see it often, and I wish so that I had known him so I could know you better now.  How often have we laughed about that little red wagon that he got you for hauling wood.  I know you loved it.  I remember the yellow piggy bank that Mama gave me for Christmas and her peaceful smile.  I always wondered what she was thinking and what her life had been like.  What would she have changed?  What was precious to her, and what did she remember every day?

You were a feisty girl…then and now. Tart and to the point you were.  I remember the stories you told of trying to contain Mary. It did not matter what kind of supervision she got, she still gave herself the famous haircut and then later sat on the railroad tracks with all family members fanning out through the farm to rescue her.  Remember, too, the time she fell off the porch into the water and mud, and there was some close escape with the car, the details of which you will have to tell.  I love the story of your finding Gene’s wedding ring at the grocery store.  That, in itself, is a magical story. It has to be one in a million for your brother-in-law to lose his wedding ring, and then you are the one to take it home in a grocery bag.  Things like that were always happening to you.  Maybe you had a bit of Irish fairy dust sprinkled on you along the way.  You told of how much you loved Alma.  You two were the closest in age.  That love did not prevent a big fight over the broken lanterns, though.  It seems two little girls got a big dose of discipline that night.  Aunt Doll was a big part of your life.  How much do we appreciate the times she and Uncle F.C. stopped by to check on you and Daddy.  I remember visiting them in Sumter at their first house and taking the billowing clothes off the line.  I was just a little girl, but it is still a warm memory.  Aunt Doll and Uncle F.C. were so generous of thought and deed.  The mountain visits were always so special, and I can remember so many birthday cards and Christmas cards. You kept them all.  I remember that they came to see Daddy that horrible March day before he died.  That memory, too, is one I will always carry with me.    

Uncle James, Uncle Sam, Uncle Vardell, Uncle Junior, Uncle Billy, and Uncle Paul were the boys in the family.  I know you wanted to spend more time with them.  Everything works out it seems, so now you are getting your chance. I am so happy to be a part of that.  Wanda, Lizzie, and Vivian, your sisters-in-law, have been there for you.  They have provided comfort and caring.  It is a great blessing to have extended family members to lean on.

And finally, no one can forget the story of how Uncle Vardell arranged that famous movie date for you and Daddy.  It appears that Daddy first sighted you riding around the yard on your blue bicycle bicycle.  We have laughed endlessly about you and that bicycle.  You, of course, said you looked at Daddy and it was love at first sight.  All I know is that he was your heart and soul for 54 years.  I know you miss him very much.  There will never again be a pair like you two.

I want to say that I admire how hard you have worked.  You have given birth to four children and nursed Daddy when he was dying. You have never complained.  You have sacrificed everything.  Perhaps some people do not understand that, but I do.  I want you to know that I recognize how much courage you have. You have suffered great loss and disappointment, but you lived your life the way you saw fit.  That is all any of us can do. One thing I remember your saying when I was a child was “life is like a vapor”.  You were so right.  Now, it seems impossible, but we are celebrating number seventy-three.  If I could, I would give you seventy-three more.  You are my mother and I love you.  Amanda and I wish you the happiest of birthdays.  As the Message says, “she shall rejoice in time to come.”  That is my birthday wish for you.

Always!                                              

finding home...

 "Caroline was stung by a yellow jacket today."  Words written by a little boy away at camp.  When my mother became ill, I asked her if I could keep her cards and letters.  The words she had safeguarded were magic potions for me, and I could not bear to part with them.  So, one winter's day I sat on the floor and relived my life.  As I was going through the stack, a postcard fell out, and I saw my brother's handwriting on the back. She had kept it all these years!  It was nestled among her other memories, and holding it in my hands I think I understood my mother  for the first time.  I have been searching for home all my life.  Somehow a bit of it was contained in that yellowed postcard written by a small child a lifetime ago and sent home to parents who were doing the best they could.  Now, I am living a life of wonder by the sea.  Oh, I love the adventure.  I'm excited about the freedom.  But I know now more than ever that what I really need is home.  And home is always another person.

finding silence...

This is my 72nd day without a television!  As I sit at my computer and type, I hear the "silent" wind as it wraps itself around the building.  It groans and moans and tells only God knows what story.  The lone egret I have named Soon or Now (depending on his behavior and the direction in which he faces) stands as a silent sentinel in the marsh.  He is there to honor a friend, and he stubbornly refuses to divulge what's on his mind...just like the friend.  He watches in silence.  My thoughts are wild and free...clanging around in my head in a totally boisterous state.  There is no silence there.  As the color of the marsh grass changes and the island readies itself for the long rest of fall and winter, I ask myself how I feel about all this contemplation and analysis...all this silence...the words won't come.  Not just quite yet.

finding folly...

At last!  How could it have been so simple and I not have know it?  Here I am...with a new life, a new view, not too much of the old baggage hanging on.  I cried when I let it all go, but it feels so right now.  Is it perfect?  No!  Do I still wonder how certain things will play out?  Yes!  But I have made that giant leap of faith that I have always heard about but never had the courage to claim.  This is the moment I have been waiting for my whole life.  Here I am afloat on a tiny island, and I am getting more daring with each day and loving it...