“Hey! Nice to see you! Isn’t this new play structure wonderful?”
“Do you live around here?” She helped one of her two navigate the climbing wall.
“Yes, that house on the corner. How about you?”
She pointed in the opposite direction and said they lived that way. “Geez, I guess the last time I saw you was at the grocery store? How’ve you been? Is Jen playing hooky today?”
“We’ve been homeschooling for about four years now.” I turned to watch Jen navigate the monkey bars. Continue reading →
I was cutting grass, head down, thinking about how the warm weather had finally gotten here as he wheeled around the corner on his scooter. I looked up to see a seven year old wearing a wrinkled, too small t-shirt and an expectant look on his face. I quit cutting and said, “How are you this morning?” He bounced in place, hopping on and off his scooter, “I’m okay. I wish I could play with my friends that live over there.” He pointed to a house a few doors down. “I bet you do. Maybe they like to sleep in on Saturday mornings. A lot of folks do that. It feels good, don’t you think?” He looked at me as he thought about it, “Yeah, I guess it does.”
And because I wanted to get my chores done so I could play in the sun, I went back to cutting the grass. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me until he gave up and went back home.
A few minutes later, I heard the sounds of a basketball being dribbled around the corner. The sound kept getting louder. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t look up at him. I can give you all the reasons why I didn’t. I’m not convinced that I could justify my reasons.
I kept cutting grass with my head down, listening to the basketball, afraid to strike up another conversation. If I chatted with him, he’d end up hanging in our driveway, drawing chalk smiley faces, eating cinnamony toast and finagling an invite to lunch. Only that’s not what he was hungry for. I know what he was hungry for. He was hungry for attention. Why else would a seven year old bounce a basketball in front of a middle-aged woman that he didn’t know – for what seemed like five solid minutes? Continue reading →
She hadn’t heard the ticking of a biological clock. She didn’t have one.
She rarely babysat as a kid. She never craved holding a newborn. She didn’t know what to do around kids. When she married at 33, she was pretty certain she wouldn’t be starting a family. That was fine with her.* He had adult children from a previous marriage, so he wasn’t pushing to start a second family. She has no recollection of discussing babies with him. Perhaps they both assumed that wasn’t on the table.
__________
As she looks back, she wonders if – in lieu of a ticking biological clock – what she heard were faint echos coming from a deep cavern. “Helloooo up there. Is this all there is? Is this the amount of love you might ever expect to receive?” And quieter still, the softest whisper that said, “Can you expect to survive on so little human contact or connection?” Continue reading →
“Margaret, just a skinny sliver. Please! I wish I’d never discovered the deliciousness of your pies.”
Margaret chuckled and handed Gladys a plate with the smallest slice of lemon meringue. “Gladys, why do you still worry about your figure? Is that not one of the bonuses of being on this side? By the way, dear, what is your favorite kind?”
“Well, are we talking pie or men?” Gladys laughed as she watched Margaret wince.
“Oh, my! Well, I never. Well, sometimes I do. Oh! listen to me. I’m all flustered and Jon and Basil aren’t even here.” Gladys wiped the pie server on a cloth. “Since you brought it up, dear, what is your favorite kind – or is it type – of man?” Margaret fanned herself and adjusted her apron.
“Relax, Margaret. The guys won’t hear us. And so what if they did.” Gladys dabbed the corner of her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “In my experience, women and men have a type. No matter how many relationships they may have, their partners usually fall into the same category. Maybe he prefers brunettes. Maybe she prefers the quiet type. He needs to be mothered. She keeps trying to find the guy just like her dad. We all have a type.” Gladys reached for her bag to find a cigarette. Continue reading →
Dear Jesse,
I like how you set out to read more and then started reading more. I watch you walk into the library. I know you are planning to look for some fantasy fiction or maybe a good mystery. I see you standing in front of the ‘New Books’ section. I see your eyes scanning the shelves. I watch as your hand reaches up to grab yet another non-fiction about narcissism or relationships or parenting.
Dear heart, you’ve read enough. You’ve seen the patterns. You know that the reason you keep ending up with narcissists in your life is because that’s what you learned as a kid.
Yeah, I know you are gun-shy about getting into a new relationship. That’s certainly understandable. All the reading in the world won’t prepare you for the next time. Your heart will know when it’s time. I can’t tell you how a new relationship might turn out. That’s not my job. It’s your job to get out there and keep trying.
She read the quote again. She closed the laptop and walked over to the peely-paint cupboard that held art supplies and construction paper. What color should she pick? She settled on purple. She looked for a marker in the Kerr jar on the kitchen table. She wanted something bold – a marker that would yell. She found a juicy dark blue and purposefully wrote the quote.
She taped the quote next to the others that read: That is not my journey, NMP – not my problem, and No steamrollers!
As she re-read the quotes, she visualized a thick twisted rope. The strands of rope were different colors, twined together to make a rope as thick as her wrist. Each color represented something or someone that she’d allowed to drag her to where she found herself today.
The black represented every one-sided, caustic, demanding, life-sucking relationship she’d ever been in – the narcissists.
The charcoal symbolized her limiting self-talk.
The brown represented her expectations – going as far back as childhood – about what she thought her life would be.
The grey stood for definitions of who she was – assigned to her by others.
The burnt orange represented her lack of self-confidence.
The dark green was every negative, gossip-filled conversation that she hadn’t had the guts to excuse herself from.
She looked back at the quote.
Let go or be dragged.
She wondered where she’d be if she hadn’t allowed that rope to drag her where she is today. She laughed and told herself, “Well, that’s a waste of time. You could spend the rest of the day wondering where you could have gone, or you could pull out a pair of scissors and cut that rope apart.”
The burnt orange was the first to go, followed by the grey and the dark green. The brown was the most fun to cut. She ceremoniously snipped the brown and felt her mood brighten. There would be new doors to open once she locked the door on expectations.
The charcoal would take some effort. She’d have to sharpen the scissors for that one. Limiting self-talk had been her constant companion. With sharper scissors, she began to snip the threads of the charcoal strand.
She snipped – “You’re not good enough.”
She cut – “You’re an inconvenience.”
She removed – “Why aren’t you more like everyone else?”
She saw charcoal threads scattered on the floor at her feet. She noticed that the charcoal strand was tightly connected to the black strand. She kept cutting.
The black strand was the thickest – requiring more than a pair of scissors.
As of this writing, she’s still hacking away at the black strand.
Let go or be dragged.
“What did dad want?”
I put the cell down and said, “Well, he wants to come by here and pick up some of Will’s sketches. He wants to make copies of them.”
Silence….
“Jen, are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine,” spoken like a mini-me.
“Jen, it would make sense to get your feelings hurt when your dad comes over here, plucks some of Will’s sketches off the kitchen wall – that hang right next to your sketches – without his asking to take any of your work. That would hurt feelings. You can admit that.”
“I know.”
A couple hours later…
“Guys! I don’t know what to do here. I have been working on avoiding anything negative. I try to banish negative self-talk and avoid negative conversations. I’m trying to make progress here. I don’t want a cloud hanging over this happy sanctuary that is our home.
Jen, you are the most positive person I know. Will, you don’t have a negative bone in your body. But how do I handle it when something like this happens with your dad? How do I avoid any discussion about this?
If I let it slide by without acknowledging the potential for hurt feelings, it appears that I’m fine with his actions. And that’s definitely not the case.
If I bring it to light, then I can’t do so without dipping into the negative.
What would you do?”
Will looks up from his work, “Well, we have to talk about it so that Jen knows that we don’t agree with how he treats her. It sucks, and it’s not right.”
Jen comes out from the kitchen, “We have to talk about it so that we don’t end up being crappy parents with our own kids. We have to know what to avoid, but we don’t have to dwell on it. We can just talk about it and move on and not let the negative take over.”
“What’ll ya have?”
“Jack on the rocks. And some advice. Please.”
“Well, the Jack is easy. We’ll see how I do on the advice. What’s up?”
“I’ve been seeing an amazing woman. She’s smart, funny, beautiful, independent. She has friends and she’s tight with her family. She’s had a few relationships, so she’s already worked through stuff. Thing is… I dunno.”
“Ah…. sounds like I better leave the bottle of Jack right here. I’ll be back.” Continue reading →
“Mom, you know what I noticed about you? You are organized.”
I have to be organized.
I know when the cat needs shots; when to change the furnace filter; the best time to plant sweet pea seeds (weather permitting); and when the frog needs his (or her?) water changed. Continue reading →
“Have you noticed the anger coming out of them? They are all mad.” Gladys reached into her beaded bag for a cigarette.
Jon squirted oil on his bearings and gave the wheel a spin. “Why are they so angry? They’re alive. Isn’t that enough to keep ’em from being mad?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, Jon. But all of them are angry. Some of them keep the anger bottled up. Some of them explode at the first provocation. It’s a shame, really. And by the way, I’ve made some fresh pie today – French Silk. That was my husband’s favorite. I made French Silk for every one of his birthdays. In fact, I often made him French Silk when he was angry about something. That’d do the trick every time.” Margaret reached behind to re-tie her flowered apron.
Jon put down his board and walked to Margaret’s side, “My mom made a chocolate pie. Is that what that is? I’d love some.” He takes a slice and leans against a grave marker. “So, Gladys, what are they mad about?”
Gladys exhales and says, “It’s more about who they are mad at. They are mad at their boss, or their boyfriend. Most often they are mad at their husband. A lot are mad at their mother or father. Hell, they’re mad at everyone.” Continue reading →
The Incredible Shrinking WomanShe’d grown accustomed to being invisible. Invisibility was normal. She learned that in childhood. In her marriage, she was invisible to her partner, so she thought that was normal, too.
The INFJ
Most INFJs enjoy being invisible. INFJs are comfortable staying in the background. Continue reading →
“So then I switched from the soft, muted technique you see here, to a palette knife technique. Do you see how it catches the light? Do you see the depth as the light changes? It’s fun to switch techniques and infuse new energy into the process.”
“I’m getting away from glassing each piece. I’m working on this new canvas that I found. Now I can work on a much larger scale. This canvas is bringing my work to a larger level.”
“I was out taking photos of buffalo for this sculpture and it turns out that it had been twenty years since the last set of bison twins. Those are the babies you see in that piece.”
These are quotes from three different artists. Continue reading →
She’d walked on eggshells in hiking boots. She’d walked across eggshells in heels. She’d even walked on eggshells in bare feet. It didn’t matter how delicately she stepped. She’d tried to step around them. She knew the eggshells would cut the soles of her feet. And still – every day – she walked on eggshells.
She could tell you how long she’d been at it – since before she’d married him.
Every morning, she’d walk into the kitchen and there they were – the shells scattered across the hardwoods. She would step around them and grab for the broom. She’d sweep up the pile as he was leaving for work. All day long, she’d walk through the kitchen and notice that the shells were gone, but the minute she heard his car in the drive, the shells would reappear.
She’d find herself stepping over eggshells for the rest of the evening. She’d serve his dinner while crunching over shells. She’d clean up the kitchen while stepping on still more shells. Most nights, there was nothing she could do or say that would make them go away. But once in a great while, she’d do something right – she couldn’t even tell you what it was, but she’d look over her shoulder and the shells would be gone. Continue reading →
“Even if it was legal, even if they had the money to do it, kids could never run a business because adults just don’t respect them. Kinda like boys don’t respect girls. Same thing.”
I reach over to turn down the radio. “Jen, why do you say that?” I look at Will, “You gotta slow down a bit, it’s 25 in this neighborhood.”
“Well, I guess grownups don’t respect kids cuz they think kids can’t handle responsibilities. They say stuff like, ‘You can’t do that, you’re still a kid.'”
“How is that like boys not respecting girls?” I turn back to watch the traffic, “Nice job on that lane-change there, Will. Good job remembering to signal.”
“Like if some boys are playing a hunting game on TV and a girl walks up and says, ‘Can I play?’ and the boys say, ‘No, it’s for boys.’ It’s the same thing.”
We are waiting for the light to change and Will chimes in, “Maybe adults think kids can’t handle responsibilities because they are really worried that they aren’t handling responsibilities well. Maybe the boys worry that the girls’ll be better at the hunting game?”
“How do you two come up with this stuff?“
Jen looked out the window and laughed, “It’s all pretty obvious, mom.”
