From My Journal: Family

Say the word “Family,” and a thousand complex emotions surface. Our childhood family never leaves us, no matter how hard we try to replace this first story with another one. When my sister says that she's coming for a visit, I, a woman in her sixties, immediately revert to the competitive, yet vulnerable sibling. Dysfunctional entwined patterns unwind and I begin to feel less than adequate, unworthy, wishing for a loving appreciation of my real self from this sister who has never wanted to know or touch my authenticity.

And so I hide my truth, my do-over family's truth. I stuff down the anger over incidents past and try with the greatest difficulty to reach for that bite of forgiveness. It's time to let go, to forget. But like a rapid dog's teeth clamped onto my shoulder bone, the remembering, the reasons I dislike this sister remain.

When I have made myself vulnerable – sent books, shared my writing or written personal e-mails, I have received silence in response. When our mother died, we were able to reach across the divide and bring ourselves closer together. I thought we had made it, returned to each other as the younger, intimate sisters we once were. A few phone calls later comes the humming of a steady, dull, dial tone instead of words. One birthday call a year; only calls with a rational purpose other than connection.

The desire for connection was voiced on her end, but the actions fell flat. Several summers in a row, she said she was coming for a visit. Several summers in a row, I planned and spruced. Last minute caving, excuses on her part...no money for air fair...giving the free ticket to her son. And so I felt unworthy of her money, unworthy of her time. But she's coming now. Coming with the added bonus of one of her former Tucson home-tutored students and his family living nearby. I am trying to understand. I love my students; I easily bond with them and their families. I understand. But this sudden ability to easily buy the air fair; this sudden ability to take a bus from Portland to here because we decided to simplify the visit by putting ourselves up in Portland, does give me pause.

I succumb to archaic patterns of low esteem. Haven't I created a rich life apart from my upbringing? Apart from the fatherly rage and criticism, the motherly neglect and the hiding of our dysfunction to the outside world? Apart from the siblings who rallied together and then separated without sharing our true stories? Our everything's fine smiles are plastered across our faces now. We don't really want to know who we are. I am the odd, reflective, talkative one who doesn't live as materially rich or who lives an alternative life style...alternative only because we haven't hopped on the band wagon of America's cultural norm of status and achievement.

Since my sister's visit announcement and since reading the latest blog post on “Courage to Create” which suggested we experience a “blessings week,” I have been driving to and from my students thinking about how my family is a blessing. With my current, do-over family, the blessing rating is high. My husband is beyond supportive; he is on a spiritual plane with access to the most patient, compassionate listening devices. My edgy thinking, also extremely compassionate, intuitively wise Queer daughter has been and continues to be my opener into new experiences and life-lesson teacher. So with this family, I am beyond blessed. But what about my sister and my family of origin? I'm looking for clues all day long as I teach at one house and another while hopping back in my car in between. From the books my students are reading (The Color Purple, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Book Thief), I know family is what we make it to be. From one of my parents at the close of the day, after discussing how we lay blame during hard economic times and the American blame these days has been illegal immigrants, I fully nod as she says, “We are all human. We are really all one human family.”

OK, I get how blessed I am to have the families and students I work with daily and I get how blessed I am to understand the interconnection between all earth dwellers...but I'm still having trouble placing my sister into this philosophical belief. I suppose it comes from my stubborn nature, my not letting go of grudges, my not relaxing into myself and saying, “Fuck it, I am who I am and I lead my life as I lead it and it doesn't matter what this sister thinks.” But this sounds crude and not quite what I had in mind. I have never sworn at my childhood family and I probably never will. Perhaps one has to feel totally comfortable with someone to be able to swear at them.

My family frustration is softening. Writing and time does that. I'm owning up to my part in the family drama. I can reach out more; I can continue to risk more, be more honest. I can be a compassionate listener. Or...I can simply admit there is no reason to fight for intimacy when it isn't there. I can admit who my supportive family members are and let go of the rest. Unfortunately, I am programmed to believe only biology counts, and this pull is strong. Yet it is my women friends who are the sisters I was meant to have. It has never been easy to be the person I am because I tend to be my “self” with everyone. I have a hard time being false or merely “social.” As my husband can attest, I blurt out my inner thoughts without consequence. And I have paid the price of my forthrightness. What it all comes down to is forgiving “me” and seeing “me” as my own first blessing. I have given to families, tried to save families (including my biological one), created my own family, given widely to a community circle of open, sensitive, caring people. One of my dearest sister friends gave me a treasured piece of wisdom: “Take what you get and let it be enough!” And this is my answer to my family dilemma: quit trying to shape my sister, brother, nieces, nephews into what I hoped they might be. And let go of the person I wished I could be with them.

© 2012

From My Journal: Questions

Our May days have caught the warm summer fever while the nights are still bowing down to winter's late chill. My body becomes infused with the sun and wants to play hooky rather than teach. Between students I pick a few garden weeds, water or stand on the front deck and meditate upon the surrounding trees. Life seems straight forward when I first greet the morning and as I mosey around my garden admiring my baby vegetable starts and newly blooming flowers. But in the evenings as darkness falls and I close the curtains, I often turn inside to greet the underside of warmth.

Why is it that now in my sixties I think constantly of death? Certainly in my twenties I had occasional philosophical lapses into what my life was all about and its eventual end. But time seemed stretched towards an open eternal future. Reaching sixty was like someone knocked on my door and announced the seemingly long years have been taken away and you have only minutes left. No doubt this realization comes at the appropriate life stage, but it sucks!

What sucks is my obsession with the end rather than a more dedicated concentration upon my living. Is this what I am trying to do, make the switch from knowing death is near to appreciating each day's gifts? I've always been a meditator, a constant, churning thinker. In this regard I believe those who don't read or don't put too much weight upon thought have the edge here. Animals live in the moment as do special needs beings and children. Knowing less about the workings of the world can be an advantage. Is it because I know more than I did in my youth that I feel the presence of darkness more? Has my philosophical pondering increased or has this characteristic always been with me?

At one point several months ago I let my fears surrounding death literally eat me alive with anxious, sleepless nights. Recently I have found a calmer center where I return when the fears begin. I hush my over-dramatic inclinations with soothing phrases such as “your youthful spirit is on the rise; you have decades left to witness nature's miracles; it's only the abundant present that matters and presently you are abundantly alive. In truth I know death is on the near horizon and from the moment of birth this is so; but from where I stand, the horizon remains in the future. When I try to gobble the future, I find I am often spitting out the contents in distaste. When I focus my energy, my thoughts on the presented present, the eating is more delicious and enjoyable.

Why do simple lessons take the longest to digest? I fling open the Star Room curtains and there right in front of me is an answer. There are newly formed yellow, rose blossoms on my climbing rose. I gasp as I see these blooms for I hadn't noticed them before. To notice, to see, to exclaim, to feel awe. Life doesn't ask much of us, but it is eternally there for the asking. Why do I forget to open my eyes? Why can't I stop my mind from ruining the surprises? Or rather why can't I remember how easy it can be to stop the mind? All I have to do is to become engrossed in love, in passion, in people, in nature, in opening windows.

© 2012

From My Journal: No Ordinary Hike

On the weekend of the super full Beltane moon, Dan and I went for a forest hike. This turned out to be no ordinary nature walk, but rather the taking of communion by a wide community. Our beloved naturalist, William Sullivan, had written an article earlier in the week for our local paper about three picturesque waterfalls near Cottage Grove. All three waterfalls were close by one another, and thus made for a day of being immersed in lush cedar and fir greenery edging quietly lapping creeks and ending each time with the grand, powerful, fountain cascade of water.

Our abundant rains made the first trail a mud bath, but as our shoes found the drier curves, the slower pace gave us time to drink in the beauty of the blooming trillium and the creative patterns of the ferns. We were heading first to Spirit Falls and the spirit of the day began to slowly unfold with the other hikers we met. As my husband mentioned, everyone will be seeking these trails after Sullivan's words of encouragement. He was right, of course, for each of the hikes brought more and more of the city populace to these woods.

Nearing the first waterfall, people would tell us of its beauty and how worth the slog through the oozing dirt. One older couple dressed in white told us this was their first hike in a decade. She had stopped to take a gulp of her inhaler and I noticed that the seat of her pants was blotched with brown, but their smiles of contentment were infectious. Quietly we stood near Spirit Falls and felt the mist kiss our faces. The creek roared louder here and pools of water gathered around the rock beds beneath. Everyone who came gave out sighs of gratitude for the wondrous day.

On the route back, it was our turn to mention the awaiting reward. And it was our turn to have a friend fall face forward in the mud. He got up, pants dirt covered, with grace and humor. He had a visible story to share with the other on-coming hikers who mentioned the use of walking sticks found at the trail's start. At our car, we laughed with the elder, mud bitten couple, giving them a cheer as they made it to the end of this first walk and talked with a Cottage Grove pair who had never heard of William Sullivan.

Back in the car, we drove to the beginning of the next hike to Moon Falls. Here the trail parking was near overflowing. As we started up the less muddy path, our local couple came beaming towards us. “You made it!” they laughed. “This falls is even more spectacular.” A ways up the trail came another younger couple who we had seen on our first hike. I gave them a sign of recognition. Most of the time Dan and I love to have nature all to ourselves, but this day felt special. Everyone we were meeting were friendly and open. We each knew how the others felt about the rare beauty they were all enjoying. We were becoming a community of earth dwellers who treasured and respected her gifts. We were also becoming a community who showed compassion if someone fell or gave encouragement for striding above aging or lovingly offered ideas for maneuvering the obstacles along the path.

“Why can't we carry these outdoor lessons of care back to the city,” I wondered. Why can't people support and love each other no matter our age, rank or serial number? From high above us, Moon Falls gushed with the power of the dozens of glaciers from whence it originated. Hikers came and respectfully gave each other private space for gazing, for snacking, for quiet conversations and meditating. To give each other space, to give each other connection, to give each other respect. This is the meaning of humanity.

© 2012

A True Mother's Day

I'm sitting with one of my students who is working on a journal writing assignment when I hear the ding of my cell phone. It's a rare text from daughter Aspen. She tells me J.C. Penney has included a same sex couple in their Mother's Day promo catalog. I'd received this catalog earlier in the week, but had merely skimmed it. The diversity of families: Indian American, African American, White American had impressed me, but I hadn't read the accompanying bios. I wrote a quick text reply about how great JCP is and then after teaching rushed home to review the catalog.

Since the JCP catalog was for Mother's Day, all I had first seen was a catalog filled with pictures of mothers, grandmothers, daughters and granddaughters. I hadn't noticed anything unusual. And not noticing is really an appropriate statement. For aren't all families, isn't all love the same whether gay or straight? The caption I now read begins: “You'll often find Wendi, her partner, Maggie, and daughters elbow-deep in paint, clay or mosaics. 'Even as babies, the girls toddled around in diapers, covered in paint,' said Wendi. They come from a long line of artists, which includes grandma Carolyn....” What this fashion photo, and all the other family photo bios, told me is: “Here is just another busy, happy family.” I couldn't wait to share this news with my husband, and I couldn't wait to e-mail my daughter.

The JCP ad campaign gives me such a heart-felt glow of hope. And I would hope this diversity appreciating campaign makes my gay daughter feel respected in her work place. JCP is daring to reach out to the “real melting pot America” and when I say “dare” I know there will certainly be people (and are people) who will refuse to shop at an inclusive JCP store.

As the mother of a lesbian, I am always baffled by the hurtful misconceptions surrounding what it means to be LGBTQ. I have often envisioned sitting down with fundamentally conservative mothers and simply asking: “Do you love your daughters? So do I...Do you want your daughters to be safe and happy? So do I...Do you want your daughters to find the right life partner and if they so choose to create and have a loving family? So do I.” Our human living is extremely short and doesn't it make more sense to fill it up with joy and love and laughter rather than sorrow and hate and tears?

I've written often about how it is only love and belonging everyone graves. Black, brown, red, white, gay, straight, bisexual, male, female, transgender, unisex, we are all human, all similar, all wanting this one fulfilling life. I really have never understood why we continually want to destroy rather than create or criticize others rather than enjoy the precious earthly time we have been given.

Most mothers know that the connections they have with their children are deeper, more searingly intimate than any other relationships they have ever had before or will ever have. So it is my belief that mothers will and must change society's acceptance of diversity. If you love your child, why would you want hatred or hurt towards him or her by another, and thus, why would you want to teach them to hate or hurt others? Mothers must bring us back to the basics of common sense and common decency. Wouldn't these beliefs allow us to celebrate a true Mothers' Day? © 2012

From My Journal: Moments of Being

As I wash the morning's dishes, I look out my kitchen window and observe an elderly lady walking down our street. She is charmingly dressed in a light purple jacket with a red cloth hat sitting atop her short silver hair. She stops, turns around and looks up at the flowering plum trees. A huge smile crosses her face and accents her sparkling eyes. Clearly she is absorbing this moment for all it's worth. Her happiness becomes my happiness, for I completely understand her emotions: Each day of living is beyond precious, when we enter our older years. I also find I carry an immense amount of gratitude for each leaf, each blossom, each ounce of beauty, I see.

Though I tend to believe that “this knowing life is fleeting and precious” message is reserved for our senior years, I discovered yesterday afternoon this may not be so. Dan and I attended the Eugene Symphony earlier in the week where the now grownup violin prodigy, Midori Goto, played Jean Sibelius' Violin Concerto in D Minor, Op. 47. I sat on the edge of my seat watching Midori completely lose herself and become one with her instrument. Her playing was breathtaking; the emotion she somehow shared with us caught me by surprise, and I felt hot tears rolling down my cheeks. It was announced that Midori has been undertaking a week long residence in Eugene, working with both the Eugene Symphony and the Youth Symphony. She has visited, worked with and inspired string classes throughout the local school districts, and on Saturday afternoon her presence in our community would culminate in a performance with our Youth Symphony.

So there we were Saturday, listening once again to the mesmerizing Midori and hearing first hand evidence of her inspiration upon Eugene's young musicians. It was between pieces that the director of our Arts Umbrella, an elementary string teacher and a young first year string student appeared on the stage. They were there to testify to Midori's impact. It was the third grade boy's words which caught my attention. “What was it like having Midori come to your string class?” he was asked. “It was a rare gift. It's something I won't forget. It's like the memory was written in pen and not pencil. It won't easily be erased.” Out of the mouths of babes come wisdom. This boy knew the treasure of time he had been given...it might not come again...it had to be savored and stored.

Memory and time are like a game being played by the trickster coyote. We think we can grab those moments, hold onto them, at least vividly remember them, until poof, we are onto the next remembrance. I try to cushion and preserve my memories via words. This briefly frames those amazing moments in my mind, recolors them in my mental coloring book, but then in the future do I remember to reread, reexamine these words? I have already forgotten so many past events I swore I would never forget. All I have I tell myself are these present happenings.

But this morning as we take a long walk through the lovely falling blossoms and feel the sun peeking through the clouded sky, we walk past these neighborhood apartments and I remember. I remember what lay beneath the current taller, ugly buildings. There on this corner lot was this modest shake-sided house with the sweetest garden. The garden was actually larger than the living quarters with rows of vegetables and flowers, miniature wind mills, castles, animal statues...a garden for the oohs and aahs of children and child-like grown ups passing by. And we did pass by, for I regularly took my daughter and the children from my preschool here as part of our magical neighborhood walks. This memory, the Virginia Woolf “moments of being” do live on, I think, as we round the corner and cross the cemented driveway. And all I have to do is to be aware, to be ready to open my eyes and to hold out my arms to receive all the preciously given gifts.

© 2012

Picking Flowers

(Here is a sweet, nostalgic essay written in 1993 when my daughter was four.)

It is one of those Autumn mornings where the sky, blotched with wispy clouds, is a deep cool blue and the trees' green leaves are tinged with yellow/orange hues. I suggest to my daughter, Aspen Louise, that we go for a walk. Naturally, my idea of a walk and my daughter's understanding of the word turn out to be completely different. I get out the stroller, even though Aspen is four, and envision pushing her along at a brisk pace so I can get some exercise. My daughter brings Carolina, her hand sewn cloth doll, and settles cozily into the stroller seat. What a lovely day for a fast walk, I think. We'll be back in thirty minutes.

I begin pushing my daughter down the sidewalk, pointing out this cloud and that tree, talking about the change from summer to winter. We notice cats lounging in the warm sun and squirrels chasing each other up twisted pine branches. I am beginning to work up a sweat and Aspen seems perfectly content to sit and ride. Then, after taking a shortcut through our fairgrounds, we come upon a street which borders a river canal. I promise Aspen we will see ducks. Yes, I promise her we will SEE lots of things. But I don't mean we'll stop and try to be part of the scenery we are passing.

Suddenly Aspen isn't comfortable anymore with just sitting. We put her doll in the stroller and she pushes it gently and slowly. Now we aren't going in a straight line, but rather we are meandering to the left and to the right.

“Watch out for bicycles and people,” I warn her.

She jerks to a stop and begins picking a few wild flowers.

“That flower is called Queen Anne's Lace,” I mention, sounding like a botany professor.

But before I can finish my mini lecture, she is excitedly telling me about the possibility that there might be blackberries.

“Blackberries are gone because summer has ended,” I reply with authority. I am starting to realize my exercise walk is deteriorating rapidly.

“Don't you want to get back into the stroller?” I implore. No, she definitely has other plans.

My dear daughter has found some purple thistle weed. She picks one stem and then breaks out into a wonderfully joyous smile as she discovers there are several more down the road.

“These are for Daddy,” she declares proudly after gathering five thistle weeds.

“Let's keep going. I'm sure there's ducks on the other side of the canal,” I suggest.

“But I want to pick blackberries,” she insists.

As a relatively new mother I never want to disappoint my child. “OK,” I say, “there's some blackberry bushes over there; but I'm sure the blackberries are all gone by now.”

Aspen strides undaunted to the blackberry haven on the edge of the canal. By this time I discover I am the one pushing the doll in the stroller. When I reach Aspen she is carefully examining each bush for its possible juicy remains.

“I'm afraid the berries are dried up,” I say trying to sound remorseful rather than right.

“Look, Mom, there's a berry.”

To my surprised eye I reach over and hand her the berry. We walk on and look for more. One, two, three, four five berries!

“Aspen, it's still blackberry season,” I say hugging her. A knowing smile of magic and self-assurance crosses her sweet face.

She climbs back into the stroller for a short ride across the street to the continuation of the river canal. On this side there are ducks and ducks and more ducks.

She gets up and ambles to the bank: “There's a hole in the river for the ducks to walk through.” I wish we had brought some cracked corn, but in my haste to get out the door I forgot it.

“Wouldn't it be nice to be a duck,” I suggest, “just floating and drifting in the lazy sun?”

“I want to be a bird and fly,” replies Aspen.

We wander slowly now and see what appears to be a baby blue heron. We pause and watch it strut from rock to rock. Then Aspen finds some beautiful blue flowers and picks five to go with her original bouquet.

Our walk is turning into a nature stroll and my hurry to have it end is subsiding. This time I point out to Aspen that up ahead there appears to be a huge blackberry bush. I believe my daughter's magic touch will certainly produce an abundance of the desired fruit. We skip and finally run to our destination. The many clumped together bushes are as big as a family of giants. Aspen and I both delightfully find and eat several ripe berries.

Our faces smeared with blackberry juice, we get home and it has been more than an hour since we have been gone. Aspen is beaming and I am beaming too. She insists on calling Daddy at work to tell him we have found blackberries. I wish I could have the faith and the belief of my child in life's ordinary, positive wonder. How can I forget so easily about everyday hidden treasures?

“We have to bring Daddy to the giant blackberry bush.”

“Yes,” I reply, “let's bring him there this weekend.”

“But we have to start from the beginning,” insists my daughter, “and do the whole walk and pick flowers.”

“Yes,” I smile.

© 2012

From My Journal: On The Streets

April 12, 2012: There's a note on the kitchen table: Expresso machine not working! I already plan to swing by the Eugene School District Education Center to drop off a book I no longer need and so going for coffee nearby seems written in the stars. Just as I reach the train tracks, the red light starts flashing and I think, “Damn! Caught by a train.” On the other side of the tracks comes this young father with his baby in a buggy. He looks down the track and motions me forward. I wave my thank you as I drive across the tracks and he gives me the hugest smile. My day is made.

Even before my interaction, as I observed this young father out walking his child, I was already thinking how far fathers have come in their participation as parents. My mother, of course, did it all while my father lounged in his leather chair waiting for dinner to be served. But now I see young men throughout my neighborhood with babies strapped to their chests or bouncing in their backpack carriers. There are several women in my women's groups who are the main breadwinners of their families while their husbands hold down the household and care for the children.

On the way home from getting my coffee, I see this young father once again and we both broaden our expressions of happiness as we knowingly greet each other. I love my neighborhood streets. I love running into transient-appearing Peter on his bicycle who stops and tells me all about his family... a family I have never met. Peter has medium length, unkept hair, wears grungy clothes and lives with the help of food boxes. But he is the nicest man and I know he'd help out if neighbors needed him. Then there is/was this old hippy a few blocks down who “became sober” as he put it and started an imaginative garden. This garden has evolved over the years with tiny ponds and bridges, pieces of glass and found stones, all while incorporating the natural trunks, roots, grass of his surroundings. I haven't run into him this year and my intuition tells me he has passed on. But his garden remains and this is his legacy to the neighborhood.

One of my major hang ups is ever yearning for family and community. I feel estranged from my siblings, my parents are no longer here and though I know my daughter loves us, she is in her twenties, in the the middle of working, attending college, discovering who she is, not sleeping, having a girl friend, etc. So my home, my neighborhood, my community is where I am. And on these positive, bright morning days, I see that my family is here.

I decide to buy a travel mug from our local Wandering Goat Coffee since I gave one mug to my dear husband and the other to my dear daughter. I'm waiting for my latte when in walks Dan with a surprise kiss. He is definitely my family...even more than family...he is my soul mate and I know I am damn lucky to have found him over thirty years ago. We sit briefly at one of the tables with the sun streaming in through the window, sipping and connecting; then he walks back to his work truck and I to my car. My new travel mug fits perfectly in the container by my seat and I'm enjoying a swallow of coffee each time I come to a red light. Eugene, Oregon is such a down home town. Wandering Goat has dread locks, long hair, short and cropped hair, hippies, straight...I'm dressed for teaching with my black jeans and blue jacket and look so much more professional than most in the cafe. But we earth dwellers are really all the same and I never feel uncomfortable except when I am obviously with the very rich.

My sometimes hang ups about family extend to my hang ups about the upper class. My dad was a working man and we were a working class family. So I suppose this is the reason I gravitate to your everyday, average Joe or Jill. My sister would be appalled by the street people I have conversations with and she wouldn't be comfortable at Wandering Goat Coffee. But here I am creating divisions when basically, as I stated earlier, human beings are full of the same wants and desires: love, hope, dreams, purpose.

I guess what I'm after when I talk about neighbors and friends and community and family is caring for one another. “All you need is love,” is not an idle refrain. Daily my students and I have constant conversations about racism and hatred and wars. These young people inspire me, fill me with hope. They, like myself, do not understand why the color of our skin or our ethnic backgrounds cause so much discomfort, animosity and segregation. They don't understand why we can't sit down with each other and work out our differences...use our words rather than our weapons. Why haven't we evolved far enough to quit killing, torturing, hating each other? I am ever the idealist, even at 64.

I look out my kitchen window and there is another family pushing a baby stroller, sauntering down the sidewalk. Cars are whizzing passed, the students at the corner alternative high school are playing a pick-up basketball game, the sky is wiping away our usual deluge of rain and replacing this with wispy clouds and possible sun. With the final sip of my coffee I know how fortunate we are to be living in a neighborhood, on the streets we do.

© 2012